Hadrian the Seventh

by Frederick Rolfe

  They had to make what they could of that. Those with sense went about their business without ado. Some, however, lingered to resent rebuff: or in the hope of obtaining quasi-accidental admission by bribery. Ragna panted up to four thousand lire in Sir John’s ear; and departed cursing. The door was barred by “Our Most Holy Lord is in secret.”

  In secret Hadrian was kneeling upright in His chapel. “God, I am very worldly. I have enjoyed the triumph.” That was the confession which He made, not precisely with sorrow but, with a consuming contempt for Himself. He had done such an ordinary deed: He despised Himself for doing it. He remained in contemplation of His disgusting humanity for some time.

  By degrees, His mind detached itself from that; and attached itself to the next subject which He had prepared. He went into His workshop: covered the chairs around His armchair with sheets of ms. notes: drew the writing-board on His knees: laid out blank paper: rolled and lighted a cigarette; and began to read and amend His notes. From time to time, He sat back in His chair, gazing out of the window at nothing, working at problems in His brain. Now and then, He scribbled a note, a word, a phrase, a sentence.

  At length He began to cover sheet after sheet. He wrote for hours and hours together, day after day: burning most of what He wrote, amending more, rewriting much. Anon, an acrid torpor astringed and benumbed His right arm from elbow to finger-tip, announcing the advent of scrivener’s palsy. It was evening, about two hours after the Angelus. He put-down His pen; and summoned the first gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber. Sir John sat in front of Him: rolled-up the sleeve; and gave the arm and hand a gentle friction. Hadrian silently watched his busy hands. They were beautiful hands, very white, very slim, very soft,—yes, singularly soft and soothing. Yet they were strong hands, firm and lissome. They did not tire with that continued searching movement, moulding and defining tired muscles and aching sinews, working the fatigue and ache gradually downward to dismissal at the finger-tips. Also the bent head was a good head, small and round, covered with close-cropped hair, black-purple, hyacinthine. And the healthy pallor of the face, the delicately cloven chin, the extremely fine grey eyes, the vigorous form, the exquisitely chaste and intelligent aspect—fancy expecting such an one to roll pills and fill capsules for ever in a chymist’s shop! No: he was better as he was.

  “John,” the Pope inquired, “how do you get on with Macleod?”

  “Oh, very well. I think I like him very much.”

  “Is he comfortable?”

  “Oh I think so. He seems so at any rate.”

  “Has he got anything to say for himself?”

  “Oh yes:—now. He was a bit frightened at first: but he’s got over that now.”

  “To whom does he talk most freely?”

  “Oh to me. Not but what he has plenty to say to Iulo too. But he’ll tell me anything.”

  “What do you mean by ‘anything’?”

  “Oh everything about himself.”

  “John, look-up into these eyes a moment.” The shy grey eyes readily soared into the shy brown eyes. “How much has he told you about himself?”

  “Oh everything: that’s all.”

  “Everything?”

  A fine flush tinged the fresh ivory face with coral: but the grey eyes did not waver. “Oh yes, everything.”

  “Can he sing?”

  “Oh no, not a note—thank Heaven.”

  Hadrian withdrew His gaze. “And you think you like him very much?”

  “Oh yes,—I don’t think: I know. I’m so awfully sorry for him.”

  “And pity is akin to——”

  “Oh but it’s not pity and it’s not love. It’s something else altogether. It makes me in such a rage. I don’t think I can make You understand, that’s all.”

  “Try.”

  “Oh well—do You remember Max Alvary?”

  “The singer-man? Yes. Why?”

  “Oh, don’t You know what I said when I saw him in ‘Siegfried.’ You see, first I saw the splendour of his beauty; and then, when it came to the ‘Idyll,’ I got into a rage and I said ‘and that voice too.’ ”

  “What did you mean?”

  “Oh it seemed so abominably unrighteous—all that beauty, and all that voice as well. That he should have two gifts;—and that others,—I, for instance,—should have not one!”

  “What has this to do with Macleod?”

  “Oh, a lot, in a topsyturvy kind of way. Look what a fine chap he is to look at,—just like that lovely Figure on Your cross. And he’s clever too. Well, You’d think him fortunate enough, wouldn’t You? Then comes Fate and spoils him—spoils him completely. That’s what makes me furious. To have to class him with Mustafa. I wonder he doesn’t kill himself.”

  “Go gently with that wrist, please. Have you told him that?”

  “Oh no, I should hope not. Sorry. I want to do everything in the world to keep him from knowing what I think—to keep him from hitting on that line of thought by accident, by himself, even. It would drive the poor chap mad: that’s all.”

  “John you’re a brick. Now listen to this. Thoughts you know, are things. If you think such thoughts, they’ll be in the air about you; and it’s as likely as not that Macleod’s senses will perceive them. So you’d better extirpate them hic et nunc—if you like him and want to help him.”

  “Oh do You think so? Well, I will then; because I really do want to help him.”

  “Good. And now what’s to be done with him?”

  “Oh but why should anything be done with him? He’s very happy here.”

  “Thanks to your goodness, John. Silence! But first of all We must give him a reason for being here: and then We must remember that ‘here we have no continuing city.’ Now listen attentively. When you have finished that hand, you will go to the Secretary of State, and tell His Eminency to issue a patent to Mr. Macleod as third gentleman of the chamber—emolument half yours—no knighthood. Will that do?”

  “Oh finely!”

  “Good. Well now let’s go back a bit. Suppose Macleod wasn’t here. Where, in your opinion, would he be best?”

  “Oh I hardly know what to say to that.”

  “You know your Meredith? Well then, favour Us with the outline of your ideas. Pour them out pell-mell, intelligibly or not, no matter. We undertake to catch hold of something.”

  “Oh well, I think he’d do well in a garden. He’s quite learned about flowers; and, if You ever saw him handle one, You’d wonder however a chap with a chest and arms like a blacksmith, as his are, could be so tender. There’s a lot more force and there’s a lot more gentleness in him than You’d think. Same with trees. He looks at them as we look at other chaps—just as though he could speak to them and make them understand him if he wanted to. He’d do well at anything out of doors, farming perhaps. I did think at first of the sea——”

  “Because of his wonderful eyes?”

  “Oh yes I suppose that was the reason. Did ever You see such a blue, a blue that makes you want to strip and dive,—just the eyes for a sailor, aren’t they? That’s simply my romance though. But I haven’t talked to him much about the sea. Do You know what I should like to do? I should like to go a long sea-voyage with him in one of those old sailing-ships, and take the Pliny and the Sophokles which You gave me, and a lexicon, and a dictionary, and read them with him, right away from—of course I don’t mean what You think I mean.”

  “No: of course you don’t. And then, when you come back from your long sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you think that Macleod could be useful and happy on a flower-farm, with orchards, and all that sort of rot, while you could sit in the shade of medlar-trees and rose-bushes, and look after him so that no one should insult him, and read books, (write them too perhaps,) and dream dreams, (and certainly write those,) and live happily in a dear old-fashioned farm-house ever after——”

  “Oh You’re laughing at me now!”

  “Not at all.” The bright brown eyes became grave. “John, what are you going to do with yourself
when Hadrian is dead?”

  “Oh but You’re not going to die——”

  “How do you know? Answer the question.”

  “Oh I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want to think about it: that’s all.”

  “Nonsense. Think about it; and be done with it. John, when We are dead, if you have a place like that, and means to work it, means to move about and use yourself—will you use yourself? And will you take Macleod and be a brother—not a real but the Ideal Brother to him?”

  “Oh of course I would: but——”

  “Will you promise?”

  “Oh yes, I promise You most faithfully. But I hope to God I’ll never have the chance——”

  “Well, no one knows when you will have the chance: but you shall have it. Bring the pen here, and the writing-board.” Hadrian pulled down His sleeve, and stroked the cat for a minute or two, thoughtfully looking-out of the window. Then He wrote, putting what He wrote into an envelope which He gave to the shaking sprig of virtue who stood before Him. “You will take this to Plowden, after you have been to Ragna. You will obtain his formal acknowledgment. See that it is made out in your name; and keep it secretly till the time comes for using it. On Our death you will present it; and Plowden will pay you five thousand pounds, and take your receipt for it. With that sum, you will buy, and stock, such a place as We have described. As long as you and Macleod live, Plowden will pay you a regular income, so that you never can come to want, and always can have something to give away. Every quarter-day he will pay a hundred pounds to you, and fifty to Macleod; and you can make as much more as you like out of your farm. That, remember, is yours; and you may do what you please with it. When you both die, the capital which provides your incomes will return to the pontifical treasury: so if you want to marry, and beget a family, and leave something more than real property—the farm—behind you, you must earn it. We give you a chance, and perfect freedom. Do you follow?”

  “Oh I never shall forget a single word. Holy Father, I can’t take it. What have I done to deserve it? What could I ever do to deserve it?”

  “Boy, you have done this to deserve it. You have wished to bear or to share another’s burden. You shall have your wish; and you shall have a little reward here and a very great reward—There,—if you carry out your wish. That’s what you have done and what you can do. You are good, and you are trusted. And that’s all. Now go away at once because We have a lot of writing yet to do.”

  “John,” cried Hadrian, just before the door closed. “By the bye, you had better tell Macleod of his appointment; and see about his uniforms at once: but keep the other matter to yourself till—you know when. Oh—and please make him understand that We shall call him ‘James.’ That Gaelic ‘Hamish’ is a little too much. And he had better be Mr. James to the others.”

  Outside the closed door, Sir John struck his own hands together. “And the maddening thing is that there is nothing in the whole world that I can do for Him. If I were to give Him a little present, like a baccy-pouch, ten to one it wouldn’t be precisely to His taste—anyhow it ’ld only be like giving Him a calf of His Own cow. Oh damn! It’s like a wax match offering a light to the sun.” He suddenly faced to the door again; and his words came in the form of a solemn pledge. “Lord, I promise.” He remained entranced for several moments: and anon went on his way with steadfast brow.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The Cardinal-deacon of St. Cosmas and St. Damian did it. The acts of the consistory, in so far as they related to the calumny against the Pope, duly appeared in the Times and the Globe and the New York Times as news which was fit to print. Innumerable other papers lifted them with acknowledgments. No comment was made. The collared-puppy-in-the-Tube, and the spectacled-person-in-the-motor-car, and the female-with-the-loaf-coloured-hat-at-the-bargain-sale, forgot all about George Arthur Rose: paid no attention whatever to the Pope; and violently sat up on their hind-legs regarding the Supreme Arbitrator. France and Russia emitted caricatures and howls; and prepared to invade Belgium and Sweden, with the intention of descending on Germany from three sides.

  Mrs. Crowe became conscious that she had lost rather than had gained by her connection with Jerry Sant. The English Catholics treated her as they are wont to treat converts after the first three months; and shewed her the cold shoulder. The refutation of her latest calumny had made her look foolish—and something dirtier than foolish. She was mortified: she was angry with herself; and she naturally yearned to tear and mangle everybody else. She thought that the best thing which she could do would be to pose as a much deceived woman, to break that disastrous connection with the Liblabs, and to return (if possible) to the status quo ante. So she went and fell upon Jerry, vituperating him for the accented failure of his schemes—for leading an innocent lady astray with his nastiness, and his pig-headed stupidity, and all that. She frankly told him that he had gone too far. The precious pair “had words”; and finally separated. Jerry remained at his hotel, dumb and dangerous, brooding. As for the lady, respectable mediocrity allured her by the prospect which it offered of a not unfamiliar obscurity, where she might try to piece together the shreds and tatters of her reputation. She had a little money left—and with economy—— She would stay just a little longer. Who knew what might happen?

  One by one, cardinals received summons to the secret chamber. Their brains were picked and their opinions heard. Nefski of the ashen pallor and the haunted eyes admitted that Poland might be happier as a constitutional monarchy and a member of a federation. Pushed to it, he promised to use all his influence to persuade. Mundo, cleanly, rotund and sparkling, spoke of Portugal’s long and illustrious alliance with the Lord of the Sea. His compact vivid nation had no grievances. Grace looked silently vigorous; and praised the Munroe doctrine. If only—— The French cardinals chattered: were aghast: sobbed: were quite limp; and became picturesquely and dithyrambically resigned. Oh they were so excellent:—and so futile! Courtleigh pleaded age, infirmity. Circumstances had become more than he could manage. He had begun to think that he never had been anything but a decorative figure-head: that he never once had gripped the rudder of affairs since the Prince of Wales had been so—well, rude to him. He was old: he was garrulous: craving for greetings. He begged leave to go and end his days in the college which he had founded, if the Holy Father would but deign to relieve him of his archbishopric. Hadrian did deign; and summoned Talacryn, to whom He said “We are about to fulfil the ambition of Your Eminency’s life by preconizing, you to the archbishopric of Pimlico.”

  The cardinal said something about being unworthy of the honour.

  “That of course,” the Pontiff responded: “but We place you there because you know or ought to know more of Our mind than any man: and your task is to make that known to England. It at least never can be said, if you should err, that you erred through ignorance of Our will. You have health, you have youth, you have a dominant presence. People will listen to you. Your danger and your fault are due to your national habit of suspicion. That can be conquered. Act up to your name: be frank: suspect no one: be ready to renounce:—but your heart should tell you all that We would say. Now for Caerleon. Whom would you like to succeed Your Eminency there?”

  Talacryn said something about the right of the clergy to elect: but that was swept aside. Then he dwelled on the difficulty of finding a suitable priest who could speak the native language.

  “The last is not essential,” said Hadrian: “you yourself cannot speak and cannot even learn that frightful jargon, although you are a native of the dreadful place: and, after your habit of suspecting people, and—yes, it had better be said,—a slight tendency to the habit of officious lying—(the cardinal went purple)—there, it is said and done with: you have had your lesson, and you know better now:—after those things, the only reason why your episcopate has not been a very brilliant one is that you started with the false idea of the necessity of speaking that corrupt and obsolete dialect.”

  “But does not Your Holiness thi
nk that a foreigner——”

  “No: England is the dominant race: her language is the language of all her colonies. Why a triplet of little conquered countries should refuse to learn English—should be permitted to insist on their barbarous and unliterary languages, We never could understand. They are conquered countries, annexed to their conqueror. They have lost their national existence for centuries. They have no national existence, or any kind of existence apart from England. No. Nationality does not come into the question of your successor at all. That is where the Church of Christ differs from all religions. Rome can do, and does do, what no other ecclesiastical power durst do. Our predecessors sent an Italian to Canterbury, and even a Greek, Theodore; and We are sending a Kelt to Pimlico. As for Caerleon—do you remember John Jennifer, the priest of Selce? You do:—he was a white man at Maryvale—and since? Good. He is Bishop of Caerleon.”

  “He speaks the language, Holy Father,” said Talacryn, laughing.

  “The merest accident. We selected him for his steadfast sturdy goodness under great difficulty at Maryvale. Oh, we remember——”

  And the Pope’s gaze went far away into the past.

  Cardinal Talacryn mentioned that the Secretary of State desired to know whether His Holiness would require the services of the Patriarch of Byzantion at the present juncture.