While the dwarves were diverting themselves as aforesaid, their rulers
were in council together. And one day Sir Francis Bertram found no
closed doors at the Vatican. He was granted an audience which was
friendly and unofficial and secret: so secret in fact that no news of
it "transpired." It was treated as the return visit of an Englishman
to an Englishman. He came in an electric brougham, quite unattended.
No one noted that he brought a small dispatch-box with him: or that he
did not carry it away with him: but some of the senior cardinals, who
kindly came to discuss the latest effusions of the _Daily Anagraph_
with Hadrian in the evening, found His Holiness brimful of gaiety.
They remarked that the visit of the ambassador had done Him no end of
good. His bearing was vivid, serene, and youthful: His conversation
was witty, limpid, facile: no one would have taken Him for the person
described in the newspapers. He read those which obligingly were handed
to him: but shewed no emotion whatever, although very eager expert eyes
searched for some trace from which to lead theories and hypotheses. Nor
did He utter any comment. He read: He laid down the paper; and resumed
the conversation. Before Their Eminencies withdrew, He summoned the
Sacred Consistory to meet at noon on the morrow; and that was the only
noteworthy event of the evening.
Hadrian mounted the throne; and the vermilion college displayed itself
before Him. A pigskin kit-bag, which a gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber
had placed by the pontifical footstool before the doors were locked,
did not escape the notice of the more observant. The Pontiff Himself
was in singularly good form: and this was incomprehensible, for He
carried in His hand a copy of the very newspaper which everyone had
read and retched-over. That He should be so aggressively cheerful,
so vividly dominant, with that in His hand, was considered hardly
decorous. Even among those who firmly were determined to force
themselves to believe in Him, that He should not bend His neck to the
smiter now, did not tally at all with conceptions of propriety. With
these sentiments, Their Eminencies composed themselves to listen.
After the formal opening of the session, a Consistorial Advocate (in
garments of a violet colour and furred with ermine about the neck) was
commanded to read aloud, from the _Daily Anagraph_, the account of the
Pope's visit in disguise to the house on Via Morino. He was to read
it, first, in English, then, in Latin. It was not a long lection: for
journalistic instinct had perceived that the facts stated would be more
damnatory in their nakedness. With that inscrutable incomprehensible
vivid gleam of hilarity irradiating His face, Hadrian checked the
Consistorial Advocate from time to time, preventing him from drifting
into the monotonous gabble, which is used for the formal reading of
documents whose contents already are known informally; and, if His
object was to cause each deadly detail of the charge against Himself
to come out clearly, with all the contours definite and all the
tints brilliantly varnished, it must be admitted that His method was
pontifically successful.
"Ebbene dunque?" muttered Cardinal Ragna.
Hadrian darted a word at the Cardinal-Prefect-of-Propaganda: "Will
Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred College,
your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St. Michael
Archangel?"
The naming of the festival of Michaelmas was like a touch on the latch
of the Red Pope's memory. His pure and gentle face lighted up: for
he perceived the connotation; and that inspired him with a joy so
delectable that he paused to pick his words, tasting them deliberately,
lingering over them. "After siesta on the festival of St. Michael
Archangel,--and that would be about 15-1/2 hours of the clock, not
later,--I came to Vatican and was received by Your Holiness. I was
admitted to the secret chamber. I sat opposite to Your Holiness, by the
window. I remember that, for a reason. I spoke to Your Holiness on the
subject of removing England from the control of Propaganda. I said that
I had pondered Your Holiness's proposition. I said that it appeared to
me, as it already had appeared to Your Holiness, that the necessity for
treating England as a barbarous uncivilized savage country, in which
the Faith is preached by missionaries, no longer existed. I added my
own opinion, that to continue to treat England as a savage uncivilized
barbarous country, now, amounted to perennial insult. I received Your
Holiness's thanks. I am giving only the heads of this conversation,
which was prolonged until the seventeenth hour. Then, the pontifical
pages brought in a tray containing fruit and triscuits and some English
tea. I told Your Holiness that tea astringed my nerves, remarking on
the difference between English nerves and Italian. I was permitted to
make a few jokes. In the midst of these very diverting burlesques, I
ate a little fruit--perhaps a fig and a half--and I drank a little
wine of Cinthyanum. Afterwards, I proceeded to discuss another case
with Your Holiness. That case was the removal, from the spiritual rule
of Propaganda, of the other countries which are under the secular
rule of the Excellent King of England. It was a complication; and the
discussion of it occupied some hours. I said, in sum, that sufficient
information as to the nature and character and national history
of the natives of those countries, especially Scotland, Ireland,
and Wales, officially had not been laid before me. I requested Your
Holiness to afford me longer time for the collection of information and
investigation of the subject. I permitted myself to note that, while
we were talking, Your Holiness made and smoked nineteen cigarettes. I
remember that, when at length I rose to pay my respects, Your Holiness
drew me nearer to the window by which we had been sitting; and deigned
to indicate the image of St. Michael Archangel which poises itself on
the summit of the Mola. The metal of which the said image is formed
appeared to be burnished, owing to radiance from the lights of the
City. I said that it resembled an angelic apparition in the obscure sky
of night. I remember that Your Holiness said 'May the Prince, of the
angels who do service in heaven, succour and defend us on earth.' I
responded 'Amen.' Your Holiness added some words in the Greek tongue,
which You deigned to explain as signifying 'O god of the golden helm,
look upon, look upon the City which thou once didst hold well-beloved.'
To that prayer, I also responded 'Amen.' And I was permitted to retire
at the same moment when the pages were bringing in Your Holiness's
supper, which was at 20-1/2 hours of the clock."
Cardinal Gentilotto sat down; and the eyes of the Sacred College
twinkled like talc. The Pope, Who had receded to His more usual distant
reticent gravity, gave them a silent moment for appreciation; and then
darted a verisimilar word to Cardinal della Volta.
"Will Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred
College, your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St.
Michael Archangel."
The ex-major-domo of the apostolic palace hemmed;--and prayed
for permission to send for his diary. Then he bravely proceeded.
"M-ym-ym-ym: Twenty-ninth September. At 15 o'clock, I drove by the
Fort of Monte Mario to the Milvian Bridge: and walked a little in the
fields. The sky was cloudy. Afterwards I drove by Via Flaminia and
Pincio to Countess Demochede's villino; and sent away my carriage. I
obtained news of the German Emperor. Her Excellency's daughter the
Princess Neri was there. Tea and very agreeable conversation. The
Princess expatiated on the virtues of pedestrianism. She and her
beautiful mother derided me when I said that I was about to walk to
Vatican. I went to Palazzo Attendolo to inquire for Don Umberto. He
had bought a new horse, a strawberry-roan, and was gone to Cinthyanum
to try him. That young man always is buying horses--m-ym-ym.
Returned to Vatican at 19 o'clock. Said Mattins and Lauds. Wrote
to--m-ym-ym,--wrote four letters, Holiness. Supper, capretto ai ferri
and zuppa inglese. Gave my news of the German Emperor to our Most Holy
Lord. Read Chap. IX., 1, of Matthew Arnold's _Literature and Dogma_
with Δ. Semphill. Conversed with that deacon about it till bed-time.
He says that it is not a book to fear. In my opinion it is a wonderful
book but shocking, and likely to cause misunderstanding except among
the English: but it is not damnable, though many will think so. Sancte
Francisce, ora pro me."
He was about to sit-down; and the College was about to open
twenty-three mouths: but Hadrian with the left hand signed him to
approach the throne, and with the right simultaneously beckoned a
master-of-ceremonies in a red habit and a violet cloak.
Cardinal Berstein interpolated with a recondite sneer, "The phenomenon
of bi-location, as exemplified in the case of St. Philip Neri, is
well-known. But this is not the case of a saint."
Hadrian wiped the floor with the sneerer. "Nor was the case of Samian
Pythagoras, divine, golden-thighed, (if Your Eminency ever heard of
him), the case of a saint. Yet, inasmuch as Pythagoras was heard to
lecture at Metapontion and Tayromenion on the same day and at the same
hour, he would appear to have been an exemplification of the phenomenon
of bi-location. However, this is neither the case of a saint, as you so
acutely have observed: nor a case of bi-location, as you so hilariously
would pretend." He flung the retort at the cardinal with such force
that Berstein sought his seat with not innocuous concussion.
"Lord Cardinals, the voice of the snake and the voice of the goose are
one and the same. They both hiss:" the Pope added before moving again.
A feeling that His Holiness was dynamic, picric, dangerous, pervaded
the assembly. Each most eminent lord wondered who would be the next
victim of that quiet shrill velvet claw which tore the brain. The
Pontiff bent His head to the master-of-ceremonies, signifying that he
should remove the mitre. Also He unclasped the morse of His cope; and
addressed Cardinal della Volta.
"Can Your Eminency remember what habit you wore during the afternoon
and evening of the twenty-ninth of September?"
"Yes, Holy Father, I wore the plain habit which we commonly wear."
"Like this?" Hadrian stooped and opened the kit-bag; and drew from it
a black cassock with red buttons, a red sash, and a black cloth cloak,
and a black three-cornered beaver-hat with thin red cord and tassels.
"But yes: precisely like that."
"Would Your Eminency do Us the extreme favour of putting on these
garments now?"
Della Volta smiled: but he made the change, and stood on the
throne-steps pulling out the folds, stretching his arms in the new
sleeves. The Pope took another and a similar suit from the kit-bag; and
changed His Own white for black. Then He descended to the cardinal's
side; and faced the college. They were as like each other as two
blots of ink. And the college roared. Of course, everyone instantly
remembered Courtleigh's allegation that della Volta was the Pope's
Double: but no one until now had seen the two side by side and garbed
alike. And the college roared--roared chiefly with delight at dismissal
of tragedy by comedy.
The Pope and the Cardinal resumed their proper habits; and Hadrian
again enthroned Himself. His aspect had become very cold, very hard. He
spoke a few words in the dry incisive tone which slapped like sleet,
from the far distance of His misanthropic soul snatched away to that
remote place shared with wounded beasts who creep to die alone. He
began swiftly; and intensified the value of His words by the gradual
monotonous deceleration which marked their close. "Lord Cardinals,"
He said, "know that, if We desire to intrigue, Our experience of the
extreme stupidity of intriguers has taught Us to avoid their pitifully
trite folly. Know also that intrigues, disguises, tricks, artifices,
stratagems, and deceptions, are repugnant to Us. And finally know
this, that We never will derogate Our pontifical paraphernalia or
authority to another." After a moment, He changed His manner; and in
a formal tone announced that the Congress of Windsor had invited the
intervention of the Roman Pontiff as Supreme Arbitrator. It was the
appeal of Cæsar to Peter. He made known the contents of the dispatch,
which Sir Francis Bertram had brought; and read the names of sovereign
and presidential signatories. And, without waiting for comment, He
uttered the ceremonial form which closed the Consistory; and was borne
away.
Acclamations followed Him. Vermilion tumbled over ermine in an effort
to get at Him. What a number of things everybody urgently desired to
know! What was He going to do? Would He not take this magnificent
opportunity of reclaiming Peter's Patrimony? He could not be denied it
now. That was Ragna's notion. The two Vagellaii agreed with it: Italy
could be compensated by the cession of Italia Irredenta, said Serafino.
Little minds expatiated on an infinity of little things. Then, some
began about the calumnies. What was He going to do about them? Oh, for
certain He had disproved the charge made against Hadrian the Seventh;
and most likely he could disprove the others. "Could He?" Berstein
cynically guffawed. Well, was He going to publish this disproval?
"Who knows?" asked Fiamma. The English and American cardinals
energetically asseverated that, for their part, they neither were going
to consult His Holiness on the subject, nor to consider themselves
bound to secrecy in regard to the refutation which they had heard and
witnessed. It was Carvale who hurriedly collected and expressed the
opinions of his colleagues. "What d'ye mean?" neighed the long faced
Capuchin. "I'll tell you what we mean" said Semphill. "With the help
of my friends here, we'll have an authentic copy of the acts of this
consistory sent to every newspaper on earth." "And, you can bet, right
now!" Van Kristen cried. The Cardinal-Archdeacon and nine Italians
vociferated approval of the scheme. Talacryn trumpeted with the others,
gambolling gaily along. Then he put down an elephantine foot--he was
not quite sure that it was advisable: down at the back of his heart he
felt the old distrust of Hadrian--he did not want to be involved by
seeming to support--His Holiness was a most difficult man to get rid
of, if one wanted to get rid of Him, whatever. But, still, the Cardinal
of Caerleon trampled along with the others. Their Eminencies surged
upstairs, chattering like a tygendis of magpies; and flowed along
galleries, screeching like a muster of peacocks, until they reached
the approach to the pontifical antechambers. The approach was closed,
guarded by skewbald harlequins of Swiss with halberds. Before it stood
the two gentlemen-of-the-apostolic-chamber, who formally responded to
inquiry, "Our Most Holy Lord is in secret."
They had to make what they could of that. Those with sense went about
their business without ado. Some, however, lingered to resent rebuff:
or in the hope of obtaining quasi-accidental admission by bribery.
Ragna panted up to four thousand lire in Sir John's ear; and departed
cursing. The door was barred by "Our Most Holy Lord is in secret."
In secret Hadrian was kneeling upright in His chapel. "God, I am very
worldly. I have enjoyed the triumph." That was the confession which
He made, not precisely with sorrow but, with a consuming contempt for
Himself. He had done such an ordinary deed: He despised Himself for
doing it. He remained in contemplation of His disgusting humanity for
some time.
By degrees, His mind detached itself from that; and attached itself
to the next subject which He had prepared. He went into His workshop:
covered the chairs around His armchair with sheets of ms. notes: drew
the writing-board on His knees: laid out blank paper: rolled and
lighted a cigarette; and began to read and amend His notes. From time
to time, He sat back in His chair, gazing out of the window at nothing,
working at problems in His brain. Now and then, He scribbled a note, a
word, a phrase, a sentence.
At length He began to cover sheet after sheet. He wrote for hours
and hours together, day after day: burning most of what He wrote,
amending more, rewriting much. Anon, an acrid torpor astringed
and benumbed His right arm from elbow to finger-tip, announcing
the advent of scrivener's palsy. It was evening, about two hours
after the Angelus. He put-down His pen; and summoned the first
gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber. Sir John sat in front of Him:
rolled-up the sleeve; and gave the arm and hand a gentle friction.
Hadrian silently watched his busy hands. They were beautiful hands,
very white, very slim, very soft,--yes, singularly soft and soothing.
Yet they were strong hands, firm and lissome. They did not tire with
that continued searching movement, moulding and defining tired muscles
and aching sinews, working the fatigue and ache gradually downward to
dismissal at the finger-tips. Also the bent head was a good head, small
and round, covered with close-cropped hair, black-purple, hyacinthine.
And the healthy pallor of the face, the delicately cloven chin, the
extremely fine grey eyes, the vigorous form, the exquisitely chaste and
intelligent aspect--fancy expecting such an one to roll pills and fill
capsules for ever in a chymist's shop! No: he was better as he was.
"John," the Pope inquired, "how do you get on with Macleod?"
"Oh, very well. I think I like him very much."
"Is he comfortable?"
"Oh I think so. He seems so at any rate."
"Has he got anything to say for himself?"
"Oh yes:--now. He was a bit frightened at first: but he's got over that
now."
"To whom does he talk most freely?"
"Oh to me. Not but what he has plenty to say to Iulo too. But he'll
tell me anything."
"What do you mean by 'anything'?"
"Oh everything about himself."
"John, look-up into these eyes a moment." The shy grey eyes readily
soared into the shy brown eyes.
"How much has he told you about himself?"
"Oh everything: that's all."
"Everything?"
A fine flush tinged the fresh ivory face with coral: but the grey eyes
did not waver. "Oh yes, everything."
"Can he sing?"
"Oh no, not a note--thank Heaven."
Hadrian withdrew His gaze. "And you think you like him very much?"
"Oh yes,--I don't think: I know. I'm so awfully sorry for him."
"And pity is akin to----"
"Oh but it's not pity and it's not love. It's something else
altogether. It makes me in such a rage. I don't think I can make You
understand, that's all."
"Try."
"Oh well--do You remember Max Alvary?"
"The singer-man? Yes. Why?"
"Oh, don't You know what I said when I saw him in 'Siegfried.' You see,
first I saw the splendour of his beauty; and then, when it came to the
'Idyll,' I got into a rage and I said 'and that voice too.'"
"What did you mean?"
"Oh it seemed so abominably unrighteous--all that beauty, and all that
voice as well. That he should have two gifts;--and that others,--I, for
instance,--should have not one!"
"What has this to do with Macleod?"
"Oh, a lot, in a topsyturvy kind of way. Look what a fine chap he is
to look at,--just like that lovely Figure on Your cross. And he's
clever too. Well, You'd think him fortunate enough, wouldn't You? Then
comes Fate and spoils him--spoils him completely. That's what makes me
furious. To have to class him with Mustafa. I wonder he doesn't kill
himself."
"Go gently with that wrist, please. Have you told him that?"
"Oh no, I should hope not. Sorry. I want to do everything in the world
to keep him from knowing what I think--to keep him from hitting on that
line of thought by accident, by himself, even. It would drive the poor
chap mad: that's all."
"John you're a brick. Now listen to this. Thoughts you know, are
things. If you think such thoughts, they'll be in the air about you;
and it's as likely as not that Macleod's senses will perceive them. So
you'd better extirpate them hic et nunc--if you like him and want to
help him."
"Oh do You think so? Well, I will then: because I really do want to
help him."
"Good. And now what's to be done with him?"
"Oh but why should anything be done with him? He's very happy here."
"Thanks to your goodness, John. Silence! But first of all We must give
him a reason for being here: and then We must remember that 'here
we have no continuing city.' Now listen attentively. When you have
finished that hand, you will go to the Secretary of State, and tell His
Eminency to issue a patent to Mr. Macleod as third gentleman of the
chamber--emolument half yours--no knighthood. Will that do?"
"Oh finely!"
"Good. Well now let's go back a bit. Suppose Macleod wasn't here.
Where, in your opinion, would he be best?"
"Oh I hardly know what to say to that."
"You know your Meredith? Well then, favour Us with the outline of your
ideas. Pour them out pell-mell, intelligibly or not, no matter. We
undertake to catch hold of something."
"Oh well, I think he'd do well in a garden. He's quite learned about
flowers; and, if You ever saw him handle one, You'd wonder however a
chap with a chest and arms like a blacksmith, as his are, could be so
tender. There's a lot more force and there's a lot more gentleness in
him than You'd think. Same with trees. He looks at them as we look
at other chaps--just as though he could speak to them and make them
understand him if he wanted to. He'd do well at anything out of doors,
farming perhaps. I did think at first of the sea----"
"Because of his wonderful eyes?"
"Oh yes I suppose that was the reason. Did ever You see such a blue,
a blue that makes you want to strip and dive,--just the eyes for a
sailor, aren't they? That's simply my romance though. But I haven't
talked to him much about the sea. Do You know what I should like to
do? I should like to go a long sea-voyage with him in one of those old
sailing-ships, and take the Pliny and the Sophokles which You gave me,
and a lexicon, and a dictionary, and read them with him, right away
from--of course I don't mean what You think I mean."
"No: of course you don't. And then, when you come back from your long
sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you think that Macleod could be useful
and happy on a flower-farm, with orchards, and all that sort of rot,
while you could sit in the shade of medlar-trees and rose-bushes, and
look after him so that no one should insult him, and read books, (write
them too perhaps,) and dream dreams, (and certainly write those,) and
live happily in a dear old-fashioned farm-house ever after----"
"Oh You're laughing at me now!"
"Not at all." The bright brown eyes became grave. "John, what are you
going to do with yourself when Hadrian is dead?"
"Oh but You're not going to die----"
"How do you know? Answer the question."
"Oh I haven't thought about it. I don't want to think about it: that's
all."
"Nonsense. Think about it; and be done with it. John, when We are
dead, if you have a place like that, and means to work it, means to
move about and use yourself--will you use yourself? And will you take
Macleod and be a brother--not a real but the Ideal Brother to him?"
"Oh of course I would: but----"
"Will you promise?"
"Oh yes, I promise You most faithfully. But I hope to God I'll never
have the chance----"
"Well, no one knows when you will have the chance: but you shall have
it. Bring the pen here, and the writing-board." Hadrian pulled down
His sleeve, and stroked the cat for a minute or two, thoughtfully
looking-out of the window. Then He wrote, putting what He wrote into an
envelope which He gave to the shaking sprig of virtue who stood before
Him. "You will take this to Plowden, after you have been to Ragna.
You will obtain his formal acknowledgment. See that it is made out in
your name; and keep it secretly till the time comes for using it. On
Our death you will present it; and Plowden will pay you five thousand
pounds, and take your receipt for it. With that sum, you will buy, and
stock, such a place as We have described. As long as you and Macleod
live, Plowden will pay you a regular income, so that you never can come
to want, and always can have something to give away. Every quarter-day
he will pay a hundred pounds to you, and fifty to Macleod; and you
can make as much more as you like out of your farm. That, remember,
is yours; and you may do what you please with it. When you both die,
the capital which provides your incomes will return to the pontifical
treasury: so if you want to marry, and beget a family, and leave
something more than real property--the farm--behind you, you must earn
it. We give you a chance, and perfect freedom. Do you follow?"
"Oh I never shall forget a single word. Holy Father, I can't take it.
What have I done to deserve it? What could I ever do to deserve it?"
"Boy, you have done this to deserve it. You have wished to bear or to
share another's burden. You shall have your wish; and you shall have a
little reward here and a very great reward--There,--if you carry out
your wish. That's what you have done and what you can do. You are good,
and you are trusted. And that's all. Now go away at once because We
have a lot of writing yet to do."
"John," cried Hadrian, just before the door closed. "By the bye, you
had better tell Macleod of his appointment; and see about his uniforms
at once: but keep the other matter to yourself till--you know when.
Oh--and please make him understand that We shall call him 'James.' That
Gaelic 'Hamish' is a little too much. And he had better be Mr. James to
the others."
Outside the closed door, Sir John struck his own hands together. "And
the maddening thing is that there is nothing in the whole world that
I can do for Him. If I were to give Him a little present, like a
baccy-pouch, ten to one it wouldn't be precisely to His taste--anyhow
it 'ld only be like giving Him a calf of His Own cow. Oh damn! It's
like a wax match offering a light to the sun." He suddenly faced to the
door again; and his words came in the form of a solemn pledge. "Lord, I
promise." He remained entranced for several moments: and anon went on
his way with steadfast brow.