Hadrian was mooning about in the Treasury one morning, wondering why
people will persist in using diamonds by themselves instead of as a
setting for coloured gems: grieving at the excessive ugliness of most
modern goldsmiths' monstrous work: turning with disgust from huge
brazenly vulgar masses of bullion shaped like bad dreams of chalices,
pyxes, staves, croziers, mitres, tiaras, dishes, jugs, (not beds),
and basons. He bathed in the beauty of sea-blue beryls, corundrums,
catseyes, and chalcedonyx. A vast rose-alexandrolith mysteriously
changed from myrtle-green to purple as He turned it from sunlight to
candle-light. He moved to a great round table-moonstone, transparent
as water one way: brilliantly clouded with the ethereal blue of a
summer-morning sky, the other. These two stones had not the blatant
ostentation, the inevitable noisy obviousness of rubies, emeralds,
diamonds and pearls. They were apart, chaste, recondite, serene, and
permanent. He enjoyed them. His glance again passed over the flaring
cupboards. A plan began to crawl out of one of his brain-cells. He
took the alexandrolith and the moonstone in His two hands; and sat
down profoundly meditating, gazing into the lovely silent mystery in
the stones. So He sat for half-an-hour, while His plan unfolded its
convolutions. To Him entered Cardinal Semphill, rather ruddier than a
cherry, carrying the day-before-yesterday's _Times_. "Holiness," he
said with some animation, "I hope I don't interrupt You. Thank God
we've got a King of England at last!" He read from the paper, "'The
King's Majesty has been graciously pleased to send autograph letters
to all the European sovereigns and prime ministers inviting them to
assemble with the President of the United States and the Japanese
Emperor at Windsor Castle, in order to concert measures for terminating
the present lamentable condition of affairs.'"
"That explains the length of the Japanese Emperor's visit to England,
and Roosevelt's arrival last week. Yes, it's very king-like.
Statesmanship is all very well up to a point. Then, its force seems to
fade; and kingship's chance comes. Lucky England to have a real King!"
"I thought Your Holiness would be pleased. And now what will be the
outcome?"
"Who knows?" Hadrian thought for a minute; and then mounted an
imaginary pulpit, and preached like a purposeful literary man. "First,
they'll quarrel terribly for certain: because five of them are distinct
entities, and the others (the nonentities) out of sheer terror will
make themselves a nuisance. Secondly, when the nonentities have been
reassured, or squashed, the five entities will have to reach a common
ground. If they do that, We shall be very much surprised. Thirdly,
supposing an agreement to have been reached, Their Majesties and the
President will have to get it constitutionally confirmed. Autocracy is
supposed to be dead; and the usual constitutional farce will have to be
performed."
"Why do You say 'autocracy is supposed to be dead,' Holy Father?"
"Oh because the euphuism 'constitutional monarchy' has taken its place.
The twentieth century doesn't like the word Autocrat; and pretends that
the thing does not exist. But it does: not in the old hereditary form:
but Aristos, the Strong Man, invariably dominates. It's in the order
of nature. And Demos likes him for it, only the silly thing won't say
so. That's all. Semphill, you might send a marconigraph to the Earl
Marshal. We require news of this Congress of Windsor at least once a
day."
The Pope returned the gems to the beneficiato in attendance: took the
_Times_ with Him and went across the basilica into the gardens. A
tramontana bit Him to the bone; and He tightly wrapped His cloak round
Him, facing the wind and the blinding glare of the sun. He briskly
walked a couple of miles, until blood-warmth stung his mind into
activity. By Leo IV.'s ruined wall, He met Cardinal Carvale engaged
in a similar exercise, his delicate cheeks fervid and flushed, and
his grave eyes blazing. Good priests generally retain their bloom
through the full five-and-forty years of youth. Hadrian invited his
companionship and conversation for the return to Vatican. They were
a pair, these two medium-sized slim athletic men, the one in white
and the other in vermilion, both very brilliant in the sunlight, with
vivid aspect and vivid gait. They looked like men who really were
alive. Their discourse was just the vigorous rather epigrammatic talk
of wholesome well-bred men. As they turned into the court of the
Belvedere, His Eminency said "Oh, by the bye, Holy Father, perhaps I
ought to tell you that they cannot understand at St. Andrew's College
why You never have been to see them."
"But you understand:" Hadrian promptly put in.
"Well--yes:" the cardinal responded. In his candid gaze there was
intuition, sympathy--and something else.
The Pontiff read it. "When did they tell you that?"
"Yesterday."
"Oh. Do you often go there?"
"About once a fortnight, Holiness."
"Carvale, do you like going there?"
"--Yes, on the whole I do. The youngsters are glad to see me; and the
older men" (a radiant smile disclosed his exquisite teeth as he spread
an arm)--"they like vermilion to take note of them. And I think it does
my soul good" (he spoke gravely) "to visit the old place. I put it
off as long as I could: I would have been glad to forget the horrors.
Strange to say, I forgot them after I had been there a few times."
Hadrian's heart informed Him. He understood it all quite well. "Carvale
let us go to St. Andrew's now. We can get there in time for dinner."
The cardinal instantly looked happy; and the two continued to walk
swiftly through the City, going by Tordinona, Orso, Piazza Colonna and
the Trevi Fountain. As they passed the crucifix at the corner of an
alley, Hadrian bowed. His Eminency did not. "Why don't you salute our
Divine Redeemer?" the Pope inquired.
"Well of course I always raise my hat to The Lord in the tabernacle
when I pass a church----"
"And you bow to Us, and even to Our handwriting: but---- Listen,
Carvale: 'It is idolatry to talk about Holy Church and Holy Father, to
bow to fallible sinful man, if you do not bend knee and lip and heart
to every thought and image of God manifest as Man----' Is that explicit
enough? Well; it was a protestant parson who wrote it--one Arnold of
Rugby."
"He was right, Holiness;" said the cardinal turning back and bowing.
They walked on in silence. The Pope was doing a thing which He could
not away with. It might be thought that He, a former student, was
come to the college (which had expelled Him) to swagger. Of course it
would be thought. Let it be thought. Then the hateful memory of every
nook and corner, in which, as a student, He had been so fearfully
unhappy, surged in His mind: the gaudy chapel where He had received
this snub, the ugly refectory where He received that, the corridor
where the rector had made coarse jests about His mundity to obsequious
grinners, the library where He had found impossible dust-begrimed
books, the stairs up which He had staggered in lonely weakness, the
dreadful gaunt room which had been His homeless home, the altogether
pestilent pretentious bestial insanity of the place--He knew and winced
at every stone of it; and wrenched Himself from retrospection. They
were going up the narrow Avigonesi. Fifty yards in front, a double file
of students in violet cassocks and black sopranos preceded them. A
little group of ragamuffins shouted cattivi verbi at the file; and one
caught hold of the conventional sleeve of a student's soprano which was
streaming in the wind. Cheap cloth rent at a tug. The ragamuffin rushed
off with his spoils. But the bereft one furiously followed: retrieved
his streamer; and clouted a head which howled, resuming his place in
the camerata all unconscious that his act had been observed.
"History repeats itself:" the Pope said, and laughed.
Carvale smiled in reply. "Fancy remembering that."
"We forget no one thing of those days," said Hadrian: "also, the rape
of Your Eminency's streamer was effected on one of the only two days
when We were permitted to accompany the others to the University.
Naturally We remember that. Besides, Carvale, you were in such a blind
and naked rage; and We had deemed you such a virtuous little mouse."
"Was I?" the cardinal said. "One had to lie low, as a rule: but
sometimes the old Adam----"
"We owe Our one moment of mirth in St. Andrew's College to that old
Adam."
"I had to keep in coll. for a week though, afterwards. The boy's father
was waiting for me with a knife."
"Yes. Italy had not got over her taste for steel."
"Will she ever get over it, Holiness?"
"Of course She will--when She has killed you--or Us. Nothing but a
tragedy will break a habit of centuries:" the Pope said, as He rang the
bell at the door of the college.
The old porter Aurelio opened, gasped, dropped on his knees. Hadrian
and Cardinal Carvale entered. A long corridor extended right and left.
In front, on the right, a wide stone stair ascended: on the left,
another stair descended a little way to a glass door leading to a
shabby shrubbery. Some students were on the stairs: others were in the
shrubbery: two or three lingered in the corridor. At the Pontiff's
entrance they all inquisitively turned, gasped, and flopped. It was
awfully funny. They resembled violet hares on their forms, rigid,
goggle-eyed, ready-to-bound. At the turn of the landing, a sturdy
black-a-vised Gael fled upstairs to summon the superiors. The Apostle
blessed the others with a shy smile which would be kind, and a wave of
the hand which emptied space,--except for an obese little spectacled
sharpnosed creature like a violet sparrow who hopped about pertly
obsequious. Down came flying the superiors as a bell began to ring and
intonations sounded in the upper corridors. The rector was annoyed at
being taken unawares: but he presented his vice-rector, a mild anemic
of thirty with the face of a good young woman.
"We are come to accept your hospitality, Monsignore, without any
ceremony," said Hadrian. They passed into the refectory to the high
table. Twenty-nine students followed: and arranged themselves in two
lines down the sides of the centre, and in a third line across the end.
The dean-of-students intoned the Grace: the rest responded. The Pope
placed Himself on the rector's right, with the vice-rector on His Own
right: Carvale supported the rector on the left. Soup, boiled meat,
vegetables, baked-meat, cheese, apples, appeared and disappeared.
The rector conceded to Hadrian the right of signalling to the reader
in the pulpit: the Pope kept him reading, because He did not want to
talk platitudes, and because He did want to look at the men. He ate
little. The food was abundant in quantity: indelicate in quality.
They offered Him the best black wine from the college-vineyards: but
He preferred a student's little cruet of red, a coarse wine with some
body and no bouquet whatever--an unsophisticate wine such as Fabrizio
Colonna might have used at the end of the fifteenth century. Most of
the diners assiduously and emphatically dined, with one eye on the
high table, a nose in their own plate, and the other eye in their
neighbour's. Hadrian noted all their physiognomies; and began to
select those with whom He would have a word. He passed the weak young
thin-nosed dean at the top of the right table, the tall quiet man in
black who looked already sacerdotal, the old bald amiability with an
air of conventionality who might have been a parson,--yes He would
speak to him of the others,--the blubber-lipped gorger who mopped
up gravy with a crumb-wedge and gulched the sop--no: the fastidious
person who ate bread and drank water and looked so hungry--yes: the
florid giant with the fiery wiry mop--no: the dark man with the cruel
face of a Redemptorist--no: the sallow lath who had the manners of an
attaché--no. On the left, colourless mediocrities--no. Across the end,
youngsters:--His Holiness distinguished a black-haired white-skinned
one with wet black eyes, certainly an Erse: a crisp-brown-haired
muscular hobbledehoy with shining grey eyes and a tanned skin, who
would look well in a farm-yard: a big bloom of boyhood yellow-haired,
blue-eyed, scarlet and moist-lipped, ardent and modest. The Pope tapped
on the table. The reader, to whom no one had listened, ceased; and came
down to his dinner. A low murmur of conversation arose. Everybody began
to think furiously of what he would do or demand if he had a chance.
"This is a great day for the college, Holy Father," the rector said.
The Pope slightly bowed. "Had we known that You intended to honour us,
Holy Father, a proper reception----"
"Unnecessary," Hadrian quietly interrupted. "We do not wish to disturb.
Our children expect to see Us; and We are here to be seen. They all
shall be able to say that they have seen and heard and handled Us, if
they please." He spoke lowly, and (the rector perceived) unwillingly,
but very officially. They were eating wind-fallen apples. The rector
offered an enormous silver snuff-box. Hadrian passed it to the
vice-rector, who took a pinch with blushing alacrity. It went the round
of the tables; and returned on the rector's left. Hadrian carefully
noted the takers. Some took snuff perfunctorily, some customarily,
others horribly. The fiery wiry giant stood up and ostentatiously
absorbed it with a cringe to the high table. Those to whom the Pope was
resolved to speak took none: the fastidious person disdained it. The
meal was finished. The students ranked for Grace; and all proceeded
to the chapel to visit The Lord in the Sacrament. After five minutes'
silent prayer, they emerged on the first corridor. There seemed to be
uncertainty: the men congregated on the descent expecting directions.
In the ordinary course of things, some would be going to Propaganda for
lectures; others, to their own rooms for study or siesta: but, for the
next few moments, perhaps a dozen would enjoy horse-play in the shabby
shrubbery. A group of the last collected at the stair-head, by the
reception-room (with the red-velvet settees and the sham Venetian glass
chandeliers), into which the rector was endeavouring to entice the
Pope. But Hadrian was looking at the students, mischievously smiling
at them. "It is to be hoped that you are not going into the garden to
murder a cat:" He said.
Everybody instantly became as red as a scalding-hot capsicum, some
with shame, one with disgust, others from sheer fear. Church-students
easily are frightened, because there generally is less grace than
nature in them; and you only have to disclose a knowledge of the latter
for them to desire (as phrenetically as possible) the predominance of
the former. This makes for uneasiness, often for hypocrisy--in both
cases, for mental and corporeal effort and a sudden flux of blood to
the extremities.
"To murder a cat, Holy Father?" the vice-rector ejaculated. He was
responsible for discipline.
"Yes. They used to murder stray cats here, just to pass the time. We
have seen it. The one thing, which We remember in connection with
your shrubbery, is a rush of ramping infuriated boys with spades and
pitchforks, chasing and smashing a poor stray cat. We can see the
horror now, with its broken back, and one eye hanging out on its
whiskers. We can hear its dreadful heart-rending yells. Boys, don't do
such things--to cats of all creatures!"
He spoke with fervence. Some savages wondered what the blazes He was
driving at. There was a little silence. No one seemed to know how to
break it. Then the sparrow-like student appeared with a red chair
which he had taken the liberty of extracting from the reception-room;
and dragged it behind the Pontiff at the stair-head. It was a welcome
interruption. Hadrian sat down; and dismissed Cardinal Car vale
with the superiors. He was going to have the college to Himself for
half-an-hour. The improvised throne stood alone in the bare corridor:
the students clustered up the stairs below it. Hadrian perceived the
inevitable odour of hot boy. He produced a sentence wherewith to
address them.
"Dear children," he said, feeling as old as Methuselah for the moment,
"do learn to love: don't be hard, don't be cruel to any living
creature." And that was all.
He beckoned the dean who came and kneeled before Him: laid His hand
on the young man's head; and blessed him. The others followed in
rotation. In a secret voice, He invited each one to ask a favour. Most
asked Him to pray for them and held up their beads for a blessing: some
asked for the apostolic benediction in the hour of death for themselves
and their relations: the fastidious person asked for nothing.
"Nothing?" the Pope whispered.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" (very tenderly)
"Everything, O Sanctity:" the stoic responded with a sob and a stony
glare. Hadrian inquired for the number of his room; and put a similar
question to the other four whom He had noted. When He had blessed all,
He sent them away, and sat alone for a minute or two. Then He went to
visit the big boy: who looked at Him bravely, with tearful innocent
eyes. To Hadrian, it was wonderful to see this great virile virgin
of nineteen. He elicited a not unusual and simple tale: a little
Gaelic farm, always Catholic through all persecutions, the third of
eight sons, the Vocation at twelve years of age, the mother wanted to
confess to her own son. It was idyllic. It would come exquisitely in
the objective bucolic manner of Theokritos. The long shapely limbs
trembled before Him; the grand shoulders bowed. He gave the boy His
Own white sash as a present for his mother: bade him be a good priest;
and left him wallowing in happiness. Hadrian stopped in the corridor,
disappointed because the lad came from a farm: He had placed him beside
the sea, and had conceived a mental image of him, bare-legged, in a
blue guernsey, at the rudder of a fishing-smack. But the next, the
muscular hobbledehoy, really did come from a farm: his skin had the
unmistakable tan of the sun on a wheat-field: and his front was bovine.
So was his manner. He was so frightened by the importance of his
visitor that he spoke with surliness, and in the voice of a child of
thirteen. Hadrian was astonished at the discrepancy between the voice
and the speaker: He made him less uncomfortable by substituting an
official manner for His friendly one (which the hobbledehoy could not
understand) asking his name and ordinary questions about his status and
addressing him as Mr. Macleod. It was a magnificent animal, incapable
of the finer sentimental emotions, likely to conceal fat in a cassock
(or in corduroy, if on a farm) before the age of thirty. Privately the
Pope wondered what in the world was the sign of this one's Vocation.
He Himself could perceive none: but then He was inexperienced; and the
youth was secretive. Hadrian tried to draw him out. Was he happy? Oh
yes. Did he want anything? Oh no. To what diocese did he belong? To
Devana. When did he expect the priesthood? A look of wild terror came
into the grey eyes. Hadrian perceived a clue; and pressed on, repeating
his inquiry. "I never will be," the creature shrilled.
"Why not?"
No answer: but a rush to the bedside and a face hidden. Hadrian took
him by the shoulders, and made an act of will. "Why not?"
"I cannot:" and then the fountains of the great deep were discovered.
His veneer of English peeled off: he spoke with the sibilate dental,
the clipped deliberation of the Gael. No one ever had told him. He
did not know till a month ago. No one knew. He had not mentioned it
to his confessor, because it was not a sin. He read of it in Lehmkuhl
and Togni. He would be obliged to go back and work on his uncle's farm
where he had been brought up. They belonged to the Free Kirk there. He
was an orphan. It was his uncle by marriage. Hadrian looked steadily
into his eyes:
"Is this the truth, as though you were speaking before kings?"
"It wass the truth ass though she wass speaking pefore kings," the
response came in the strongest form of asseveration known to a Gael,
deliberately selected and offered by Him Who knew so little, and so
much of so many little things. Hadrian comforted him; and bade him pack
his bag. His secret was safe. Vatican was the place for him, until some
sort of useful happy life could be planned for him.
The Pope very slowly went-up the last two flights of stairs to the top
corridor. No man can come into a human tragedy without some vibrance of
sentiment; and Hadrian's senses, keen by nature, were intensified by
art. He entered the room of the black-haired Erse, who most certainly
had kissed the blarney-stone. Och! Blessins on the Howly Forther's
blessid head and might the howly saints receive Him into glory. The
Pope wrote a blessing in a garish birthday book; and got out of the
room as quickly as possible. That such a lovely bit of colour and
litheness should be so abject on the floor! His Holiness shut-down the
lid on memory; and knocked at another door.
"Come."
He entered a large bare square room with a window which displayed the
City from the Quirinal to St. Peter's. He noted the bed, the chest of
drawers whose top was arranged as a dressing-table, the writing table,
book case, and two chairs. A bath stood under the bed; and there were
two large tin cans of water against the wall. The fastidious inmate
offered a chair; and remained standing in the Presence. Hadrian signed
to him to be seated also.
"Dear son, you are one of the unhappy ones. Will you tell Us your
grief?"
"Sanctity, I have not complained."
"No. But, complain."
"I will not complain." The Pope liked him for that; and for an air of
distinction which was not breeding. Dialectic should be tried.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine."
"In which month were you born?"
"In July."
"In England?"
"In England." A rapid horoscopical calculation let Hadrian know the
lines on which to proceed.
"You find your environment disagreeable?"
"All environments are more or less disagreeable to me."
"All which you have tried up to the present, perhaps. Perhaps the
future may be more propitious."
"Sanctity, I earnestly hope so: but I do not expect it."
"Why not?"
"I do not know."
"Don't you find that your circumstances influence your conduct? Don't
you find that they prevent you from doing yourself justice?"
"Always."
"In this college, you have found no kindred spirit?"
"That may be my fault."
"More likely your misfortune--and misfortunes are not faults, no
matter what fools say. Note that. Note also that misfortunes may be
overcome.--But, they do not understand you here?"
"No."
"They mock you?---- They do. Why did they mock you to-day?"
"They did not mock me to-day."
"Yesterday?"
"Because I carry those two cans full of water up two-hundred-and-two
steps every day."
"Do you mean to say that there are no baths in this college yet?"
"We may have footbaths once a week, if we apply to the infirmarian.
There is nothing else. And I like to tub decently."
"No doubt they say that you must be a very unclean person to need so
much washing?"
"Sanctity, You are quoting the rector."
The Pope abruptly laughed. "Have they ever put a snake--a snake--in
your water-cans?"
"No they have not done that."
"They did in Ours."
The distance between the two now became considerably lessened. The
fastidious person began to feel more at ease. His fastidy evidently was
only a chevaux de frise for the discomfiture of intruders; and this
delicate tender inquisitor was no intruder, but a very welcome--Apostle.
The Pope continued. "Isn't it very absurd?"
"It is very absurd. Also, it is very disconcerting."
"Of course you try not to let it disconcert you?"
"I try: but I fail. My heart always is on my sleeve; and the daws peck
it. At present, I am trying to contain myself and to use myself in
isolation."
"That they call 'sulkiness'?"
"Yes."
"How much longer must you remain here?"
"Perhaps one year: perhaps two."
"Can you persecute, can you hold out so long?"
"Oh, I will hold out. Nothing shall deter me. Sanctity, it is not that
which makes me afraid."
"Dear son, what makes you afraid?"
"The afterwards. These people are to be my superiors or
equals--colleagues for life. I am not afraid of poverty or wickedness
among the people to whom I am to minister: but, my brother-priests--I
shall be at the orders of some of these people, my rectors, my
diocesans even. That makes me afraid."
"Did you not know what kind of people----"
"Yes, I did know: but I did not realize it till I came here."
"Yet you choose to persevere?"
"Sanctity, I must. I am called."
"You are sure of that?"
"It is the only thing in all the world of which I am sure."
"Do you always live on bread and water?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I think the food beastly. I have been into the kitchen; and I have
seen--things. I am afraid to eat anything except boiled eggs. They
cannot deposit--sputum inside the shells of boiled eggs. But the
servants complained of the extra trouble in boiling eggs especially for
me. The bread is not made in the college. In order not to be singular,
I eat and drink what I can eat and drink of that which is set before
me; and I am deemed more singular than ever."
"Have you said this to the rector?"
"Yes."
"Do you like bread and water?"
"I think them both exceedingly nasty."
"Does it affect your health?"
"Not in the least. It makes my head ache. But I am as strong as a
panther."
"Why 'panther'?"
"I really don't know. It seemed to be the just word."
"And you believe that you are able to go on?"
"I intend to go on."
"You know that this college is not the place for you?"
"I suppose not: but my diocesan sent me here; and I intend to serve my
sentence."
"Dear son, what is your ambition?"
"Priesthood."
"With a small patrimony, you would be on a more satisfactory footing
here; and afterward you need not take the mission oath. The mere
fact of the possession of a patrimony would purchase courtesy and
consideration for you during your college-life: and would give you an
opportunity of cultivating your individuality independently when you
reach the priesthood."
"Oh, yes. But I am a church-student."
"So were We."
"And Your Sanctity persevered?"
"Yes."
"So will I."
"What is your name?"
"William Jameson."
Hadrian took a sheet of paper and wrote the apostolic benediction to
William Jameson. "You will like to have this? Persevere, dear son; and
pray for Us as for your brother-in-the-Lord. And--do you know Cardinal
Sterling? Well: come to Vatican whenever you please and make his
acquaintance. He will expect you. Good-bye. God bless you."
The Pope went down to the bald old amiability, who was correct and
mild enough in expressing a profound sense of the honour. Hadrian
spoke to him of himself; and found that a public-school, university,
and Anglican parsonage, had dulled what capability of emotion he ever
had had, or had taught him the rare art of self-concealment. He was
a capital specimen of the ordinary man, stinted, limited: one whose
instinct prevented him from asserting an individuality. But he was a
gentleman; and a Christian of a kind, actuated by the best intentions,
paralysed by the worst conventions.
"We wish to speak to you of Jameson:" at length the Apostle said.
"Ah, poor fellow!"
"Now why do you say that, Mr. Guthrie?"
"Well, Holiness, I'm afraid he's in a most uncomfortable position. I'm
sure this is not the place for him. You see he doesn't get on with the
men."
"Does he quarrel with them?"
"Oh, dear me no! But he avoids them."
"Perhaps he has his reasons."
"Well, I'm afraid he has. But then it doesn't do to shew them. I often
tell him so--try to chaff him into a more come-at-able frame of mind,
you know, Holy Father."
"That hardly would be the way."
"No I'm afraid it wasn't. He's so very sensitive, you see. Why he
actually got quite angry with me."
"What did he say?"
"Well, he said that he really did think I ought to have known better."
"And what did you say then?"
"Oh I called him a----but I couldn't possibly tell You what I called
him, Holy Father."
"Why not?"
"Well really it was too dreadful. I've been regretting it ever since."
"What did you call him?"
"Oh it's quite impossible that I should repeat it to You, Holy Father.
I should never be able to hold up my head again."
"Nonsense, Mr. Guthrie. We desire to know it."
"I'm sure I don't know what You'll think of me, Holy Father: but the
fact is I went so far as to call him a--no, really I cannot--well--I'm
sure I can't think what possessed me to use such an opprobrious term
but I was excessively annoyed You see at the moment and the word
slipped out before I was quite conscious of what I was saying----"
"What did you call him?"
"Well really if You must have it, Holy Father, I called him a Goose!"
"Oh.... And what did he do to you?"
"Burst into a roar of laughter and shut his door in my face."
"Did you feel pained?"
"Well perhaps just a little at the time: but not when I came to think
it over. You see I really can't help feeling sorry for him."
"Why?"
"Well because really he must be very unhappy, You know, Holy Father."
"In your opinion, Mr. Guthrie, he himself is the cause of his own
unhappiness?"
"Quite so, Holy Father. You see he doesn't seem to be able to rub along
with the other men. He can't come down to their level so to speak. He
keeps himself too much to himself: won't or can't conciliate the least
little bit. Of course they all think it's pride on his part; and they
pay him out with practical jokes of a rather doubtful kind I'm afraid.
He's good and kind and clever and all that sort of thing: but he hasn't
the slightest idea of making himself popular as a church-student
should be among church-students. You see, he's what I may call (if I
may be quite frank about him) such a Beastly Fool. The rector doesn't
like it I'm sure."
"Then perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the fault is not so
much in the man as in his environment?"
"That's what I've always said, Holy Father. His present environment
is quite unsuitable for a man of that kind. He must find it extremely
unpleasant."
"Mr. Guthrie, won't you try to make it more pleasant for him? Bear
with him: defend him: don't seem to form a party with him against the
others: but don't give the others the idea that you approve of their
attitude to him. Will you do as much as that?"
"I'm sure I'll do anything in my power, Holy Father."
"That at least is in your power.--God bless you."
The Pope went on to the reception room to fetch Cardinal Carvale. Not
to neglect the superiors, (although He was very tired) He allowed them
to show Him rather dubious and very ugly treasures; and tolerated
half-an-hour of vapid conversation. They thought Him so nice. He was
bored to death. After conferring the usual favours, He obtained a whole
playday for the college: notified the rector that He was carrying off a
student: arranged for Mr. Jameson to visit Cardinal Sterling; and took
His departure. He put His acquisition into a victoria, and bade him
drive to the obelisk in St. Peter's Square.
"Dreadful place!" Hadrian ejaculated to Carvale as they turned down
Tritone. "Do you think you could make it decent if you were rector?"
"I would try, Holiness."
"Well: We do not see how We can make you rector, because of Monsignor
What's-his-name. But you might do something as protector----"
"Gentilotto is protector, Holiness. St. Andrew's is subject to the
Cardinal-Prefect of Propaganda."
"Only for the present, Carvale. You will find that dear old Gentilotto
is quite willing. And you yourself are a Kelt. Yes, that's right!
A Keltic college should have a Keltic protector. Carvale, you are
Protector of St. Andrew's College from this moment, and you shall have
your breve directly We get back to Vatican. Now, first of all, go to
Oxford and ask Dr. Strong to put you up for a week in coll.: and keep
your eyes open. Do that with your first spare fortnight. Then come back
and turn your rivers Peneios and Alpheios through that Aygeian stable.
Give them baths and sanity, for goodness' sake; and try to get them
into cleanly habits. You might make that shrubbery into a gymnasium
and swimming bath with a lovely terrace on the top. And, O Carvale, do
make friends with them, and see what you can do to take that horrible
secretive suppressed look out of their young eyes. Understand?"
"I think so, Holiness."
"We give you a year. If We live as long as this day twelvemonth, We
will go again to mark your progress. Remember, you have a free hand.
Now here's something else. Tell Sterling that a--but no--We Ourself
will tell him."
At the obelisk they picked up Hamish Macleod. Hadrian marched him
straight up to the quarters of the gentlemen of the secret chamber. Sir
John and Sir Iulo, stripped to the buff were punching a bag.
"John," said the Pope, "Mr. Macleod will be your guest for the present.
Get him a room near your own and make him comfortable." He drew the
young man outside while Sir Iulo was lavishing his lovely English on
the visitor. "And John, reorganize his wardrobe on the scale of your
own; and teach him your business."
To Cardinal Sterling, who came to the secret chamber, Hadrian explained
the case of William Jameson.
"You have your opportunity," He said to His Eminency.
"And one will not repeat one's previous mistake, Holiness," was the
remarkable and thankful reply.
"No, for mercy's sake, don't. And now listen. The Treasurer will pay
you on this order the sum of £10,500. You will invest it in the Bank of
England on these terms. The transaction is to be secret. The interest
on £10,000 is to be paid quarterly to William Jameson as long as he
lives. On his death the capital is to revert to the Treasurer for the
time being of the Apostolic See. Instruct the bank instantly to send
£500 and the vouchers to Jameson, with a statement that it is his
patrimony; and to give him no further information."
Then Hadrian shut-up Himself and rested, smoking and reading the
_Reviews of Unwritten Books_ in some old numbers of the _Monthly
Review_. One of them caused Him to think. It was called _Thucydides'
Report of Pericles' Oration at the Incoronation of King Edward the
Seventh_.