Hadrian the Seventh

by Frederick Rolfe

  “I thank Your Holiness,” he simply said. It appeared that the ship was cleared for action.

  The Pope continued in His usual concise monotone. He spoke in the key of E♭ minor, very quickly indeed, slurring the letter r, clipping some words and every final g, enunciating others with emphasis, in a manner curiously suggestive of fur and india-rubber and talons. As for His matter, He seemed to be arguing with Himself by the way in which He arrayed His ideas, disclosing His process of thought.

  “We have very much to do, and We are confronted by the physical impossibility of carrying out Our schemes. We find Ourself surprizingly placed at the head of affairs. We believe that We should not have been placed there unless the service, which We are able to do, had been deemed desirable. Therefore We feel bound to act. But, though We know (or shall know) what to do, yet We cannot do it with this one pair of hands. We must have assistants with whom we can be intimate, and who themselves can be sympathetic. First of all, We wish to have Your Lordship.”

  The bishop was quite honest enough to get a little rosier with pleasure.

  “Very pleased, whatever,” he said.

  “Next, We need information. Do you know the circumstances which led to Our election?”

  “In the main they are known to me, Holiness. Indeed, I may say that they are generally known—except to the Supreme Pontiff Himself,” the bishop added, with an episcopally roguish smile.

  Hadrian enjoyed the point. “Please bear this dogma carefully and continually in mind:—the Pope well-informed is wiser than the Pope ill-informed. Remember also that Hadrian at all times desires to know everything. At present He wishes to know what you know about His election. Briefly: the details can be given later.”

  “Briefly, the Conclave found no Pope by the ordinary means; and committed the task to certain Cardinal-Compromissaries. These chose Your Holiness.”

  “But why?”

  “Cardinal Courtleigh——”

  “Was he a Compromissary? How many were there?”

  “He was one of nine. The others were——”

  “Never mind their names for the moment. Now We take it that these nine cardinals are well-disposed toward Us?”

  “Most assuredly, Holy Father.”

  “Good! Nine! The names please?”

  “Courtleigh, Grace——”

  “Archbishop of Baltimore. Yes?”

  “Saviolli——”

  “What is he? He formerly was nuncio or something in America, was he not? Please give the status of each.”

  “He was Archbishop of Lepanto and Pontifical Ablegate to the United States of America. Now he is one of the curia. Then came della Volta, formerly Major-domo, also of the curia: he, by the bye, is Your Holiness’s Double, according to Cardinal Courtfield.”

  “How delicious!” Hadrian vivaciously put in.

  “Mundo, who led the Compromissaries, is Patriarch of Lisbon. Nefski is Archbishop of Prague, poor fellow——”

  “Why ‘poor fellow’?”

  “Oh he was nearly killed by the anarchists.—Well then, Ferraio is Archbishop of Milan: Gentilotto is Prefect-General of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and Fiamma is Archbishop of Bologna. The two last were candidates at first, but gave it up by consenting to become Compromissaries.”

  “These, you say, are well-disposed to Us?”

  “Yes, Holy Father.”

  “A Kelt: an American: a Portugal: five Italians: and a Pole.”

  “No, a Bohemian, Holiness.”

  “Oh?” Hadrian directed the bishop to a writing-table. “Now, whether this be in accordance with regulations or not, We neither know nor care. Please write”—He sipped a glass of milk; and began to dictate—“ ‘Hadrian VII.—Bishop,—Servant of the servants of God,—wills that you immediately shall come—to Him—in the Vatican Palace—at Rome. Nothing—except the gravest physical inability—or your duty to your family—if such there be—is to impede you. All Catholics—are to afford you—the comfort—conveyance—and assistance—of which you may stand in need.’ Please sign it with your own name and make five copies of it.”

  The bishop, sighing for his typewriter, diligently wrote in an angular oblique almost illegible hand. Electric lights sprang up in the City. The Pope lighted candles, closed the curtains, and rolled a cigarette. Then He came and sat by the table, looking at the manuscripts—considering the huge ring on His Own index-finger. Smiling to Himself, He took a taper and a stick of sealing-wax; and produced the Little-Peter-in-a-Boat at the foot of the six sheets.

  “Address them,” He continued, “to the Reverend George Semphill, St. Gowff’s, North Britain:—Reverend James Sterling, Oakheath, Stafford:—Reverend George Leighton, Shorham, Sussex:—Reverend Gerald Whitehead, Wilton, Warwick:—Reverend Robert Carvale, Duntellin, Ayrshire:—and—yes, do you know that eighteen years ago he had the most exquisitely beautiful face and the most exquisitely beautiful soul and the most exquisitely horrible voice of any boy in the college,—address the sixth to Percy Van Kristen, 2023 Madison Avenue, New York.”

  While Dr. Talacryn was closing the envelopes, the Pope Himself wrote on a sheet of paper which, also, He sealed:

  Hadrianus P. M. VII. dilectissimo filio Francisco Talacryni Caerleonis Episcopo.

  Te in cardinalem Designamus et Approbamus: quod tamen sub silentio tenebis donec tempus idoneum aderit.

  Datum Romae. Sub annulo Piscatoris. Anno pontificatus Nostri I., a.d. viiii Kal. Mai.

  “Now please come and kneel here,” He said.

  The bishop looked an inquiry: but he came round the table, and kneeled before the Pope, Who addressed him in these words:—

  “Well-beloved son, Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, We appoint thee to, and confirm thee in, the cardinalature. But thou shalt not disclose the fact until the proper time.”

  So saying, He lightly pinched-together the bishop’s lips, putting the breve into his hand.

  “Silence,” the Pontiff continued. “Now will you yourself go to San Silvestro,—not to the post-office here,—and stamp and post those letters. One thing more. There will be no hitch to-morrow? Right. Then, after leaving San Silvestro, will you find Prince Pilastro and Prince Orso, and tell them—— We certainly shall have the support of these nine? Good.—Well, quite informally let those princes (as Princes-Assistant at the Pontifical Throne) know of Our insuing incoronation. When you have named that to Prince Pilastro, say, also informally, that the Supreme Pontiff wishes the Syndic of Rome to know that, when He has received the crowns, He intends to go to Lateran to take possession of His episcopal see. No. There is to be no fuss. We will go as simply as possible and on foot. Will you always be quite near? We name you train-bearer; and will make your office a sinecure. God bless you. Da b’och a dibechod.”

  Hadrian remained standing at the antechamber-door, watching the bishop’s big figure disappear along the corridor. He thought it a pity that a tendency to corpulency was not checked by healthy physical exercise. A detachment of the Swiss Guard stood armed and motionless at regular intervals. “For me,” was His plebeian thought. A small man appeared, bowing. He had a servile air. Hadrian’s second glance recognised him.

  “Is there an apartment on the top storey above this?” He inquired.

  “But yes, Holiness, a large apartment of smaller rooms not having the altitude of these.”

  “You will cause them to be emptied by noon tomorrow. Now you can go to bed. Please take care that no one comes inside this door until the morning.”

  The Pope closed the door: and returned through the antechambers and the throne-room to the table where He had been working. He sat on the edge of the table for about an hour, swinging a leg, thinking, and sipping milk. Then He took a candle, and went into a dressing-room with huge oak clothes-presses. Opening their doors, He looked for a cloak among piles and festoons of new clothes. There were several of crimson velvet. After vainly searching for something plain, He put on one of these and proceeded to the outer door, taking a bre
viary from the table on the way. Out in the corridor, He signed to the nearest guard. The black-red-yellow-and-steel figure came and kneeled.

  “Do you know the way into St. Peter’s?” the Pope said.

  “But yes, Most Holy Father.”

  “Procure what keys are necessary and conduct Us thither, son.”

  “But securely, Most Holy Father.”

  The Swiss went on before. Hadrian followed, feeling annoyed by the salutes with which He was received along the way. He had been so long unnoted that notice irritated and abashed Him. Life would be unbearable if trumpets and quaint halberds greeted every movement. He had not the stolidity of born personages. Presently, He threw back His cloak and kept head and hand raised in a gesture which petrified. They passed through innumerable passages and descended stairs, emerging in a chapel where lights burned about a tabernacle of gilded bronze and lapis lazuli. Here He paused, while His escort unlocked the gates of the screen. Once through that, He sent-back the guard to his station: but He Himself went-on into the vast obscurity of the basilica. He walked very slowly: it was as though His eyes were wrapped in clear black velvet, so intense and so immense was the darkness. Then, very far away to the right, He saw as it were a coronal of dim stars glimmering,—on the floor, they seemed to be. He was in the mighty nave; and the stars were the ever-burning lamps surrounding the Confession. He slowly approached them. As He passed within them, He took one from its golden branch and descended the marble steps. Here, He spread the cloak on the floor; placed the lamp beside it: and fell to prayer. Outside, in the City and the World, men played, or worked, or sinned, or slept. Inside at the very tomb of the Apostle the Apostle prayed.

  At midnight, bolts of great doors clanged, and fell. A cool air crept in. Subsacristans set-up iron candlesticks, huge, antique, here and there upon the marmoreal pavement. The burning torch of each made a little oasis of light in the immeasurable gloom. From far away, a slim white form which carried a crimson cloak swiftly came, shedding benedictions on the startled beholders; and disappeared in the chapel of the Sacrament.

  On returning to His apartment, Hadrian went straight to bed, invoking the souls in purgatory to awaken Him at six o’clock. He slept instantly and well.

  At seven o’clock He had paid His debt with the De Profundis; and was dressed and waiting in the throne-room. Entered to Him a dozen cardinals, two by two. Opening their ranks, they disclosed the Cardinal-Prior-Priest solemnly ostending the image of a cock in silver-gilt. Hadrian stood on the steps of the throne, still, erect, vivid. He seemed so brimming over with restrained energy that He resembled a white flame. Not a sound was uttered. In silence they came; and they went away in silence. When the Pontiff was alone again, He strode and stopped in the middle of the floor.

  “No, Lord, I never will deny Thee—never!” He exclaimed with tremendous emphasis. “But keep me and teach me and govern me, that I may govern and teach and keep Thy Flock, O Thou Shepherd of the people.”

  When the Bishop of Caerleon conveyed the extraordinary news to the Syndic of Rome, Prince Pilastro at once inquired what arrangements were made.

  “No arrangements are made.”

  “But look here,” said Marcantonio, who affected English brusqueness, “of course we are very happy that the Holy Father should come among us: but, you know, we are bound by our own guarantees to give Him all the honours of a sovereign-regnant. We shall be shamed in the eyes of Europe if we omit those. What I mean by that is this is a state-progress; and we shall have to turn out the troops, and stop the traffic and line the streets——”

  “I don’t think His Holiness expects you to do all that, Prince. I’m not speaking officially; and I’m not bringing you an official request for anything of the kind which you name. The Holy Father says He is going quite simply—on foot, in fact.”

  “Now I should just like to know what the devil (if Your Splendour will excuse the French) that means.”

  “Perhaps His Holiness thinks that the movement of the sedia gestatoria, or of a litter, will make Him sick. It did with Leo, you know.”

  “What’s the matter with a white mule?”

  “I happen to know that He cannot ride.”

  “Peuh! No sportsman, then! And yet He’s English?”

  “Yes: but not the kind of sportsman you mean, Prince.”

  “Well: what does He want me to do?”

  “Let’s say that I am sent to warn you of His intention, in order that you may arrest Him for disturbing the traffic, if you choose.”

  “Of course we shan’t do that.”

  “No: of course you won’t. That’s only my way of putting it. I think He really means to advise you beforehand, so that it can never be said that He played you a trick, took you unawares, stole a march on you, so to speak.”

  “I see. Well, this is one of the amazing things which you English do as a matter of course. It’s either frantic madness, or—— Will His Holiness go in any sort of state?”

  “I think not. You see time is short; and (between ourselves) I’m not at all sure that we’re all of one mind over there.”

  “By rights, you know, I ought to walk with Orso, just before the ambassadors. Does Orso know about this walking business?”

  “No. Only of the incoronation.”

  “That means that there will be no formal procession. It is well. You see, as Pilastro, I walk with Orso in the Pope’s progress: while, as Syndic of Rome, I ought to walk at the head of the pontifical pages who precede His Blessedness. I can’t do both, can I? Well, I request Your Splendour to convey my respects to our Holy Father; and to say that Prince Pilastro will assist at the throne during the incoronation, and the Syndic of Rome will go before the Pope to Lateran.”

  “You will not take the chance of coming to blows with Prince Orso on the question of precedence then?” joked the bishop.

  “But no. During the incoronation I shall secure the right hand; and the Pope will be between us. Afterward, no question of precedence will arise, because Orso may or may not join in this promenade to Lateran; and in each case the Syndic will have the more honourable position. I may not be the rose: but at least I shall be near the Rose—a great deal nearer than Orso,” punned the versatile Marcantonio.

  At eight in the morning, Hadrian descended to St. Peter’s. Miscellaneous multitudes paved the spaces with tumultuous eyes. He came down in ruddy vesture, gleaming with rubies and garnets and carbuncles like a fire borne high above the crowd, slowly, deliberately, dropping benedictions. His English phlegm was much admired. They roared at Him, Long live the Pope-King. Instantly He stopped His bearers; and the very air of Him struck sudden silence. People stared, and forgot to shout: the wave of acclamation ebbed in the great nave and transepts. He moved onward, sitting erect, god-like, with a frozen mien prohibiting personal homage. Mitred and enthroned, He was the servant of those who would serve Him: that was the import of His demeanour. A child acolyth of the lowest rank held up before him a salver containing flax: set it on fire; and shrilled, “Behold most Holy Father, how that the glory of this world passeth away.”

  His features shewed no emotion. He well knew all about that. He was accepting, even insisting on, the observance of all rites to consolidate Him in the Supreme Pontificature: not that He cared for them, but that He might be free to act. It was not the glory of the world which He craved: but the combat, the combat—because one rests so much more sweetly after strife.

  Slowly, and with all the unspeakable solemnity accumulated during centuries, the mass was sung. The Apostle elevated the Host to the four quarters of the globe. Cardinals ruffled like huge flamingoes round Him. He always was white and still. At the end, the Cardinal-Archpriest of St. Peter’s brought Him a damask purse containing twenty-five gold coins, honorarium for a mass well-sung. He bestowed it on della Volta and Sega, who had intoned the Gospel in Greek and Latin; and they passed it to their train-bearers. Down the nave, He went again toward the great porch. Out of the crowd a voice cried “Christus regnat.” As H
e sat enthroned amid the surging peoples, Macca crowned Him, saying,

  “Receive this tiara adorned with three crowns, and know Thyself to be the Ruler of the World, the Father of Princes and Kings, the earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ our Saviour.”

  Hadrian understood the formula in no metaphorical, but in the plain and literal, sense of the words. He neither minimised nor magnified their significance. He had an opportunity which was entirely grateful to Him. He was Ruler, Father, Vicar. And He was altogether unafraid. He stood up, and blessed the City and the World.

  In the Xystine Chapel, they relieved Him of the pontifical regalia, and the voluminous far-flowing petticoat of white taffetas, which is so sumptuous to the eye of the beholden and so ridiculously cumbersome to the legs of the wearer; and He ate some apples while Orezzo, on behalf of the Sacred College, recited time-honoured compliments.

  “Lord Cardinals,” said Hadrian, “We thank you for your service: and We invite those of you who are able and willing to attend Us, now, when We go to take possession of Our episcopal see.”

  He moved towards the door. The short train of His cassock trailed behind Him, and the Bishop of Caerleon stooped to it.

  Ragna had something to howl.

  “Holiness, this is suicide for You and murder for us. The City is full of Jews and Freemasons; and we shall most assuredly be stabbed, or shot, or shattered to pieces with bombs, or drenched with vitriol——”

  “The Church wants a martyr badly. Your Eminency is invited, not commanded.”

  Berstein muttered to Vivole, in a scandalized tone, that the Pope was courting popularity. Pepato, with a note of admiration, commented on the mad English. Word of the invitation rushed on ahead. Of the crowd of officials, many began to arrange themselves in a certain order: others had pressing calls elsewhere. Masters-of-ceremonies, wracking their brains for long forgotten details, flew hither and thither with instructions and pushes. Poor old Grani sat down in a recess; and wept to think that there was no time to get out the white gennets annually presented by the King of Spain. Hadrian came on slowly, chatting with Caerleon, giving people a chance of making up their minds. When He emerged from the colonnade in the Square of St. Peter’s, the Syndic of Rome fell into the ranks just before the Pope; and a royal escort of the Praetorian Guard surrounded Him. Hadrian stopped; and beckoned Prince Pilastro.