The Italian Socialists having been won for Italy, and the German
Socialists by the German Emperor, the British Socialists began to
wonder where they themselves came in. The predilection for forming
societies which is to be met-with among all the degenerate and
hysterical, may assume different forms. Criminals unite in bands,
as Lombroso expressly establishes. Hence the British Socialists (in
their quandary) held fatuous meetings hoping to generate a policy in
an atmosphere of hot envious man. They really did want to know their
exact position: for, in some indefinable way, they were beginning
to feel that they were by no means as necessary to the universe as
they had imagined themselves to be. It seemed as though this planet
(for one) were moving quite easily without them, and (what was more
annoying) on a path which was quite strange to them, a comfortable
path and a desirable. They felt that they were being left out in the
cold; and, as their nature was, they looked about for some safe person
on whom to void their spleen. They began with the Roman Pontiff. That
an archaic potentate of His calibre, should prove to be fresh and
actual and vigorous, struck them as something of a nuisance. They had
deemed Him hardly worth consideration, a decayed relic of antiquity,
useful perhaps as a monument of the bad old days when the world was
drowned in damnable idolatry: but nothing more. That any man whose
reputation so publicly had been besmirched as His had been, should
dare to hold up his head, to live and move and have his being, to
dispose of millions of money and of the minds of nations, struck them
as simply atrocious. He had refused the honour of their alliance,
had scorned their overtures with contemptuous silence. They would
return Him scorn for scorn: they would shew Him what He had lost. If
He flattered Himself that His so called _Epistles_ to this that and
the other would have any influence, the sooner He was undeceived the
better. The Liblab Fellowship soon would let 'an unhappy old drawler
of platitudinous flapdoodle like Hadrian' know His place, quoth the
blameless Comrade Bob Matchwood. All the same, amid all the rhapsodic
rhodomontade of sound and fury signifying nothing, there remained
among the fellow-shippers just enough intellect to perceive one thing.
Comrade Frank Conollan put on his pince-nez; and, with a spasm of jerks
and twitches, was delivered of the opinion that the Liblab Fellowship
could not hope to recover anything like a respectable position in the
popular estimation as long as it remained where it was. He said that to
blink the fact, that Liblabbery had taken a false step in approaching
the Pope of Rome, was not a bit of good. Liblabbery had courted a snub;
and had been smitten with the snubbiest of snubs. If he might use a
metaphorical expression, he would say that Liblabbery had been enticed
into a bog and made to look unspeakably silly. If he might use a
poetical expression from Shakespeare, he would say 'like unback'd colts
they pricked their ears, advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses,
and calf-like follow'd through tooth'd briers, pricking goss, and
thorns, which enter'd their frail skins, into the filthy mantled pool,
where, dancing up to the chins, the foul lake o'er-stunk their feet.'
(It began to dawn upon the Liblabs that the Comrade was doing the very
thing desired. He was leading up to the customary denunciation of
some traitor. He was about to provide them with the name of the usual
scape-goat. They prolonged pleased ears in his direction.)
He would go further. He would say, still using the expressions of the
immortal bard of Avon, "Your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy,
has done little better than played the Jack with us."
(This was something like! The meeting's ears positively flapped.)
And then, being unable to keep-on his pince-nez any longer by reason of
a steamed nose, he brought his climax to an abrupt term by demanding
the instant and public expulsion of Comrade Jerry Sant. That was voted
nem. con. The Liblab Fellowship shook-off the dust of its dirty feet
at the traitor; and Comrade Mat Matchwood said some very slighting
things about him in the _Salpinx_. No one is so facile and energetic
about believing evil as a Pessimist, that is to say a Socialist;
and, when one traitor is detected, what could be more natural than
for others to be suspected. It happened so. The mutual jealousy, the
flaring incompetency, the sordid selfishness, which always infected
the socialist demagogues, and (of course) the essentially sandy
foundation upon which the socialist system was based, led to further
and more fatal dissensions. Suspicion mated with Baffled Purpose.
Recrimination was the offspring of the match. The fellow-shippers, who
had connived at the scheme of Jerry Sant, found themselves accused as
his accomplices, and denounced and expelled in turn. From dissension
it was no more than one step to disunion. Each demagogue, fearful
lest he should have to take up an honest trade for a livelihood,
devoted persuasive loquacity to the attracting of personal supporters.
Burnson battened on Battersea. West Ham went a-whoring after strange
Bills. Glasgow got into the galley of Kerardy. And Devana succumbed
to a split-thumb-nailed and anarchistic plumber. Schisms within
schisms insued. Dens and caves received the remnants of the Liblab
Fellowship. Mutual damnation was the order of the day. The Socialists
were almost Christian. The ranks were thinned by internecine war.
Then came desertions. Socialism didn't pay; and socialists openly
asked conservative agents for tory gold. When it was refused, they
swore (after their kind). Labor (without the u) looked about for the
patronage of Capital. And British Socialism was in a fair way to perish
of its own radical fatuity, and instability.
Hadrian watched the process of disintegration from His tower in Rome,
watched the natural absorption of the more respectable socialists
by the more respectable community; and He was glad. Very soon now
the silly obscene heresy would die and disappear, with the obsolete
delusions of Gymnosophists, Anabaptists, Picards, Adamites and
Turlupins. Hadrian was glad. Then came the _Times_, announcing that
Australia, Canada, and South Africa had armed all healthy males
between the ages of 17 and 50; and that England was mobilizing
the sea-and-land-forces of her Empire. Now the whole world was in
battle array. He took out His pyx again, and prayed the prayer of
the Danaides, "O King of kings, Most Blessed of the blessed, Most
Perfect Mighty One of the perfect, be persuaded and let this come to
pass,--avert from Thy race the insolence of men who (for a reason)
hate it; and plunge the black-benched pest into the dark abyss." It
was a pagan enough prayer for a Pope to utter. It was a fierce enough
sentiment for an altruist to express. It was an entirely comprehensible
suggestion of a misanthrope and misogynist, tired by, impatient of,
armed against, the tiresome divarication of little silly people. The
thing which troubled Him most was the irreconcilability of the King
of Italy. He had tried hard to give Victor Emanuel to understand
that, not rebuff but, welcome waited for him. He knew the benefits
which co-operation of Pope and King would bring. Yet the expression
of the Persian fatalist in Herodotus,--ἑχθιστη ὁδυνη πολλα φρονεοντα
μηδενοϛ κραΤεειν--the bitterest of all griefs, to see clearly and yet
to be unable to do anything, might have stood as the motto of His
whole mind, as often before in His life, so most emphatically now. He
recalled the Cardinal of Caerleon.
The blameless Sant and his companion were in a pretty pickle. Expulsion
from the Liblab Fellowship included, not only the withdrawal of funds
but also, a threat of prosecution on a charge of obtaining money on
false pretences. The last they could afford to laugh at. No English
court of law could or would convict upon the evidence producible. The
first was tiresome: but of course they had a little put by. And with
regard to the future? Mrs. Crowe now was quite certain that Jerry
had made a mess of things. She began to think with longing of her
lodging-house. What was the good of staying on in Rome? Yes, and who
was going to pay her expenses, she would like to know? She impatiently
put that point before her paymaster. He did-on a forensic air; and
asked for time to advise himself of the matter. She demanded how long
he would require. He remarked on the feminine propensity for kicking a
man who has been knocked down; and ramped and raved till he thoroughly
frightened her. Your Pict is a truly awesome figure when he is red with
damp rage. She shrank into a corner whimpering, for she thought he was
going to strike her. Instead of that he cooled to sudden wheedling; and
anon he cuddled her. She permitted. It was better than nothing; and
she felt as though she really needed something of the sort. How could
she so misunderstand him? Of course he was not going to desert her.
They both were in the same boat; and must sink or swim together. For
his part, he intended to swim. She might have known that he was not
the man to give up when matters had proceeded so far. But, she urged,
what could they do? Do? They could do a fair lot of things. To begin
with, they could go and wait on a lot of they old cardinals and mak'
theirsels a nuisance. They went to Ragna, and told him very pretty
stories. Their statements were as a treat of almonds to him; but he
gave no sign of that. He was suave, polite: said that he would see
what could be done; and bowed them away. They went to Whitehead and
got no satisfaction. Caerleon thought that they had better let matters
rest. Carvale denied himself to them. Sterling listened to them with
judicial gravity and gave them no response. Semphill blazed at them;
and dismissed them shattered as to their nerves. They returned to the
Hotel Nike to wait for Ragna.
The cardinals discussed them with the Pope. The Secretary of State
was insinuatory. He spoke of the terrible scandal; and let it be
understood that, in his opinion, payments should be made to stop
it. He hinted at the impossibility of defending the indefensible.
Better to use that million, the balance of the sale of the Vatican
treasure. That million had paid the expenses of the sale and of the
restoration of the sacristy; and had endowed St. George's College of
historical researchers under the presidency of Dr. Richard Barnett:
it was accounted for in della Volta's balance-sheet, Hadrian put in.
Carvale added that payment never stopped scandal. Caerleon earnestly
hoped that nothing would be done: it would rake up the past and involve
so many people. Semphill yearned for the good old days, faggots,
tongue-tearing, hand-chopping, ear-cropping, head-cutting, eye-gouging,
maiming, and stoning, and the groaning with much wailing of those
impaled by the spine, and all that sort of thing out of the Eymenides.
He loudly said so; and was silenced by a look from the Pontiff's
scornful anguished face. Discussion languished. Then Hadrian said
"Bring them here."
Sir Iulo pit-pit-pit-pitted across the City on a motor-bicycle, and
burst into Via Due Macelli, a scarlet Hermes, with the annunciation,
"You are summoned to attend our Most Holy Father in the Vatican."
Mrs. Crowe hiccoughed "At last"; and bolted upstairs to put on her
most fetching hat. Jerry Sant grinned spikily through a tattered
moustache. The two got into a hired victoria; and followed the
gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber.
Hadrian received them in the throne-room. He did not occupy the
throne, but the central chair of a semi-circular group of five. Ragna,
Sterling, Leighton, and Caerleon used the others. The latter had a
pigskin portfolio on his knee. In front of the ecclesiastics were two
chairs of equal importance. The man and woman lounged there. It was
quite a family gathering. But between the Church and the World, Sir
John stood by a little table furnished with the pontifical phonographs.
"We have summoned you, in order that ye may speak your minds to Us,"
the Supreme Pontiff said: "but ye shall know that We will not hold any
communication with you except Our utterances and yours be recorded by
these instruments." His voice was very frigid: but there was neither
menace nor offence in it. His quiet tone totally was at variance
with the furious defiance of the matter of His words. The paradox
disconcerted his hearers. Sant went magenta with wrath: remembered
how much he had at stake; and was canny enough not to demur. With an
attempt at an easy laugh, he said that it was a little unusual, not
quite what he expected, but he didn't want to be unpleasant to His
Lordship, and so he had no objection he was sure. And he lolled in his
armchair, as who should say "A'm fair easy." Mrs. Crowe bit her upper
lip: but said that she had no objection either. Hadrian waved His hand;
and the pontifical gentleman sat down and set the machines in motion.
The Pope put the woman to the question: "Madam, what do you want?"
Face to face with that she failed to put her want in words. It was an
acrid pungent permanent want, not-to-be-named. She bit at her upper lip
again; and looked at Jerry for a lead. He proceeded "I think, Reverend
Sir, that it will be more advantageous for all parties if I was to
speak for Mrs. Crowe."
"We will concede the point. Sir, what do you want?" the Pontiff said.
Then the virtuous Jerry also began to flounder. Want? Eh, but he wanted
several things.
"Name them:" the Pope commanded.
"Well:--reparation--damages."
"For what?" the Pope inquired.
"For ma loss of time whiles I've had to be here and for ma business
which Ye may say's gone ta th dogs; and for the loss of ma Liblab
Fellowship."
"To what extent have you suffered?"
"To fhat extent? Well, I'll let Ye know. I've been here since last
July, say eight months, say forty weeks, say three hundred days; and I
take ordinarily a pound-note per day on journeys for expenses: but it's
cost me a heap more than that this trip. Ye can call it five hundred
pounds for out-of-pocket expenses. Then there's ma business which
I've had to neglect, eight months, better say a year at one-fifty for
salary, and commissions--say another fifty. There's eight hundreds.
Then they've had the cheek to expel me as a Fellowshipper, as I
suppose Ye've heard. Of course that's very damaging to ma prestige,
say to the extent of a couple of thousands. Fhat's that come to? Two
thousands eight hundreds--may as well call it three thousands. And of
course there's fhat old Krooger named moral and intellectual damage--I
don't know fhat tae pit that at, I'm sure--but Ye might tot it all up
together and call it twenty thousands."
"And your companion?"
"Aweel, Ye'd better double it and we'll both ca' quits. Forty thousands
cash!"
The Pope cast a slight look round upon his cardinals. They returned it.
"You are demanding that We should pay you forty thousand pounds," He
said to the expectant Jerry.
"That's correct."
"Why do you demand this sum of Us?"
"Why? Why because we've run into all these expenses on your account. If
Ye hadna have been here, neither would we have come and have had all
this fuss and bother. Who's to indemnify us for that but Yersel', I'm
asking Ye. I'll let Ye know we've fair ruined oursels----"
The Bald She interrupted. "If I could have a private word with Your
Holiness."
The motive did not escape Hadrian's notice. "Daughter, your conduct and
your notorious proclivities debar you from a private interview with any
clergyman, except in the open confessional."
"Then in the confessional."
The Pope rose and beckoned her to follow. He beckoned Sir John to stop
the machines and remain: the others to follow. They descended into
St. Peter's. There, He turned out the English Confessor; and took his
place, while the woman kneeled at the left side. Just out of earshot,
the four cardinals stayed with Sant, who fumed in his inward parts.
Fhat blathers was this going on under their very noses? The half-door
and the window both were open: only the lateral partition divided
the priest from the penitent. The grating was between their faces;
and, though they were perfectly visible, they were visible apart and
separate.
Hadrian in a low tone recited "May the Lord be in thine heart and on
thy lips"--; and put Himself to listen.
Through the grating there came a whine,--
"Georgie!"
"My child, there is no Georgie here, but only your Judge. Confess your
sins, if you will,--only to Almighty God. Shew contrition. And, by His
authority committed to me His minister, I will absolve."
Then the Devil entered into her. She incoherently spluttered "I have
no sins--if I had, I wouldn't tell You.--You reject me?--Oh I'll make
You regret it--I'll make You suffer as I have--I'll shew you up for
what You are----" She stiffened and rushed across to Jerry "Now do your
worst," she said; and her face was livid.
Sant gripped the lapels of his grotesque frock-coat and approached
the white figure which emerged from the central compartment of the
confessional.
"I should like to mak' an end of this matter," he said.
Hadrian led the way to the throne-room: the phonographs were set to
work; and the conference was resumed.
"Now," said Jerry, "I'm thinking that Your Right Reverence had better
let us know definitely fhat Ye intend to do."
The Pope spoke rather more slowly and with more singular mildness than
before. "You demand that We should pay you forty thousand pounds in
reparation for damage which, you say, We have caused."
"That's so."
"It is useless to point out to you that We did not ask you to waste
your time in Rome----"
"I should have been surprised if Ye had have."
"And that We did not force you, or induce you, to neglect your
business----"
"Nae! Ye never thought I'd have dared to face Ye as I have."
"And that We were in no wise concerned with your expulsion from the
Liblab Fellowship----"
"But Ye were! If Ye'd have had the civility to give the deputation a
satisfactory answer, or even to have satisfied the fellow-shippers
afterwards, or to have made it all right with me so as I could have
settled them, then there wouldn't have been all this trouble and
unpleasantness, my Lord."
"Some men are gifted with an abnormal capability for making the
greatest possible fools of themselves. For the credit of the human
race, it must be said that indecent exhibitions of this kind are rare.
Mr. Sant, does it not occur to you that you are engaging in a very
foolish and a very dirty business?"
"Dirty business Yersel'! Who're Ye talking to? Ma hands are as clean
as Yours any day. Who owes twenty pound notes to this lady I'm brought
with me?"
"We do not know."
"Imphm. Well, suppose I was to say it was Yersel'?"
"You would tell an officious lie, Mr. Sant." The Pope turned to the
woman. "Madam, do We owe you twenty pounds?"
"You owe me a great deal more than that:" she barked.
"Mr. Sant alludes to a specific sum of twenty pounds odd which was due
to this lady's deceased husband for books, newspapers, and stationery,
supplied some years ago when he kept a shop:" the Pope explained to
the cardinals, with a gesture to Talacryn. The Cardinal of Caerleon
extracted a slip from the portfolio; and read a receipt for the
amount named plus 5 per cent. interest. This document was dated the
thirty-first of the previous March. The Pope continued, "You know,
Madam, that We paid this bill the moment We were in a position to pay
it. You also know that payment was long delayed solely because you
yourself, by calumniating and libelling Us to Our employers and to
those who called themselves Our friends, prevented Us from earning more
than a bare sustenance----"
Jerry burst in, "Well, if Ye've paid her why shouldn't Ye pay me?"
"Because We do not owe you anything."
"Then Ye mean me ta pit some more about Ye in the papers?"
"Listen, Mr. Sant. We look upon you as a deeply injured man----"
"Hech! Now that's something like!"
"We look upon you as a deeply injured man, injured by himself. You have
been your own enemy. You have suffered loss and damage simply because
you have allowed yourself to persist in doing silly things and wicked
things. Now, is it useless to ask you to change all that? Will you turn
over a new leaf and begin your life again? You shall not be left alone.
You shall be helped."
"A want ma money."
"If you wish to do well for yourself, if you wish honestly to earn
a better living than you ever have earned, you shall have the
opportunity."
An appeal to a goodness which is not in him is, to a vain and sensitive
soul, a stinging insult. Jerry's face became wetter and redder. "And
fhat about damages for the past?" he barked.
"You shall have a chance for the future."
"Then Ye willna pay! Ye want me to shew Ye up in the papers again?"
"You may put what you please in the papers. We will not pay even a
farthing to prevent you, Mr. Sant,--not one farthing."
"Then I'm not to get anything?"
"At a threat? No. Nothing!" Defiance hurled denial at the brute.
"Fhat are we waiting here for, wumman?" Sant snarled at Mrs. Crowe.
"Here let's get out of this. He makes me fair sick with His holy
preaching!" At the door, he turned round, bragging boldly like a cock
beside his partlet; and waved his bowler hat, "E-e-e-h but A'll mak' Ye
squirm, Ye ... inseck!" he foamed.
Ragna was furious. "Holiness, why don't You shoot them at once? You are
Sovereign within these walls. Give order for their arrest before they
leave the palace, Holiness; and have them shot!"
"It is Our will that they be left to the common executioner," the
Pope disdainfully ordained, sitting very hieratically in his chair,
young, rigid, and terrific as the Flamen Virbialis. The audience had
been a fresh phase of agony to Him: He had tried to merge His humanity
in His apostolature, and had failed; and the failure was torment,
physical, poignant. He was indignant; and He was dangerous. Their
Eminencies inquiringly looked at Him. Leighton blinked; and thought it
a dreadful pity. Talacryn was for running out and trying to persuade
the blackmailers even at some cost,--anything was better than scandal,
he said. The Pope told him not to be a stupid fool with his infernal
hankerings after compromise. "Fancy paying for silence!" His Holiness
scornfully adjoined.
"No but Holy Father, I think if You were to leave them to me, I could
find some way of silencing them. Silence is what we want indeed,
whatever."
"Your Eminency is well skilled in the art of silencing people, bad and
good. It is by no means an honourable art; and you are prohibited from
practising it. We believed that you had ceased to practise it in 1899.
Were We in error?"
"No indeed no, indeed, Holiness. It was merely a suggestion of mine,
indeed," the cardinal burbled.
"Drop it then!" the Pontiff slammed at him.
"Indeed I do, Holiness, indeed I do, whatever."
"One would hardly have believed that such blatant wickedness could have
existed in the world," Sterling gravely meditated.
"Holy Father, it will all begin again," Leighton sadly sighed.
"Let it begin again!" Hadrian challenged, white-flaming, irate,
retiring to the secret chamber.
Their Eminencies went out through the other door. They were not at
all pleased with the Pope. In the first antechamber several cardinals
were congregated anxious for news, Orezzo and Courtleigh each in
a sedan-chair, Percy, Fiamma, della Volta, Semphill, Carvale, and
Whitehead. Ragna was of opinion that the charges ought publicly to be
answered, that is to say if they could be answered: but---- Could the
accusations satisfactorily be disposed of? No one put the question: but
the aroma of the idea of it was in the air.
"There was so much mystery about His Holiness:" Orezzo said.
"There always has been. He is a most incomprehensible creature,
indeed:" Talacryn pronounced.
"One might expect anything, everything of Him: the height and depth of
good and bad: extreme virtue, extreme vice: one almost could believe
Him to be capable of anything:" Sterling adjudicated.
"Oh yes, until you have heard Him explain," little Carvale put in. "Did
none of Your Eminencies ever watch Him in His talk? I have. Shall I
tell you the difference between our Holy Father and ourselves? We see
things from a single view-point. He sees things from several. We decide
that the thing is as we see it. But He has seen it otherwise, and He
presents it as a more or less complete coaction of its qualities. See
this sapphire. Well, you see the face of it: underneath, if I take it
off my finger, there are a number of facets to be seen and a number
more which are hidden by the gold of the setting. Now my meaning is
that our Holy Father has seen all the facets as well as the table of
the sapphire, or the thing. Consequently He knows a great deal more
about the sapphire, or the thing, than we do. You must have noted that
in Him. You must have noted how that every now and then, when He deigns
to explain, He makes mysteries appear most wonderfully lucid."
"But, if one might venture to ask, how often does He condescend to
explain--except to His cat?" Sterling interjected.
"I'm bound to admit that He opened my eyes considerably during that
fortnight we spent together in town just before His election,"
Courtleigh threw out of his chair. Ragna went to him and spoke of the
desirability of capital punishment.
"Well, anyhow, I believe in Him," Whitehead murmured.
"Yes:" Leighton energetically blinked. "You'll excuse me if I'm shoppy,
but I say with St. Anselm, 'Neque enim quæro intelligere ut credam:
sed credo ut intelligam. Nam et hoc credo quia nisi credidero non
intelligam.'"
The gong in the secret chamber loudly and suddenly sounded. The scarlet
limbs of Sir John and Sir Iulo darted towards it. Talacryn was shaking
an unwilling dubious head. Van Kristen gave him a tall look of disgust.
"Well, I guess Your Eminency will feel pretty small some day if you
don't believe in Him too. There are no flies on Hadrian:" and he
stalked away with the dignity of a grand boy honourably enraged.
"No no, Percy," said Talacryn, running after him. "Of course I believe
in Him: but just for that reason I don't want Him to defend Himself. I
want to keep Him quiet. I think it unwise to rake up the past. There
would be so many frightful scandals, whatever."
"Have you told Him that?"
"Have I not indeed."
"And what did He say?"
Talacryn once more shook his head.
"Well then I advise Your Eminency to go 'way back and sit down,' as we
say in the States."
Newspaper tirades did begin again. The previous attacks on the
Pope almost were forgotten, (horribly pungently palate-tickling
though they were,) at a time when men's minds were filled with wars
and rumours of wars. But the Fleet Street fishers, who knew their
business, were aware that the public appetite is capricious and must
be tempted with a variety of bait. Even wars and rumours of wars are
apt to pall. One must not cry "Wolf" too often. Tired of Black-gnats,
trout must be tried with May-flies: for newspapers must be sold,
or the soap-and-cocoa people will quake; and newspapers will not
sell unless their news are new. So, when the editor of the _Daily
Anagraph_ received a couple of letters from Jerry Sant and Mrs. Crowe,
proffering certain tasty information, and asking for an offer for
same, he consulted his proprietors. The subject certainly was not
entirely novel: but what had gone before merely had been so to speak
an appetizer. This was the strong meat, the pièce de résistance in the
banquet of garbage. Sant was in possession of exclusive information.
The publication of it would mean a boom for the paper. Editors cannot
afford to be curious about the morals of their contributors, or
indeed of anything bar the quality of their contributions. Neither
proprietors nor editor were actuated by any sort of malice, personal or
professional, in defaming the Pope. Their motive was merely commercial.
Therefore, they offered £4,000 a-piece to Sant and his accomplice; and
they invested a similar sum in amateur investigations. At intervals
during the next few weeks, the _Daily Anagraph_ published articles
reflecting on the character of God's Vicegerent; and two columns daily
were set apart for anonymous ex-parte statements concerning His career.
Oh, it all began again! The points insisted on were that He was, and
never had been anything but, a lazy luxurious (the second intention
was "debauched") jesuitical machiavellian and false-pretentious
ignoramus.--Oh it all indubitably began again. Mediocrities, entrusted
with power over their fellow-creatures, invariably develop into
tyrants. All history proves it: the tyranny of the clergy was bad
enough: but it was as nothing in comparison with the sordid tyranny of
the Press which we now complacently tolerate.
Calumny culminated with a concoction of the calvous Crowe's. It
was admitted that the high-water mark was reached. Hitherto, the
very virulence of the assaults had engendered a certain amount of
unexpressed sympathy among stock-brokers, naval, Varsity, and other
thoughtful men. "Our Representative" had called at Archbishop's
House, had interviewed Monsignor this and Monsignor Canon that,
inviting the candid expression of opinion on the subject of Pontifical
Infallibility, as viewed in the fight of recent journalistic enterprize
and research. The distinction between infallibility and impeccability
had been impressed upon "Our Representative": but that was all. No
defence was offered either by the Pope or by His poor benighted
papists. Then, by slow degrees, the elect, the intelligent, began to
persuade themselves that, after all, the early misdemeanours of George
Arthur Rose, if they were as stated, were altogether apart from the
pontifical acts of Hadrian the Seventh. The latter distinctly were
admired throughout the world: the former--well, they were a pity. So,
public opinion was. And then came Mrs. Crowe. She had a song to sing
(oh!) of secret debauchery on the part of Hadrian the Seventh. She
was concise in the matter of names and dates and places. She alleged
that, at dusk on a certain evening in September, the 29th, she herself
had seen the Pope, disguised in black like an ordinary priest, taking
tea--He Who never ate in public--with two nameless women (far too
beautiful to be respectable in her opinion) in a house on Via Morino.
She was in the street. His so-called Holiness and His female companions
were by the lighted window. Presently the blinds were closed; and she
knew not what went on behind them. She watched the house for an hour
and a half; and then the Pope came out muffling His face, (a thing He
never at any other time had been known to do, but necessary on this
occasion to complete His disguise). He walked away; and she followed
Him: saw Him stop at the Attendolo Palace, and (finally) enter the
Vatican saluted by the guards at the bronze gates. She related the
incident with such particularity and in such a manner, that a great
many people fancied that they thoroughly understood. In a sort of way
the good lady did more than most people have done towards effecting
the Reunion of Christendom: for _The Cliff_ deliriously discursed
(from Revelations) of a great red dragon and seven heads and ten horns
and seven crowns upon his heads, and of a beast rising out of the sea
and seven heads and ten horns and ten crowns on his horns; and _The
Catholic Hour_ simultaneously washed its hands in innocency advertizing
unctuous rectitude in a leading article entitled "The Third Borgia."