Hadrian the Seventh

by Frederick Rolfe

  “A—and, mother,” he mooed, slowly, with a slight hesitation, in a virginal baritone voice, resonant and low; “if you go to Rome, don’t be nasty to Mr. Rose?”

  Both the women whirled round toward him. They hardly could have been astounded if the kidneys had commented on their complexions.

  “Alaric! how dare you sir!”

  “A-and I only say if you go to Rome I hope you won’t be nasty to Mr. Rose.”

  “Did you ever hear such nonsense, Amelia? Why not, I should like to know?”

  “A-and he taught me to swim.”

  “So he did me. At least he tried to. And what of that?” snapped the girl.

  “A-and I don’t think it’s fair. I liked him. A-and father liked him.”

  “Yes indeed, he’s just the sort of man your father would have liked, unfortunately. He liked that sonnet-man, too. A pretty kind of person! All I can say is, Alaric, if I were to let you see the letters I’ve got of his and the albums full——: but there, you don’t know as much as I do about your father!”

  The boy bellowed. “A-and don’t you dare say anything against father! I won’t stand it. Amelia knows I won’t stand it from her; and I won’t from anyone, not even from you, mother. I won’t, I tell you! I’ll go right away if I have another word. Mother, I’m sorry: but you oughtn’t. A-and I don’t want you to be nasty to Mr. Rose, because I liked him, a-and father liked him,” concluded Alaric departing.

  Mother and daughter looked at each other. “Who’d have expected Alaric to burst out like that? I’m sure it’s very hard, after all I’ve gone through, to have my own children turning against me.”

  “I am not turning against you, mother. I think—well of course I can’t see why you care for Rose: but if you do you’d be a fool to miss a chance like this. What does Mr. Sant mean about having him in his power?”

  “I don’t quite know. I suppose Georgie must have got himself entangled with these people somehow; and they think he wouldn’t like it to come out. That’s very possible. He’s been mixed up with several shady characters in his time. However, we shall see. Amelia, do you know what I’ve been thinking? That mauve frock of my aunt Sarah’s—now I believe I could make that up for myself for evenings and save a new one, you know. It’s lovely silk. You can’t get anything as good as that anywhere now-a-days.”

  “What the one with the fringe?”

  “Well, isn’t fringe coming in again now? I think I know how to use every bit of it. The only difficulty’ll be with the sleeves. I wish someone would invent a sleeve that only covers the lower part of one’s arms. You see the best part of mine’s about the shoulders.”

  “Why don’t you simply carry the fringe over the shoulders like straps; and wear long gloves?”

  “Yes, of course I might do that. And Amelia, I really must have a new transformation; all things considered I think I will go to Du Schob and Hamingill’s for it this time. I’m afraid they’re rather dear: but when you look what a chance this is and how much depends . . . Then there’s another reason why I should go. People are beginning to neglect our Wednesdays. Well now, if I go to Rome with these whats-his-names it’s sure to be in the papers; and then when I come back all our old friends are sure to want to know.”

  So this precious pair of would-be blackmailers accompanied the deputation from the Liblab Fellowship to God’s Vicegerent. Much of the formality prescribed for pontifical audiences had fallen into abeyance. Hadrian received ambassadors or personages with various degrees of ceremony: but, almost every day, He was to be found pacing to and fro in the portico of St. Peter’s; and then He was accessible to all the world. When, however, the Socialists applied for an audience, it was intimated that the Supreme Pontiff would deign to receive them at ten o’clock on the following morning; and the Vatican officials were instructed that the reception would be carried out with full state. It was George Arthur Rose’s birthday. For twenty years no one had cared to remember it. Now there were scores who cared; and none who dared. Hadrian was more remote than George Arthur Rose had been.

  A nervous little group of twenty obvious plebeians, male and female, awaited Him in the Ducal Hall. Superb chamberlains shewed them the door by which the Pope would enter, and instructed them to approach the throne when He should have taken His seat. The great red curtains at the end of the Hall were drawn-back; and cardinals, prelates, guards and chamberlains, flowed-in like a wave whose white crest was Hadrian. As the procession passed, Sant growled to Mrs. Crowe,

  “Does Himself well, don’t He?”

  “Oh isn’t He just splendid!” she yapped.

  Then chamberlains manœuvred the Liblabs into position at the foot of the throne steps. Jerry by common consent had been chosen spokesman; and the united intellect of the Fellowship had drawn up the address which he, with ostentatious calmness, began to read. The Pope’s ringed hand lay on His knee: His left elbow rested on the crimson chair and the hand supported the keen unfathomable face. He had prepared His plans: but He alertly was listening, lest unforeseen necessity for alteration should arise. He was watching with half-shut eyes and wide-open mind for an opportunity. None came. His prevision had been singularly accurate. The Liblab Fellowship really had nothing to say to Him, beyond turgid sesquipedalian verbosity expressive of its own disinterestedness, and fulsome adulation calculated (according to the Fellowshippers’ lights) to tickle the conceit of any average man. It would have been funny, if it had not been terribly tiresome: impertinent, if it had not been pitiable. Sant’s tongue clacked on his drying palate. To himself, his voice sounded quite strange in that atmosphere of splendid colour and fragrant odour. Mrs. Crowe quivered; and wondered. The others were in a torpor. No one listened to the reader, except the Pope. The curia rustled and whispered, exchanging jewelled snuff-boxes. The guards resembled tinted statues tipped with steel.

  “We have the honour to remain, in the cause of humanity,” concluded Jerry Sant, reciting the commonplace names of the signatories, “On behalf of the Liblab Fellowship.” He refolded the foolscap sheets, and drew them through his fingers, looking as though he were about to hand them with a flourish to the Pope. A frilled black-velvet flunkey took them from him, gave them to a purple prelate, who passed them to a vermilion cardinal, who kneeled and presented them. The stately Cardinal Van Kristen moved from the side presenting a second manuscript. Hadrian unfolded it and began to read His reply. It was courteous and concise, distant and independent, simply an allocution on the distinction necessary to be drawn between Demagogues and Demos, the worthiness of the latter, the doubtfulness of the former. At the end there was a silence. Chamberlains discreetly made it known to the Fellowshippers that homage might be rendered by any who desired to render it; and gave instructions as to the customary manner. Twelve of the demagogues preferred a non-committal pose, having fear of the snorts of the Salpinx; and, of these, two found it convenient to glare uncompromisingly, letting it be seen that they regarded their host as the Man of Sin. But eight approached the throne. Five of them bowed, as over the counter: one kneeled on one knee and read his maker’s name in his hat: Sant held his own elbows and looked along his nose; and Mrs. Crowe laid her lips on the cross gold-embroidered on the Pontiff’s crimson shoe. That was all. These people were bewildered, almost inebriated by the magnificence of the scene, by the more than regal ceremonial, by the immense psychical distance which divided them from the clean white exquisitely simple figure under the lofty canopy, by the quiet fastidious voice purring unknown words from an unimagined world, by the delphic splendour of Apostolic Benediction waved from the sedia gestatoria retiring in a pageant of flabellifers. On leaving the Vatican, they were thoroughly dazed: they knew not whether their diplomacy had been successful or unsuccessful. Jerry Sant had an indistinct notion that he might expect to be summoned after night-fall; and surreptitiously introduced to some pontifical hole or corner in order to be bribed. Mrs. Crowe exulted in a new emotion. She actually had touched Him: and she thrilled: and she was sure that this was
only a beginning.

  When Hadrian was about to descend alone into St. Peter’s to say His night prayers, He observed one of His gentlemen practising a new and curious gymnastic in the first antechamber. Sir Iulo was in solitude; and he did not hear the feline footfall which came near. He had a longish knife in his right hand, held behind his back. Then, with his teeth clenched, and his eyes firmly fixed on an imaginary pair of eyes in front of him, and every sinew of him at its tensest, he suddenly whipped hand and knife face-high to the front hilt-upward, down to arms’ length and forward-up again point-upward, all with frightful force and rapidity. Hadrian watched him during five performances. Then Sir Iulo became aware of the Presence; and relaxed into upright stillness, grinning and glittering.

  “What is this game?” the Pope enquired.

  “Not game: but for the protection of You.”

  “Protection? Protection from what?”

  “From those most horrible peoples who have been to-day here pursuing some vendettaccia.”

  “Do you mean those Liblabs?”

  “But yes, those Libberlabberersser: especially a Libberlabber who has read, and a she-Libberlabber who goes with him. It is I who have seen of them both the eye. From which I vibrate a knife most commodious for the bellies of those. His Holiness can rest secure.”

  “Do you mean that you are going to rip them up?”

  “But yes, in the manner which I have learned of the chef from Naples. Now I watch them. When I shall have seen them make a movement, behold the tripes of them sliced precipitatissimamente!”

  “Iulo. No. Understand? No.”

  “There is not of dishonour! First like this, I demonstrate the knife—they view the mode of their deaths. There is in it nothing of sly—— Next, I give them the death which they have merit. That is not the deed of a dishonourable.”

  “You are commanded not to give death—not to think of giving death. It is prohibited. O Viniti, quo vadis? Understand? Bury the knife in the garden. Sotterratelo nel giardino, Vinizio mio. Capisce? Break it first. Then bury it in the garden—— If you wish to be protector of Hadrian, learn to fight with fists—pugni. Understand? Tell John to buy a punching-bag—punching-bag—and practise on that.”

  “Bai a punnertchingerbagger,” repeated the devout murderer-in-posse with disappointment, as the Pope left him limp.

  A sign drew Cardinal Van Kristen to walk by Hadrian’s side on the return from San Pietro and Vincula on Lammas Day. From time to time, his shy grand eyes turned to the Pope as they rhythmically paced along. From time to time, a blessing fluttered from the Apostle’s hand to some stranger by the road-side.

  “Holiness,” at length he said, “do you remember the saint You used to worship on this day at Maryvale?”

  Hadrian detached Himself from a reverie. “Little Saint Hugh? Fancy your remembering that!” And He again dived into silence.

  “One would hardly fail to remember anything You said or did in those days, Holy Father.”

  The Pope said nothing. He was thinking of something else.

  “I put the picture you painted of Little Saint Hugh up in our refectory at Dynam House.”

  No answer came. The cardinal’s long eyelashes lifted a little as he looked at his companion. He was not sure that his attempt at conversation was welcome.

  “Your Holiness does not care to be reminded perhaps. I did not mean to intrude. Sorry.”

  Hadrian put out a hand. “No, Percy, you don’t intrude. We were wondering how long this King is going to be.”

  “Which King?”

  “Italy.”

  “Oh. Yes?”

  “Things are at a standstill.”

  “For example?”

  “Everything—at least in Italy—as long as something better than sulky peace is lacking. We want friendship, collaboration. See whether you can follow this. The personal influence of His Majesty is enormous. Although his acts are quite constitutional, yet, such is his magnetic force of character that he actually rules. No matter which party is in power, the King’s Majesty rules. Practically he is an autocrat; and he, so far, has not made a single mistake, nor done a single unjust or even ungenerous deed. Now We also have some power, some personal influence. These people seem to like Us. They’re charmingly polite. They run about after Us. We do not doubt but that they would obey if We commanded—if We ordained that no woman should cover her hair with a terrible handkerchief when she goes into a church—if We substituted silver sand for those abominably insane sponges in the holy-water fonts, for example—but how many of them would obey Us if We ordered them to cease from drying their linen at their windows, or to stop spitting? Do you follow?”

  “No, Holiness.”

  “Our influence is over particulars, is sentimental, is ideal. The influence of the King’s Majesty is over universals, is practical, is real——”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “Well, then——”

  “You mean that Your influence and the King’s——”

  “Could do a great deal more for this dear delightful country than——”

  “Do you think that this King knows of Your desire for reconciliation?”

  “Victor Emanuel is one of the four cleverest men in the world. It is impossible that he should not have understood the Regnum Meum. Besides, We addressed him by name. He owes Us the civility of a response.”

  “Holiness, let me have that news conveyed to him. Guido Attendolo——”

  “No. We Ourself have not yet seen clearly the next move. We believe that His Majesty of his own initiative ought to have approached Us—the son to the Father—before now. We have given him a token of Our goodwill. There the matter rests. He cannot have a doubt as to what Our purpose is. But—His Majesty must do as he pleases. We think that We have done Our part so far. At present, We are not moved to proceed further. When We are moved—and that is what occupies Us now. An idea seems to be forming in Our mind: but as yet,—— Percy, do ask Our friends to tea in the Garden of the Pine-Cone at half-past sixteen o’clock to-day.”

  The same afternoon after siesta, Hadrian sat at one end of the great white-marble arc-shaped seat. A yard away sixteen cardinals spread their vermilion along the same seat. Little tables stood before them with tea, goat’s milk, triscuits and raisins. The Pope preferred to sit here where the pavement was of marble: because lizards avoided it, and their creepy-crawly jerks on grass or gravel shocked his nerves. He was sure that reptiles were diabolical and unclean; and His taste was for the angelic and the clean. He smoked a cigarette; and flung a subject to His Court, as one flings corn to chickens.

  “Was not the question of requiems for Non-Catholics settled two or three years ago?” replied Courtleigh.

  “Yes said Talacryn. “It was declared impossible, profane, inconsistent.”

  “Why?” Hadrian’s predilection was for the inconsistent, rather than for that undevelopable fossil which goes by the name of consistency.

  “It would be inconsistent, Holiness, for the Church to proclaim, by the most solemn act of Her ministry, as a child submissive to Her, one who always refused, or certainly never consented, to recognise Her as a mother—one who, while alive, would have rejected any such recognition as a grave insult and an irreparable misfortune;” Talacryn responded.

  “I don’t follow Your Eminency,” said Whitehead: “it’s eloquent—but it’s only eloquence.”

  “Isn’t Cardinal Talacryn rather begging the question, Holiness?” Leighton enquired. “Who spoke of proclaiming as a submissive child one who never was submissive?”

  “Holy Mass is the public and solemn testimony of visible communion; the tessera communionis, if I may use the term; and, therefore, the Church can only offer publicly for those who have departed this life as members of that visible communion:” Talacryn persisted.

  “Holy Mass is a great deal more than that!” interjected Carvale.

  “Yes?”

  “Holiness, it is not for me to tell Cardinal Talacryn that Holy Mass i
s not only a sacrament for the sanctification of souls, but a sacrifice—the Real Sacrifice of Calvary, offered by our Divine Redeemer and pleaded in His Name by us His vicars. It is not another sacrifice, but the Sacrifice of the Cross applied. It is the Clean Oblation, offered to God for all Christians quick and dead, for all for whom Christ died.”

  “Would not the bonafides of the Non-Catholic in question come in?” said Semphill. “Take for instance the Divine Victoria——”

  “ ‘Divine’?” queried della Volta.

  “Yes, ‘Divine.’ You say ‘Divus Julius’ and ‘Divus Calixtus,’ meaning ‘the late Julius’ and ‘the late Calixtus.’ Very well, then I say ‘the Divine Victoria’ for a more thoroughly worthy woman——”

  “Well, but that would mean that on the death of such and such a Non-Catholic, we should have to institute a process of inquisition, and adjudicate on his or her life and career:” Ferraio ventured.

  Hadrian threw His cigarette-end at a lizard on the gravel, and laughed shortly. “ ‘Pippety-pew, me mammy me slew, me daddy me ate, me sister Kate gathered a’ me baines——’ ” He quoted with deliciously feline inconsequence. “How you theological people do split straws, to be sure! Go on, though. You’re intensely interesting.”

  The Patriarch of Lisbon slapped his knee.

  “Holiness, there are several decrees which are supposed to bear on the subject,” Gentilotto gently put in.

  “Can Your Eminency remember them?”

  “Innocent III. ruled that communion might not be held with those deceased, with whom it had not been held when they were alive.”

  “I concede it. But it doesn’t touch the point. I distinguish. Holy Mass is more than mere communion. Besides, we don’t communicate with, but on behalf of, the deceased. It’s not a concession to the deceased. It’s our duty to God and to our neighbour,” Carvale persisted.

  “Then there was the case of Gregory XVI. and Queen Caroline of Bavaria,” Gentilotto continued. “The argument is the same: but perhaps it has been expanded a little. It definitely prohibits persons, who have died in the eternal and notorious profession of heresy, from being honoured with Catholic rites.”