Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 4 (1/2)

IV

Now things went briskly. There was a brain which schemed and a will to be obeyed. The hands began to realize that they would have to act manually. Dear deliberate Rome simply gasped at a Pontiff Who said “Tomorrow” and meant it. The Sacred College found that it had no option. Naturally it looked as black as night. But the Cardinal-Archdeacon could not refuse point-blank to crown; and, when Hadrian announced that His incoronation would take place in the morning on the steps of St. Peter’s, futile effort suggested difficulty preventing possibility. That was the only course open to the opposition. Three cardinals in turn alleged that there would not be time to give notice of the ceremony, to arrange the church, to issue tickets of admission. Hadrian swept these ideas aside, as rubbish. Another courted catastrophe saying that there was no time to summon the proper officials. He heard that there were sixteen hours in which to summon those who actually were indispensable. A fifth said that, owing to the antichristian tendencies of the times, no representatives of the King of France, of the Holy Roman Emperor, of the First Conservator of the Roman people, were forthcoming; and he politely inquired how the quadruplex lavation could be performed in their absence? The Pope responded that He was capable of washing His hands four times without any assistance, in the absence of legitimate assistants: but the General of the Church was not to seek: the modern Syndic of Rome was the equivalent of the ancient First Conservator: the Austrian Ambassador could represent the Empire: while, as for wretched kingless unkingly France⁠—let someone instantly go out into the streets of Rome and catch the first Christian Frenchman there encountered. Anyhow, the quadruplex lavation was accidental. The essential was that the Supreme Pontiff should sing a pontifical mass at the high altar of St. Peter’s, and should receive the triple crown. These things would be done at eight o’clock on the following morning. All the doors of the basilica were to be fixed open at midnight; and so remain. No official notice need be published. And that was all. Then the Pope shut-up Himself in His predecessor’s gorgeous rooms, inspecting them till they gave him a pain in His eyes. Luckily He had secured his pouch-full of tobacco and a book of cigarette-papers: He smoked, and thought, looking out of the windows over Rome.

After sunset, He ate some cutlets and a salad: placed two chairs face to face near the right-hand window; and sent for the Bishop of Caerleon and a large jug of milk. His interior arrangements were as disreputably healthy as those of a schoolboy.

Dr. Talacryn came, and observed the forms. Hadrian sent him to clear the antechambers and to close the doors. He returned and remained standing. The Pope was sitting in one of the splendidly uncomfortable red chairs.

“We have sent for Your Lordship because We have occasion for your special services.”

“I am at all times very ready and willing to serve Your Holiness.”

Hadrian was attracted to this bishop. Lots of his acts He loathed: but He liked the man, and believed him honest. The bishop was attracted to the Pope. He liked Him: but he could not understand Him, and was a little frightened of Him: but still⁠—it was as well to know all that could be known and that might be useful.

“We placed this chair for Your Lordship,” said Hadrian.

Dr. Talacryn was astonished: but not more than much. His trained placid nature stood him in good stead at a mark of favour which would have abashed many, and rendered others presumptuous.

“I thank Your Holiness,” he simply said. It appeared that the ship was cleared for action.

The Pope continued in His usual concise monotone. He spoke in the key of E♭ minor, very quickly indeed, slurring the letter r, clipping some words and every final g, enunciating others with emphasis, in a manner curiously suggestive of fur and india-rubber and talons. As for His matter, He seemed to be arguing with Himself by the way in which He arrayed His ideas, disclosing His process of thought.

“We have very much to do, and We are confronted by the physical impossibility of carrying out Our schemes. We find Ourself surprisingly placed at the head of affairs. We believe that We should not have been placed there unless the service, which We are able to do, had been deemed desirable. Therefore We feel bound to act. But, though We know (or shall know) what to do, yet We cannot do it with this one pair of hands. We must have assistants with whom we can be intimate, and who themselves can be sympathetic. First of all, We wish to have Your Lordship.”

The bishop was quite honest enough to get a little rosier with pleasure.

“Very pleased, whatever,” he said.

“Next, We need information. Do you know the circumstances which led to Our election?”

“In the main they are known to me, Holiness. Indeed, I may say that they are generally known⁠—except to the Supreme Pontiff Himself,” the bishop added, with an episcopally roguish smile.

Hadrian enjoyed the point. “Please bear this dogma carefully and continually in mind:⁠—the Pope well-informed is wiser than the Pope ill-informed. Remember also that Hadrian at all times desires to know everything. At present He wishes to know what you know about His election. Briefly: the details can be given later.”

“Briefly, the Conclave found no Pope by the ordinary means; and committed the task to certain Cardinal-Compromissaries. These chose Your Holiness.”

“But why?”

“Cardinal Courtleigh⁠—”

“Was he a Compromissary? How many were there?”

“He was one of nine. The others were⁠—”

“Never mind their names for the moment. Now We take it that these nine cardinals are well-disposed toward Us?”

“Most assuredly, Holy Father.”

“Good! Nine! The names please?”

“Courtleigh, Grace⁠—”

“Archbishop of Baltimore. Yes?”

“Saviolli⁠—”

“What is he? He formerly was nuncio or something in America, was he not? Please give the status of each.”

“He was Archbishop of Lepanto and Pontifical Ablegate to the United States of America. Now he is one of the curia. Then came della Volta, formerly Majordomo, also of the curia: he, by the by, is Your Holiness’s Double, according to Cardinal Courtfield.”

“How delicious!” Hadrian vivaciously put in.

“Mundo, who led the Compromissaries, is Patriarch of Lisbon. Nefski is Archbishop of Prague, poor fellow⁠—”

“Why ‘poor fellow’?”

“Oh he was nearly killed by the anarchists.⁠—Well then, Ferraio is Archbishop of Milan: Gentilotto is Prefect-General of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and Fiamma is Archbishop of Bologna. The two last were candidates at first, but gave it up by consenting to become Compromissaries.”

“These, you say, are well-disposed to Us?”

“Yes, Holy Father.”

“A Celt: an American: a Portugal: five Italians: and a Pole.”

“No, a Bohemian, Holiness.”

“Oh?” Hadrian directed the bishop to a writing-table. “Now, whether this be in accordance with regulations or not, We neither know nor care. Please write”⁠—He sipped a glass of milk; and began to dictate⁠—“ ‘Hadrian VII⁠—Bishop⁠—Servant of the servants of God⁠—wills that you immediately shall come⁠—to Him⁠—in the Vatican Palace⁠—at Rome. Nothing⁠—except the gravest physical inability⁠—or your duty to your family⁠—if such there be⁠—is to impede you. All Catholics⁠—are to afford you⁠—the comfort⁠—conveyance⁠—and assistance⁠—of which you may stand in need.’ Please sign it with your own name and make five copies of it.”

The bishop, sighing for his typewriter, diligently wrote in an angular oblique almost illegible hand. Electric lights sprang up in the City. The Pope lighted candles, closed the curtains, and rolled a cigarette. Then He came and sat by the table, looking at the manuscripts⁠—considering the huge ring on His Own index-finger. Smiling to Himself, He took a taper and a stick of sealing-wax; and produced the Little-Peter-in-a-Boat at the foot of the six sheets.

“Address them,” He continued, “to the Reverend George Semphill, St. Gowff’s, North Britain:⁠—Reverend James Sterling, Oakheath, Stafford:⁠—Reverend George Leighton, Shorham, Sussex:⁠—Reverend Gerald Whitehead, Wilton, Warwick:⁠—Reverend Robert Carvale, Duntellin, Ayrshire:⁠—and⁠—yes, do you know that eighteen years ago he had the most exquisitely beautiful face and the most exquisitely beautiful soul and the most exquisitely horrible voice of any boy in the college⁠—address the sixth to Percy Van Kristen, 2023 Madison Avenue, New York.”

While Dr. Talacryn was closing the envelopes, the Pope Himself wrote on a sheet of paper which, also, He sealed:

Hadrianus P.M. VII dilectissimo filio Francisco Talacryni Caerleonis Episcopo.

Te in cardinalem Designamus et Approbamus: quod tamen sub silentio tenebis donec tempus idoneum aderit.

Datum Romae. Sub annulo Piscatoris. Anno pontificatus Nostri I, AD VIIII Kal. Mai.

“Now please come and kneel here,” He said.

The bishop looked an inquiry: but he came round the table, and kneeled before the Pope, Who addressed him in these words:⁠—

“Well-beloved son, Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, We appoint thee to, and confirm thee in, the cardinalature. But thou shalt not disclose the fact until the proper time.”

So saying, He lightly pinched-together the bishop’s lips, putting the breve into his hand.

“Silence,” the Pontiff continued. “Now will you yourself go to San Silvestro⁠—not to the post-office here⁠—and stamp and post those letters. One thing more. There will be no hitch tomorrow? Right. Then, after leaving San Silvestro, will you find Prince Pilastro and Prince Orso, and tell them⁠—We certainly shall have the support of these nine? Good.⁠—Well, quite informally let those princes (as Princes-Assistant at the Pontifical Throne) know of Our insuing incoronation. When you have named that to Prince Pilastro, say, also informally, that the Supreme Pontiff wishes the Syndic of Rome to know that, when He has received the crowns, He intends to go to Lateran to take possession of His episcopal see. No. There is to be no fuss. We will go as simply as possible and on foot. Will you always be quite near? We name you trainbearer; and will make your office a sinecure. God bless you. Da b’och a dibechod.”

Hadrian remained standing at the antechamber-door, watching the bishop’s big figure disappear along the corridor. He thought it a pity that a tendency to corpulency was not checked by healthy physical exercise. A detachment of the Swiss Guard stood armed and motionless at regular intervals. “For me,” was His plebeian thought. A small man appeared, bowing. He had a servile air. Hadrian’s second glance recognized him. “Is there an apartment on the top storey above this?” He inquired.

“But yes, Holiness, a large apartment of smaller rooms not having the altitude of these.”

“You will cause them to be emptied by noon tomorrow. Now you can go to bed. Please take care that no one comes inside this door until the morning.”

The Pope closed the door: and returned through the antechambers and the throne-room to the table where He had been working. He sat on the edge of the table for about an hour, swinging a leg, thinking, and sipping milk. Then He took a candle, and went into a dressing-room with huge oak clothespresses. Opening their doors, He looked for a cloak among piles and festoons of new clothes. There were several of crimson velvet. After vainly searching for something plain, He put on one of these and proceeded to the outer door, taking a breviary from the table on the way. Out in the corridor, He signed to the nearest guard. The black-red-yellow-and-steel figure came and kneeled.

“Do you know the way into St. Peter’s?” the Pope said.

“But yes, Most Holy Father.”

“Procure what keys are necessary and conduct Us thither, son.”

“But securely, Most Holy Father.”

The Swiss went on before. Hadrian followed, feeling annoyed by the salutes with which He was received along the way. He had been so long unnoted that notice irritated and abashed Him. Life would be unbearable if trumpets and quaint halberds greeted every movement. He had not the stolidity of born personages. Presently, He threw back His cloak and kept head and hand raised in a gesture which petrified. They passed through innumerable passages and descended stairs, emerging in a chapel where lights burned about a tabernacle of gilded bronze and lapis lazuli. Here He paused, while His escort unlocked the gates of the screen. Once through that, He sent-back the guard to his station: but He Himself went-on into the vast obscurity of the basilica. He walked very slowly: it was as though His eyes were wrapped in clear black velvet, so intense and so immense was the darkness. Then, very far away to the right, He saw as it were a coronal of dim stars glimmering⁠—on the floor, they seemed to be. He was in the mighty nave; and the stars were the ever-burning lamps surrounding the Confession. He slowly approached them. As He passed within them, He took one from its golden branch and descended the marble steps. Here, He spread the cloak on the floor; placed the lamp beside it: and fell to prayer. Outside, in the City and the World, men played, or worked, or sinned, or slept. Inside at the very tomb of the Apostle the Apostle prayed.

At midnight, bolts of great doors clanged, and fell. A cool air crept in. Subsacristans set up iron candlesticks, huge, antique, here and there upon the marmoreal pavement. The burning torch of each made a little oasis of light in the immeasurable gloom. From far away, a slim white form which carried a crimson cloak swiftly came, shedding benedictions on the startled beholders; and disappeared in the chapel of the Sacrament.

On returning to His apartment, Hadrian went straight to bed, invoking the souls in purgatory to awaken Him at six o’clock. He slept instantly and well.

At seven o’clock He had paid His debt with the De Profundis; and was dressed and waiting in the throne-room. Entered to Him a dozen cardinals, two by two. Opening their ranks, they disclosed the Cardinal-Prior-Priest solemnly ostending the image of a cock in silver-gilt. Hadrian stood on the steps of the throne, still, erect, vivid. He seemed so brimming over with restrained energy that He resembled a white flame. Not a sound was uttered. In silence they came; and they went away in silence. When the Pontiff was alone again, He strode and stopped in the middle of the floor.

“No, Lord, I never will deny Thee⁠—never!” He exclaimed with tremendous emphasis. “But keep me and teach me and govern me, that I may govern and teach and keep Thy Flock, O Thou Shepherd of the people.”

When the Bishop of Caerleon conveyed the extraordinary news to the Syndic of Rome, Prince Pilastro at once inquired what arrangements were made.

“No arrangements are made.”

“But look here,” said Marcantonio, who affected English brusqueness, “of course we are very happy that the Holy Father should come among us: but, you know, we are bound by our own guarantees to give Him all the honours of a sovereign-regnant. We shall be shamed in the eyes of Europe if we omit those. What I mean by that is this is a state-progress; and we shall have to turn out the troops, and stop the traffic and line the streets⁠—”

“I don’t think His Holiness expects you to do all that, Prince. I’m not speaking officially; and I’m not bringing you an official request for anything of the kind which you name. The Holy Father says He is going quite simply⁠—on foot, in fact.”

“Now I should just like to know what the devil (if Your Splendour will excuse the French) that means.”

“Perhaps His Holiness thinks that the movement of the sedia gestatoria, or of a litter, will make Him sick. It did with Leo, you know.”

“What’s the matter with a white mule?”

“I happen to know that He cannot ride.”

“Peuh! No sportsman, then! And yet He’s English?”

“Yes: but not the kind of sportsman you mean, Prince.”