Italy was not first in the heart of Hadrian. She was third. He served
Her, because He saw Her instant need. The second of His loved lands
did not know Herself to be in need of Him: hence, He offered Her no
more than courtesy. He did not want America to tell Him not to monkey
with the buzz-saw. And England was first. And what could He do for
England? The thought, that He might do something, alone sustained Him
now. Life among the millions of articulately-speaking men had become
an ever-present horror to Him. He frequently wondered what prevented
Him from hurling Himself from the windows on to the stones of Rome. He
actually sent for a case of safety-razors, and banished knives from the
pontifical apartments. "O for the wings, for the wings of a dove: then
far away, far away, would I fly." There was a boy named Roebuck who
sang that, in New College Chapel in Commemoration week five and twenty
years before. The golden voice, the incomparable young voice came back
to Him in Golden Rome where He was longing to be at rest.
A scarlet arm held back the blue-linen curtain of the door, and
Cardinal Leighton entered. "I think we missed this, Holy Father," he
said, and offered a more-than-a-month-old copy of the _Catholic Hour_.
Hadrian in a moment dragged Himself erect physically and psychically:
He took the paper and read:
"We have received a long letter from 'D.J.' taking us to task for
exposing George Arthur Rose in a way which he calls 'savagely cruel.'
He says,
'I thank God that I cannot appreciate the humour which speaks gaily
of a man enduring eighteen months of semi-starvation, and at the same
time struggling hard to earn a livelihood by his pen--for the honesty
of his strugglings I can vouch. Whatever his past may have been--and
I believe that your article is in the main erroneous--surely it is
better to leave it as past. As a convert, he had to endure for the
faith that is in him. Once before in his chequered career, at a moment
when he had a means of living by his own hands within his grasp, a
gratuitous newspaper attack snatched from him the support which he
had made himself to lean on. At the present time he is leading an
existence which is bitter enough to himself and quite harmless (not to
say beneficial) to others; and I feel compelled to tell you that I look
upon your onslaught as both criminal and disgraceful.'
Another correspondent writes, 'I was much grieved at your article
called _Strange Career_ etc. in your issue of Nov. 18th because I am a
great admirer of some books which George Arthur Rose published before
he was made Pope. Those books did more to convert me to Catholicism
than any others and I am very sorry to read the account that you have
printed of their author.'
Yet another correspondent writes, 'It may be well to inform your
readers that the Austin White who wrote the very offensive letters
headed _Rhypokondylose Religion_ in the _Jecorian Courier_ some few
years back is the George Arthur Rose alias the Pope of Rome about whom
your readers were so amply enlightened in the columns of your issue of
18th November.'
In reply to 'D.J.' we may say that we hold in our hand a letter which
Rose addressed to an excellent priest in 1898. It concludes 'I regret
for your sake the exposure which inevitably must take place when her
brother-in-law, the bishop, becomes cognizant of the undue influence
which you use in order to embezzle these sums from Lady Mostingham. I
beg you to make amends and to withdraw from such degrading transactions
before it is too late.' If our correspondent 'D.J.' still thinks it was
not advisable for us to savagely and cruelly denounce the author of
that last letter, we can only say we differ from him."
Hadrian read the screed with indignant scorn. It was the beastly
English of the vulgar thing, more than the vile sentiments expressed,
which put Him into such a violent rictus of contempt. He looked out of
the window at nothing for a moment, to conceal His disgust. Finding
that Cardinal Leighton waited, He controlled Himself; and turned round
with a gaze of frigid inquiry.
"Yes?" He said.
"'Would to Heaven that You would grant me a trifling favour,'" His
Eminency quoted in Greek.
It was a most artful and invariably successful dodge to approach the
Pontiff in His favourite tongue. He recognized the quotation; and
capped it with the succeeding verse.
"'Tell me as quickly as you can; and I at once shall know.'"
"May I ask a question? Did You write that letter, Holy Father?"
"Which? The last? Yes."
"What did you know?"
"Everything."
"May I say that the amount of knowledge of men which You seem always to
possess is quite extraordinary:" said the cardinal, blinking.
"No it is not. 'To those who indeed suffer, Righteousness bringeth
knowledge.'" the Pontiff quoted from Aischylos again. "'The greater
the detachment from the world, over worldly things the greater power
is gained,' some true poet sings. We never were 'a man among men.' We
had five senses and We used them. And all the men whom We ever met
habitually and voluntarily came and told Us their secrets. We never
sought them. They were laid bare before Us. And Our senses perceived
them. That is all."
The pontifical voice was hard and cruel: the face was harder and more
cruel and also more terrible. The very Presence was like a candent
flame. Good honest innocent Leighton looked at Him as at something
inhuman: but he persevered.
"Holiness, I want to go on. Do You know who wrote the other letters?"
"Oh yes. D.J. was another 'excellent priest.' He was in philosophy when
We were in theology at Maryvale. Why you know him too, Leighton,--he
took his B.A. with Ambrose."
"What, 'Gionde'? Yes, of course I knew him."
"That's the man. We have not heard from him for years: but he evidently
thought it right to defend Us. Poor chap! A snub rewards him. The
_Catholic Hour_ 'differs from him.' ... A tipsy publican wrote the
second; and the third was written by a Jesuit jackal, in return for the
custom of, and most likely at the dictation of, the very detestable
scoundrel to whom We wrote the last."
"What became of him? The bad priest I mean?"
"He ruined himself, as We predicted. He persisted in his career
of crime till his bishop found him out. Then he was broken, and
disappeared--Maison de santé or something of that sort for a time. He's
in one of the colonies now; and he might have been---- Lord Cardinal,
We have said too much. It is not Our Will and pleasure to move in this
matter."
"But the advantage I derive from hearing Your Holiness--if it is
not impertinent--Holiness, I venture to assure you of my eternal
fidelity----" Leighton stammered with emotion.
Hadrian shewed him no face: turned to the window which displayed the
panorama of Intangible Rome; and presently was alone.
"God! God!" He exclaimed, shaking the paper with
terrific violence. "Do you see this brutal cynical
unrighteousness--prejudged,--condemned,--the mere suggestion of defence
derided and fleered-at----in England, fair-minded England--England the
land of the free----"
No: it was not England, but just a handful of the vicious vermin which
infest her. England--the word summoned Him to His apostolature again.
What was the mind of England now? That question occupied Him. He wished
that England would declare Her mind to Him through ambassadors, the
mind of the statesmen of England. He had no official acquaintance with
any one of them. He could not ask for England's confidence: for, being
English, He knew that asking slams the door. Humanly speaking, He had
nothing to guide Him in the cosmic crisis of the present, the crisis in
which He was certain to be consulted--as a last resort--but certain to
be consulted. Of that, He was convinced. A short calculation displayed
Jupiter passing through Aries, which signified immense benefit to
England. Oh, very good. Then what should be His course of action?
He got up and went round the room, looking at the maps and noting
them, until it seemed that His mental horizon expanded and enlarged,
and He had the whole of the orb of the earth within His vision. What
should He say, or do, for England, when she was too shy, too proud,
to give Him a sign as to what She wanted Him to say, or do? England,
England!--"Land of hope and glory,--how shall We extol thee Who are
born of thee?--wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set: God, Who
made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet!"
He would say and do that which was given to Him to say or do. As an
Englishman, He had His intuitions. And He required no confidences.
England, the shy, the proud, should be served by Her shy proud son,
the Servant of the servants of God. The divine afflatus of patriotism
inspired Him, brightening His eyes, erecting His head. He sat down
again: took His writing-board on His knees; and wrote. Anon, He rang
the bell and gave some orders. Also, He sent some written slips of
cyphers to the operators in the Vatican marconigraph office.
On the twenty-second of January, the Supreme Pontiff descended to
the basilica of St. Peter-by-the-Vatican; and sang mass for the
repose of the soul of Queen Victoria, the Great, the Good. The same
day, the English newspapers announced that His Holiness had sent a
cardinal-ablegate to place the Golden Rose, the pontifical tribute to
virtuose queens, on Her Majesty's tomb in the mausoleum at Frogmore.