Hadrian the Seventh

  It was the Cardinal-Secretary-of-State who did himself the pleasure of acquainting the Holy Father with the result of Jerry Sant’s manœuvre. His Eminency, on the whole, never had had a more congenial duty to perform in all his life. He swirled into the Presence one evening at dusk when Hadrian was waiting for the lamps, sitting by the undraped window watching the dark figures passing over the grey square and the specks of yellow light springing in the houses of the Borgo. Ragna brought a newspaper which he thrust into the Pope’s hands.

  “See what a scoundrel you are!” he truculently snarled. “Fly! All is discovered! The Catholic Hour is exposing you finely!”

  “Oh,” said Hadrian, unimpassionately turning from the window, and speaking with extreme frigidity.

  “Light some candles, please.” He took the paper: put up His left hand to shade His eyes; and looked at the sheet. As He read His pontifical name and His secular name, His blood began to tingle: for He still loathed publicity. As He read on, His blood began to boil. It was a frightful tale which He was reading—frightful, because He saw at a glance that it was quite unanswerable. It was unanswerable because there are some things of which the merest whisper suffices to destroy—whose effect does not depend on truthfulness. It was unanswerable because it was anonymous. It was unanswerable because He never could bring Himself to condescend. . . . Who could have attacked Him with such malignant ingenuity? The names of half a dozen filthy hounds occurred to Him in as many seconds: but He was not able to recognise any particular paw. He read on. He was conscious that His face was a-flame with indignation: but it was in shadow. Coming to a clear chronological error, He chuckled. That taught Him that His voice was under control; and He remembered that the invidious eyes of Ragna were upon Him. From time to time thereafter, He produced a short contemptuous word or laugh by way of commentary as He came to excessive absurdities; and, so, gradually He possessed Himself again. Thus, He skimmed the article. At the end He looked up at the cardinal. “Yes,” He said, “We appear to be a very disreputable character. Now We will go through the thing again, and note the actual errors of fact.” He returned to the top of the first column: and began to read more analytically. In progress, He counted aloud “One, two,”—up to “thirty-three absolute and deliberate lies, exclusive of gratuitous or ignorant mispresentations of fact, in a column and three-quarters of print.—Well?” He inquired, with a full straight gaze at the attendant cardinal.

  “What are You going to do now?”

  “We will ponder the matter which Your Eminency has submitted to Us; and at a convenient time We will declare Our pleasure. The paper may be left with Us. Your Eminency has permission to retire.”

  Ragna strode towards the door. At the threshold, he turned and bayed, “Abdicate!”

  “No: We will not abdicate,” said Hadrian.

  The Secretary-of-State rushed away. As he went swishing, snarling at all and sundry, through the antechamber where the gentlemen were in waiting, Sir Iulo suddenly shot-out his arms straight and rectangularly level with his shoulders, swung-up a stiff right leg in a verisimilar fashion, rigidly sank on his left toes till he sat on his left heel, recovered his first position with a jerk, changed legs and repeated the performance with the right. It was done in a second of time; and his white teeth glittered in a grin as his muscles relaxed. There are few more nerve-shattering spectacles than this of a lithe and graceful young gentleman in scarlet behaving, without any warning whatever, exactly like a monkey on a stick, manifesting the same startling descendent and ascendent angularity, the same imperturbable inevitable intolerable agility. Cardinal Ragna denounced him as a devil where he stood; and swirled away in a vermilion billow of watered-silk.

  As soon as He was left alone, Hadrian made the very firmest possible act of will determining neither to bend nor to break. This done, He ate His supper with careful deliberation; sent-away the tray; and ordered a large pot-full of black coffee. Then He locked all doors and allowed Himself a period of disintegration preparatory to redintegration, a period of slackness preparatory to intensification. Now He severely suffered. He read the article on the Strange Career of the Pope again and again, till His head swam with the horror of it. This was the worst thing which ever had happened to Him. His previous experience of newspaper libels was as nothing in comparison. All through the bitter bitter years of His struggle for life, He had known Himself for a fighter. As a fighter, He had expected blows in return for those which He gave. And, when all was said and done, his fighting had not been to Him a source of unmitigated pain. For one thing, He had had pleasure in knowing that He scrupulously fought unscrupulous foes, that He fought a losing battle, that he fought a million times His weight, that He fought bare-handed against armed champions all the time. That knowledge it was—the knowledge that He had contended (not as a hero but) as heroes have contended—which alone had upheld him. And now—— But this—— It depicted Him as simply contemptible. Inspection of the image of Himself, which the Catholic Hour with such ferocious flocculence delineated, brought Him to the verge of physical nausea. But it was not true, real. It was not Himself. No, no. It was an atrocious caricature. Oh yes, it was an atrocious caricature. Everybody would know it for that—— Would they? How many had known the previous libels for libels? How many had dared to proclaim the previous libels for libels? One—out of hundreds.—— Oh how beastly, how beastly! He read the thing again;—and dashed the paper to the ground. If it only had made Him look wicked—or even ridiculous! But no. He categorically was damned, as despicable, low, vulgar, abject, mean, everything which merited contempt. Only a strenuous effort kept Him from shrieking in hysteria. “God, God, am I really like that?” He moaned aloud, with His palms stretched upward and outward and His eyes intent in agony. He lost faith in Himself. Perhaps He was such an one. Perhaps His imagination after all had been deluding Him, and He really was an indefensible creature. It was possible. “Oh, have I ever been such a dirty—beast. Have I?” He moaned again. And then all the being of Him suffused—and whirled—and outraged Nature took Him in hand. The blow to His self-respect, the shattering onslaught on His sensibilities, were more than even His valid virile body could bear. He lay back in His low chair; and swooned into oblivion.

  After the lapse of an hour, He began to revive. It would appear that He instantly knew what had happened: for He staggered to the open window that the cold night air might reinvigorate him. Full consciousness by slow degrees returned; and, with it, some measure of serenity. He took up the argument at the point where He had left it.

  No: He was not like that. Before Jesus in the pyx on His breast, He was not like that. So He gradually calmed Himself. He had done desperate deeds and foolish deeds: but never ignoble deeds:—stay:—once:—that had nothing whatever to do with the present matter: nor was that one ignoble deed ignoble in the esteem of anyone except Himself: it was “smart” or “clever” in mundane phraseology: no one had been injured by it: it had been atoned-for: but, according to the ideal code which He had made for His Own guidance, it was ignoble. However it was not known, except to Himself, and God, and His angel-guardian: it was not even known to His confessor, for it was not even a venial sin. Well then—— No. No. He had not merited the gibbet of the world’s contempt.

  Who had gibbeted Him?

  He very carefully read the paper again. Who in the world could have collected such a mass of apparently convincing evidence? He was beginning to study the question from His usual stand-point of personal unconcern. His own written words were cited in proof of the allegations here made against Him. He knew them for His own written words. Who in the world so ingeniously could have distorted their signification: so skilfully could have mispresented Him? At some time in His life, He (perhaps inadvertently) must have trodden upon some human worm; and the worm now had turned and stung Him. He sought for a sign, a trace;—and found it—— Of course;—and the motive simultaneously leaped to light. It was payment of a grudge, owed to Him by a detected letter-thief, a professional infi
del, whom He had scathed with barbed sarcasms about ten years ago. There was something more than that. Again He studied the paper for corroboration. How came the Catholic Hour, of all papers, to publish a denunciation of Him? He noted that the Catholic Hour pretended its denunciation as being copied from the Devana Radical. And the letter-thief resided at Devana; and engaged in job-journalism: also, he had access to more than much of the information here misused. Not to all of it though. Here and there in the article, Hadrian’s literary faculty enabled Him to perceive a change of touch. Here and there were technical opinions and technical modes of expression which could not have emanated from that one. Who was responsible for these? The Pope, of all men on God’s fair earth, was qualified to recognize “the fine Roman hand”—the fine Roman hand at least of one of His Own contemporaries at St. Andrew’s College, whom He had afflicted with a ridiculous label, a harmless jibe simply composed of the man’s own initial and surname joined together:—the fine Roman hand of a pseudonymous editor with whom He had refused to have dealings. Yes, and there too was the obscene touch of the female. “Spretae injuri formae” over again!

  At last, He summed up:—

  Material Cause. Information, possessed (the gods knew by what means) by the detected letter-thief and the female. Opinions, collected from (perhaps proffered by) Spite desirous of stabbing Scorn in the back.

  Formal Cause. Calumny, that is to say Slander which is False.

  Efficient Cause. The pontifical treatment of the representatives of the Liblab Fellowship now in the City.

  Final Cause, (a) Intimidation. (b) Revenge.

  It was as clear as daylight.

  Hadrian sat back in his chair; and blamed—Himself. His mind went straight to the root of the matter. It was His Own fault. He had not loved His neighbour. He had been hard, unkind, austere. He had cultivated His natural faculty for rubbing salt upon His neighbour’s rawest and most secret sore,—salt in the shape of biting words, satire, sarcasm, corrosive irony, labels which adhered. But, He had done this when fighting, stark-naked and alone, against long odds! No matter. It was part of the struggle for life! No matter. But He would have been killed—not metaphorically but—literally killed, long ago—— How did He know that?—Like all men, He had been trusting in Himself, not in the Maker of the Stars. As a matter of fact, He did not and could not know.—In His Own eyes, as His Own judge, each point of His defence failed. He pleaded guilty. He had not loved His neighbour.

  His soul fled up to the divinities who severely sit upon the awful bench: but there was no solace to be obtained from them. He took the beautiful crucifix from His neck: the pyx from His breast: laid them on the table; and kneeled before the Sovereign of the seraphim. He made an act of contrition. He acknowledged His sin: acknowledged that He had merited condign punishment. He very humbly thanked God for giving Him His punishment in this world. “O that my lot might lead me in the path of holy innocence of thought and deed, the path which august laws ordain, laws which had their birth in the highest heaven, neither did the race of mortal man beget them, nor shall oblivion ever put them to sleep: for the Power of God is mighty in them,” He prayed, in the verses of Sophokles.

  He sent for His confessor.

  It had been a dreadful experience. He was conscious of having been shaken seriously. He felt quite old. His youth and strength, His nerve, seemed to have been torn-out of Him. The world seemed to have slipped-away from under Him. Yes—the world—— How should He meet the world?—With equanimity and fortitude. What should He say and do? Nothing. . . . Nothing. . . .

  His confessor arrived; and He confessed that, since His last confession on the previous day, He had been guilty of the sin of anger. Also, He renewed His sorrow for a sin of His past life. He had not loved His neighbour. The bare-footed friar absolved Him; and commanded Him to say, for His penance, one mass for the present and eternal welfare of all whom He had offended.

  Hadrian laid-open the Catholic Hour on a table where it was not concealed and whence it would not be removed: tried to turn away His thought and to leave the incident behind Him. That the effect of it would become manifest, that the memory of it would recur, He knew: but neither memory nor effect ever should delay His progress. He spent the rest of the evening in meditation on the future. At bed-time He did not go down to St. Peter’s: but said His prayers by His bedside with childlike simplicity and feebleness. And care-dispersing sleep lit on His eyelids, unwakeful, very pleasant, the nearest like death.

  CHAPTER XVII

  In the morning, Hadrian summoned Gentilotto, Sterling, Whitehead, Carvale, della Volta, Semphill, Van Kristen. He fancied that the gentlemen-of-the-chamber curiously eyed Him. That was so. He guessed in a moment that now He always would have to stand the fire of curious eyes, to overhear the ostentatious whispers of people who wished to be known for nasty thinkers—of people who wished to see the Roman Pontiff wriggling on a white-hot gridiron. Very well. He would stand fire: perhaps, up to a certain point, He would answer questions of general (but not of particular) interest. But there should be no merely human contortuplications.

  Their Eminencies came into the throne-room, where the Pope was sitting rather rigidly in a hieratic attitude, His hands on the arms of the chair, His feet and knees closed, His back straight and His head erect. He was a shade more pallid than usual. They each paid their respects in a different manner. Gentilotto’s mild pure visage expressed compassion mingled with a sense of personal injury. The assailants of the Pope also had wounded him. Sterling’s dark face was locked-up with the look of one who is determined to be righteous under all circumstances, while willing to forward to the proper quarter a recommendation to mercy on behalf of the prisoner at the bar. The Cardinal of St. George-of-the-Golden-Sail contained himself in personal innocence which precluded him from prancing to believe in the guilt of others. Della Volta’s pose indicated ordinary but sympathetic curiosity. Carvale was white, and Semphill was red, with impatient indignation. Like Gentilotto, they both were hurt by the attack on their superior: but they were up in arms. Van Kristen was very very sad. His great melancholy eyes swam in a mist of commiseration; and Hadrian noted that his lips rested just an instant longer than usual on the cold pontifical hand.

  Chamberlains placed stools for the cardinals and retired. The Pope began to speak in His usual swift and concise tone. By way of emphasizing the essential difference between the Church (a purely missionary association) and the World, He had determined to disperse the Vatican treasures. This was not at all what Their Eminences had expected to hear; and they were rather taken aback. Hadrian gave them a moment; and then went-on.

  “Does anyone know whether dear old Cabelli is Minister of Public instruction now?”

  Della Volta gave a negative.

  “So much the better, because he will be at leisure to do Us a favour. And now” (His Holiness directly addressed the last speaker) “We place this matter in Your Eminency’s hands. You shall have a breve of commission; and this is what you will do. First, you will collect Cabelli and Longhi and Manciani as your board of advisers. Secondly, with their assistance, you will procure the services of the chief experts of the world—say five. Thirdly, you will cause these five experts to estimate the maximum and minimum values of each separate piece in the treasury. This list of values you will submit to Us. Fourthly, you will have the pieces arranged, (and the arrangement must be indicated on the list of values,) in three divisions, the historic, the artistic, and the merely valuable on account of weight or character. Fifthly, you instantly will publish everywhere a note to the effect that the sale at fixed prices of these things will take place here from the first to the sixth of January following.”