Hadrian the Seventh

by Frederick Rolfe

  “Tell me,” Gentilotto instantly said: “Why did you never go to the Trappists?”

  “Because I went to something worse, to something infinitely terribly more ghastly. Trappists live in beautiful silent solitude; they have clean water, beds, regular meals, and peace. I went to live in intellectual silence and solitude in an ugly obscene mob, where clean water was a difficulty, food and a bed an uncertainty, and where I had the inevitable certainty of ceaseless and furious conflict.”

  He hurled the words like javelins, and drew back in his chair. The old bitter feeling of disgust with himself inspired him. He feared lest perhaps he might have seemed to be pleading for sympathy. So he angrily watched to detect any signs of a wish to insult him with sympathy. But he really had gone far, far beyond the realm of human sympathy. There was not a man on the earth who would have dared to risk rebuff, to persist against rebuff, to soar to him with that blessed salve of human sympathy—for which,—underneath his armour,—and behind his warlike mien,—he yearned. Pity perhaps, horror perhaps, dislike perhaps, might have met him. But he only had emphasized his own fastidious aloofness. He had cleared-off the mire: but he had disclosed the cold of marble, not the warmth of human flesh.

  The cardinals remained silent for a minute. Then Ragna said “ ‘An enemy hath done this!’ Who is it?”

  George blazed with vigorous candid delight. “That is the first genuine word which I have had from the heart of Your Eminency!”—He returned to his repellent manner. “I gave the names of my calumniators to Cardinal Leighton.”

  “Jerry Sant the Liblab, aided by the woman and a clot of worms who had turned;” Leighton said to Ragna.

  “Let them be smothered in the dung-hill. Anathema sint.” Ragna growled.

  Again there was an exposition of silence in the throne-room. George was frozen hard and white. Ragna and Leighton continued to look at each other. Carvale’s eyes had the blue brilliance of wet stars. Saviolli, Semphill, Talacryn, Whitehead, were as though they had seen the saxificous head of the Medoysa. Stirling gazed straight before him, in the manner of the sphinx carven of black basalt. George was watching them with half-shut eyes from the illimitable distance of his psychic altitude. Presently, the pure pale old face of Gentilotto and the pure pale young face of Van Kristen simultaneously were lifted; and their eyes met His. He blushed: slowly drew out the pontifical ring: and put it on His finger.

  “Lord Cardinals, it is Our will to be alone the Supreme Pontiff said.

  They came one by one and kissed His ring; and retired in silence.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  When the door was shut, Hadrian remained quite motionless on the throne; and set Himself to review what He had said. He wondered whether He for once had got-down to and laid-bare the root of the matter: whether He for once had made His argument clear and convincing.—Good God! Who ever could hope to be convincing?—He flung the thing away from Him; and for ever closed that volume of the book of His life.

  He rose; and went straight into the bedroom. Here He stripped, and stood erect, knees and feet close: gripped a pair of ten-pound dumb-bells; and swung them with the alternating gesture of a right and left overhand bowler, rhythmically swaying from the hips. He counted up to a hundred; and went to another movement: a full round over-head sweep of both arms together, expanding the long-breathing lungs, quickening the pulses, brightening the eyes. His skin became moist and warm. He washed His face and hands in oatmeal-water with no soap; and went into the bath-room, turning on the high tap and letting the cold soft water rain-down upon Him until He was numbed. He quickly dried Himself; and put on completely clean clothes, rolling up those which He had discarded and thrusting them into a linen bag. Then, He emerged all flushed and white and fresh; and summoned Sir Iulo to the secret chamber.

  “And so you are thinking of marriage, carino;” Hadrian said, putting the young man into a chair and bestowing fumificables.

  Sir Iulo went almost as scarlet as his uniform: his eyes and teeth gleamed. Hadrian handed to him a sheet of paper containing six stanzas of passionate expression in rhyme, under the heading “Vorrei che tu ascoltassi la mia voce.”

  “Don’t leave your sonnets about. And don’t be so terrified, you silly boy. Well: is it true?”

  The lover’s face twitched rather. “I l-o-v-e her,” he said with an enormous vocal expansion of the middle word. “But I will not to abandon You, Santità:” he added with fixed eyes.

  “Who is she? Is she good? Has she any money?”

  “She is the little daughter of the dentist. But good? But, yes. But no money:” was the categorical reply.

  “Does she love you?”

  “Oh, but how she loves me!”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “Since Christmas, Santità, when the father of that has scaled the my tooths.”

  “Have you spoken to ‘the father of that’ about ‘that’?”

  “Oh, but not yet, Santità. Nothing of less, he knows. I gave him to know without the word.”

  “And he didn’t drive you out of the house?”

  “But no: for behold me not the assassin of that dentist.”

  Hadrian laughed. “Can you describe her?”

  “Oh that I might to describe her to one who is so dear, so wise——”

  “Describe her.”

  “Is named Evnica. Is example of goodness, of intellectuality. For example: yesterday with the favour of the Most Holy I make a visit. I am entering the saloon in the manner of cat, softly, softly. Behold in a book reads the Signorina Evnica—not book of novels, not journal of Don Chisciotte. No. I look over her shoulder, reading titles. Behold, book of piety entitled Office to the Proximate——”

  “Office to the Proximate? What book of piety is that?”

  Sir Iulo repeated the title in Italian.

  “Ah yes, The Duty towards our Neighbour. Yes: a very good sign in a girl. Go on.”

  Sir Iulo fixed his bright green eyes upon a mental image; and described each point as he observed it, using his gorgeously florid Tuscan idiom. “Has a face to make burn Jove, and to return to ram, eagle or bull; and to make scorn to medals old and new. Blond she has the hair like thread of gold. The cheeks appear like a rose damasked. The mouth and the eyes are worth a treasure. Has looks angelic, divine: but in the effects and all the motions, human; and the her excellencies not have end. She has what they call a good and fine hand: is white like snow of mountains. Is literate; and makes to talk Tuscan; and in life not a flaw can be found. There is not who better to a swan understands me. Does great things, enough facts, little eats: not drinks never in the middle of eating and not at afternoon-tea (merenda). More, I say. She is in her proper acts so learned, that all I have in the world, or small or great, I should have given to her pleasure at a stroke. The more beautiful to my day I never saw: none more servitial: none more prudent: nor acts in a girl more courteous and gay. Has Petrarch and Dante in her hand; and, at time and place if I command, she vomits a little sonnet lightly. Girl of all perfect qualities; and holds me in pledge there if mine——”

  “Well now: suppose that you marry her, will you be good to her?”

  “Oh, that she shall be the my life and the my delight, dressed in velvet, guarded as a queen, for fear that if she goes about too much should not be robbed by some little hypocrite: that she shall live on collops and bread of baker——”

  “How amusing you are! Well: marry that paragon, and be good and happy. You must have an apartment in the City for her, you know;—and, about your duties here:—you can come when you like. You are not dismissed: but John and James will suffice. Understand, boy, you are wanted, wanted here, always.”

  “I am here always, Santità.”

  “No. Go-away and marry. ‘The most certain softeners of a man’s moral skin, and sweeteners of his blood, are domestic intercourse and a happy marriage and brotherly intercourse with the poor.’ Always remember that. By the bye, what are you going to live on?”

  “If I am
always a Gentleman of Hadrian, I am having a plenty of money.”

  “Ah, but you always will not be a Gentleman of Hadrian, because Hadrian will not be always; and, when He is not, His successor will say ‘Via! Via!’ to you.”

  “And then I shall do some things?”

  “Ah, but what things?”

  “Who knows? But I shall do things.”

  Hadrian went to the safe in the bedroom: then to the writing-table, and wrote. He came back with some papers in His hand.

  “Attend! Take this note to Plowden by the Post-office. He will give you a thousand sterling. That is a marriage-gift to you, so that you may get an apartment in the City and marry that little daughter of the dentist. Don’t be silly. Listen. What do you know about photography?”

  “About photography? But I know to use that kodak, the gift della Sua osservantissima e venerabilissima Santità.”

  “And you do it very well. You are one of the few men now alive who perceive the right moment for pressing the button. Understand?”

  “I see with eyes.”

  “But there is something beside seeing with eyes. There is a mind which ponders and selects.”

  “Too much of honour.”

  “No. No honour at all: a stated fact. Well now: think of negatives. They are dense in places: clear in places; and, in other places, more or less dense. Understand? Under the negative you put a certain paper; and expose it to light. Light goes through the clear places and stains the paper black: it partly goes through the more or less dense places; and stains the paper grey in various gradations of tint. It fails to go through the dense places and leaves the paper white. There is your photograph, a little black a little white and many different greys. Understand?”

  “Yes, Santità.”

  “Your photograph is an image of the form, the contours, the modelling, the morbidezza, of the object before your lens. It lacks one thing. It has not colour. The process has tralated colour into monochrome. Do you see that?”

  “Yes, Santità.”

  “Now white means a blend of all colours; and black means the absence of all colours. Then grey should mean some colours, of this quality or that, of this quantity or that, according to the clarity or the density of the grey. Understand?”

  “Yes, Santità.”

  “Your negative is black and white and many greys.”

  “Yes, Santità.”

  “Then understand that all colours lie hidden in the black and white and greys of the negative. In the black, lie all colours: it produces the positive white. In the white lie no colours: it produces the positive black. In the various greys, lie various colours—why are you jumping about? Keep still and listen, wriggling lizard that you are! What do you want to do?”

  “To liberate those poor colours.”

  “So does everybody. At least, everybody wants to photograph in colours: so they paint on the backs of the films; and they play the fool with triply-coloured negatives. Only one man in the world knows that the colour already is there—already is there, my boy—stored in the black white grey negative; and that the black white grey ordinary negative will give up its imprisoned colours to him who has the key.—Well now: take the second envelope. The key’s there; and it’s yours. (Don’t stare like that!) There are three other things as well, which may be useful. (Don’t say a word!) Read all those papers until you understand them. They’re quite simple. Then practise. When you can do the trick, you will want a little help to do it greatly, to make it useful. (Get off the floor!) Then take the third envelope to Plowden—it’s mentioned in the first,—and he will give you two thousand sterling. (Don’t touch that foot!) That will be enough if you are industrious. Now you are trusted, Iulo mio. Be good always; and be kind to everybody. No don’t move. We are going into the gardens with Flavio. You stay here till you feel better.—Ptlee-bl ptlee-bl ptlee-bl,” Hadrian mewed to His delighted and excited and persequent cat.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  It was the festival of St. George, Protector of the Ninefold Kingdom. Hadrian noted with pleasure that it was what the Italians call one of His ‘fortunate days.’ His head was clear, His limbs were supple, His body lithe: He felt young, exuberant, potent. His soul seemed balanced, elevated. His whole poise was one of gentle incisive simplicity. He had that upright rather dominant gait, by no means arrogant, which marks the happy able man. The Sacred College came early in the morning, directly after His mass, to congratulate Him on the anniversary of His pontificature; and Ragna took occasion to whisper that the Northern Emperor left Palazzo Caffarelli for the Quirinale at dawn. Everyone knew what that meant.

  When, later, Hadrian descended in state to the Sala Regia, He was on the alert. The introducer-of-sovereigns announced,—the Ninefold King,—the President of the United States of America,—the Northern Emperor,—the Japanese Emperor,—and a posse of subsidiary kings, princes, and sovereign-dukes, who came with the world’s congratulations. The pontifical paraphernalia lay on the high red throne: but Hadrian stood at its foot to receive His guests. His garb was white, absolutely simple and fresh; and His pose was apostolic, frank and genial. These enormous potentates towered above Him in the splendour of their grandeur; and, as Cardinal Carvale, the fantastic dreamer, said to Cardinal Van Kristen, they radiated from Him as from a source of light.

  After the ceremony of reception was finished, Their Majesties, Augustitudes, Highnesses, and Honours, lingered, chatting with the pontifical court. Some of them had a few words with the Supreme Pontiff. The Northern Emperor came and said, “I know that Your Holiness will felicitate me on a dispatch which I have just received from my brother Prince Henry, who announces that my glorious German navy has taken Kronstadt.”

  Hadrian replied; and added “Be merciful, Augustitude.”

  William then did a politely ferocious scowl, intended to indicate imperial impatience; and continued in a lower tone, “I am also anxious to assure Your Holiness that I myself deeply regret the absence of my cousin and imperial brother, Victor Emanuel. All that I could say has been said to persuade His Augustitude to join me on this auspicious and never-to-be-forgotten occasion. I wish that to be known.”

  “It only is a personal obstacle, not a political, which prevents the Southern Emperor from coming here?”

  “Most Holy Lord, it is not even a personal obstacle. Victor Emanuel has the most profound and much-to-be-admired and pre-eminently-well-merited veneration and reverence for Your Person. It is—well, really it seems almost childish—but he has persuaded himself that——”

  “That the Roman Pontiff owes the King of Italy a visit?”

  “Precisely, Holy Father. There is some history of an approach which His Augustitude’s royal and martyred father made to the Conclave of 1878——”

  “And for a mere idea, Victor Emanuel, will continue alienate from Us! Yet, ideas are very fine things, to be respected, to be cultivated, in this material age. They are so rare, so singular. And constancy, fidelity to an idea, above all things is singular and rare, in this age of compromise from which the world only now emerges. Victor Emanuel is not to be blamed, but praised.” Suddenly a bright light came in the Apostle’s eyes. “Well, then, the next step is obvious. If the son will not come to the Father, then the Father must go to the son.” And an impulse to instant movement appeared to urge Him onward.

  The Northern Emperor splendidly rose to the occasion. “It would be one more grand deed added to Your Holiness’s many grand deeds. I trust that I may have the never-sufficiently-to-be-valued honour of accompanying You.”

  “But We walk:” said Hadrian.

  “I also will gladly walk:” said William.

  The Pope darted a rapid glance round the hall. The King of Portugal was talking to the Japanese Emperor; and the Basil of the Hellenes was listening to the Prince of Montenegro-and-New-Servia. The Ninefold King, with one arm paternally resting on the shoulder of the young King of Spain, was telling (as his own) an extremely funny story, (which he had heard five minutes before from Car
dinal Semphill, to the President of America. Cardinals and sovereigns clustered round them, ploding with laughter at each admirably detailed jocosity. “We can escape this way:” the Pope said to the Emperor. Outside the hall, a pontifical page ran for the white three-cornered hat; and the two descended the Scala Regia, with its Ionic columns flanked by pontifical guards, and made their way into the Square of St. Peter’s. There was a cleared roadway; and they quickly walked between long lines of magnificent Italian soldiery. Rome occupied the side-walks; and sank to its knees as the Supreme Pontiff, shedding benedictions, went swinging lightly and swiftly by. The German Gentleman made no attempt to take salutes until Hadrian said, “Oh do notice these dear Romans. They will be pleased. And you know that you profoundly admire the bersaglieri.”