Hadrian the Seventh
Page 39
The Emperor responded, “I am as proud to salute the Romans as I am to salute the noblest Roman of them all,—to use the words of Your Holiness’s divine Shakespeare.” And he strode on, saluting, while the Pontiff blessed.
As they passed the Palazzo Venezia, Hadrian said, “Victor Emanuel really behaves extremely well. Three-quarters of his army are in the field; and here is a parcel of foreign sovereigns practically occupying his capital in—no, not homage—in courtesy to Us.——”
“And also out of respect, Holiness.”
“Out of respect then and courtesy to Our Apostolature. It is no affair of his; and yet he lines the streets with troops, while he himself——oh, it’s really very decent of him!”
“Victor Emanuel is a truly great man;” the Emperor commented. The Pope assented.
They entered the Palace of the Quirinale; and went straight through the ambassador’s hall to the Southern Emperor’s study. William remained in the antechamber. Victor Emanuel in a light-grey flannel suit was reading proofs of his numismatic catalogue. He stood up pale and stiff, when his groom-of-the-chambers came in and whispered a word. Hadrian followed on the instant, entering with candid gentle dignity, extending an English hand. Not a word was said. Victor Emanuel, shining with the light of the purple which he had not yet worn, took the outstretched hand: held it: felt his own gripped and held. He bent his head—then his knee. Reconciliation was complete.
“May I have the honour and the happiness of presenting my wife to Your Holiness?” he said, a minute later. He went along the corridor and gave two raps on a further door. “Darling,” he cried; “please come.”
The exquisite Empress Elena appeared. She started slightly at first: but bravely came on, imperially mysteriously pale and radiant as ‘the chorus of nightly stars and the bright powers which bring summer and winter to mortals, conspicuous in the firmament.’
Hadrian at once won her with “And the lovely children.”
“Oh yes, the kiddies!” Victor Emanuel said.
“Do you know that We owe one immense emotion to your boy?” and Hadrian narrated the incident in Prince Attendolo’s garden.
Mother and father proudly laughed. “Yes, we heard about that, of course; and I wondered what would happen if ever we ourselves should meet Your Holiness by accident, as the children did:” the Empress said.
“Well, we have met, and now Your Augustitudes know:” laughed Hadrian.
“Filiberto is a queer little chap,” Victor Emanuel continued: “he says the most extraordinary things;—came running into the stables the other morning crying because some dog had barked and startled him. ‘Stamp at ’em,’ I said; ‘and after all, you can run faster than a dog,’ said I to hearten him. ‘Yes’ says he ‘but you see, father, when I do run, I’m always putting out one leg at the back for the dog to bite!’ ”
“But I can tell you something better than that,” the Empress put in. “He was a bad boy in the chapel at benediction on Sunday. I’m afraid, Holiness, that this is rather a naughty story——”
“Tell it instantly and relieve your sinful soul, daughter;” the haughty pontiff commanded.
How the three roared! She continued, “He persisted in trying to balance a pile of prayer-books on the ledge of his chair-back; and every now and then they came down with a crash. At last I took him on my knee; and told him that the holy angels were looking at him, and that they would go and tell the Lord God what a wicked little ruffian he was. And then he said—he said, ‘Dirty little sneaks!’ ”
“Oh, oh, the exquisite boy!” Hadrian shouted with laughter.
“Well, I’ll go and fetch him;” said the Southern Emperor, running-out of the door, just as the Northern Emperor came-in by the other, prepared to play the part of peace-maker. That, now, was not necessary; and England, Germany, and Italy, chattered like children till the children came. Their father did not return. His men were having a bad time, trying to beat the record for getting a sovereign into his habit of ceremony.
The fair Prince Filiberto solemnly approached the Pope. “Are You the White Father which formerly I have seen in somebody’s forest?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian.
“Are You quite good now?” the boy continued, with great black basilic eyes.
“No,” said Hadrian, feeling the horror of the end of youth confronted with the flower of innocence.
“Are You truly contrite for having been a naughty boy—no, man I mean?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian.
“Are You sitting on my father’s sofa because he has forgiven You?”
“Yes,” said Hadrian, thinking what a frightful old fool He must appear.
“I liked You when I saw You in that forest; and I like You now: but mother told me that the White Father was not my father’s friend.”
“Mother made a mistake, little son;” said the Empress, leaning forward in sudden confusion. “The White Father is father’s best friend.”
“Oh, how I am glad for that: because now You can be also my friend!” the prince cried, scattering his deliberate English to the four quarters of the globe.
“Most willingly,” said Hadrian, taking the rose-brown hand, and drawing the child towards Him. Innocence put up its pretty lips. The Apostle lost one breath;—and stooped and kissed the stainless brow. Then He turned to greet the girls.
“This child once asked my husband a very awkward question,” the mother said, presenting the Princess Yolanda. “The King of England was coming here; and Victor was shewing her His Majesty’s incoronation portrait. Ah, but how she admired it! And she said, ‘Father why don’t you wear a hat like that king?’ ”
The Supreme Pontiff looked at the blushing child. “You would not call it a ‘hat,’ Princess, now that you are grown up?”
“No, Papa Inglese,—a crown.”
“You would like your father to have a crown? Tell him that there are two waiting for him, one at Monza, and another in the Lateran.”
The Roman Emperors escorted the Pope returning to Vatican. On the way, carriages met them, and disgorged sovereigns: state-coaches met them, and emitted cardinals: courtiers alighted from horseback and emerged from motor-cars. The return became a procession of the powers, led by the Power of the Keys. They had crossed the Ponte Santangelo, and were about to turn to the left by the Castle, when a dishevelled man in black contrived to break out from the ranks of the people. He got through the bersaglieri and stepped into the middle of the road: pointed a revolver at Hadrian; and fired. The bullet struck His Holiness high up on the left breast, piercing the pulmonary artery just above the lung.
The slim white figure stopped—wavered—and sank down. The whole world seemed to stand still, while the human race gasped once.
A frantic woman in a fox-coloured wig pitched out of the opposite crowd; and grovelled. “Love, Love,” she howled hideously: “oh and I loved him so! Oh! Oh! I really did love him. Yes I did, I did, I did, I did. . . .” she yelped to the sun in the firmament of heaven. The discord resembled the baying of a dog which breaks the cadence of Handel’s Largo on arch-lutes.
God’s Vicegerent moved,—looked at her from a distance, gently, even curiously “Daughter, go in peace,” He said and turned away. She remained there grovelling, longing to touch Him, forlorn, gorgonized.
The Roman Emperors also kneeled to right and left, fiercely looking among their aides for the help which did not come, which could not come, from man.
The assassin was in a hundred tearing hands. Screeches shot out of his gullet when they silently and inevitably began to tear him to pieces. Roman knives flashed over the parapet; and slid into Tiber: hooked hands, like the curving talons of griffins, were the weapons for this work. But the Supreme Pontiff beckoned him; and the gesture was unmistakeable—universally authoritative. Shaken and violently shaking, jagged, lacerated, a disreputable wreck of Pictish ready-made tailoring, Jerry Sant staggered forward, staggered like one fascinated. Cardinals and sovereigns drew away from him, and the mob he
mmed him in.
“. . . for they know not . . . .” The Apostle raised himself a little, supported by imperial hands. How bright the sunlight was, on the warm grey stones, on the ripe Roman skins, on vermilion and lavender and blue and ermine and green and gold, on the indecent grotesque blackness of two blotches, on apostolic whiteness and the rose of blood.
“Augustitudes, Our will and pleasure is——”
“Speak it, Most Holy Father——”
“Augustitudes, We name you both the ministers of this Our will.” And to the murderer He said, “Son, you are forgiven: you are free.”
Down Borgo Nuovo came guards, chamberlains, curial prelates, cardinals, from Vatican. The English and American cardinals took their vermilion on their arms, and ran like lithe long-limbed school-boys. The faithful young Sir John outran them all. He kneeled to Hadrian, Who said,
“Dear John, take this cross—and Flavio.” The Southern Emperor unclasped the chain and rosy pectoral cross; and handed them to the gentleman-of-the-apostolic-chamber, who took them and fainted away. Out of Santo Spirito, came one with the stocks of sacred chrism. Cardinals Van Kristen and Carvale, panting, kneeled before the Ruler of the World. Percy drew out the hidden pontifical pyx: took the Sacred Host therefrom; and held It. “The profession of faith, Most Holy Lord,” he bravely whispered.
“I believe all that which Holy Mother Church believes. I ask pardon of all men. Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge but a Saviour.”
Cardinal Sterling gravely intoned the commendation of a Christian soul. The splendid company of angels, the senate of apostles, the army of white-robed martyrs, the lilied squadron of shining confessors, the chorus of joyful maids, patriarchs, hermits, Stephen and Lawrence, Silvester and Gregory, Francis and Lucy and Mary Magdalene, Mary—God’s Own Mother, all the saints of God who daily are invited to attend the passing of the poorest Christian soul, were invoked for the Father of Princes and Kings. “And mild and cheerful may the Aspect of Christ Jesus seem to thee——” The singer’s voice failed. Cardinal Carvale went on with no interval: imparted absolution, and the sacrament of the dying. “Saints of God advance to help him: Angels of The Lord come to meet him, receiving his soul, offering it in the Sight of The Most High.” The splendour of mortal words reverberated from the ancient fortress wall, in the great silence of Immortal Rome.
When the Earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ had received Extreme Unction and Viaticum, when He had had done for Him all that which Christ’s Church can do, He required to be lifted on His feet. The Roman Emperors rose, raising Him. The vehement ferocity of their aspect terribly contrasted with their tender movement. The torments of powerless power, of intimidation inflicted in the supreme moment of exultation, rent these grand strong men—and graced them. The blood-stain streamed down the Pope’s white robes with the red stole of universal jurisdiction. The slender hand with the two huge rings ascended. The shy brown eyes fluttered; and were wide, and very glad. Then the tired young voice rang like a quiet bell.
“May God Omnipotent, ✠ ✠ ✠ Father, ✠ ✠ ✠ Son, ✠ ✠ ✠ and Holy Ghost, bless you.”
It was the Apostolic Benediction of the City and the World.
The hand and the dark eyelashes drooped, and fell. The delicate fastidious lips closed, in the ineffable smile of the dead who have found out the Secret of Love, and are perfectly satisfied.
So died Hadrian the Seventh, Bishop, Servant of the servants of God, and (some say) Martyr. So died Peter in the arms of Cæsar.
The world sobbed, sighed, wiped its mouth; and experienced extreme relief.
The college of Cardinals summed Him up in the brilliant epigram of Tacitus. ‘Capax imperii nisi imperâsset.’ He would have been an ideal ruler if He had not ruled.
Religious people said that He was an incomprehensible creature. And the man on the motor said that the pace certainly had been rather rapid.
Pray for the repose of His soul. He was so tired.
FELICITER