Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 4 (2/2)

“Well: what does He want me to do?”

“Let’s say that I am sent to warn you of His intention, in order that you may arrest Him for disturbing the traffic, if you choose.”

“Of course we shan’t do that.”

“No: of course you won’t. That’s only my way of putting it. I think He really means to advise you beforehand, so that it can never be said that He played you a trick, took you unawares, stole a march on you, so to speak.”

“I see. Well, this is one of the amazing things which you English do as a matter of course. It’s either frantic madness, or⁠—Will His Holiness go in any sort of state?”

“I think not. You see time is short; and (between ourselves) I’m not at all sure that we’re all of one mind over there.”

“By rights, you know, I ought to walk with Orso, just before the ambassadors. Does Orso know about this walking business?”

“No. Only of the incoronation.”

“That means that there will be no formal procession. It is well. You see, as Pilastro, I walk with Orso in the Pope’s progress: while, as Syndic of Rome, I ought to walk at the head of the pontifical pages who precede His Blessedness. I can’t do both, can I? Well, I request Your Splendour to convey my respects to our Holy Father; and to say that Prince Pilastro will assist at the throne during the incoronation, and the Syndic of Rome will go before the Pope to Lateran.”

“You will not take the chance of coming to blows with Prince Orso on the question of precedence then?” joked the bishop.

“But no. During the incoronation I shall secure the right hand; and the Pope will be between us. Afterward, no question of precedence will arise, because Orso may or may not join in this promenade to Lateran; and in each case the Syndic will have the more honourable position. I may not be the rose: but at least I shall be near the Rose⁠—a great deal nearer than Orso,” punned the versatile Marcantonio.

At eight in the morning, Hadrian descended to St. Peter’s. Miscellaneous multitudes paved the spaces with tumultuous eyes. He came down in ruddy vesture, gleaming with rubies and garnets and carbuncles like a fire borne high above the crowd, slowly, deliberately, dropping benedictions. His English phlegm was much admired. They roared at Him, “Long live the Pope-King.” Instantly He stopped His bearers; and the very air of Him struck sudden silence. People stared, and forgot to shout: the wave of acclamation ebbed in the great nave and transepts. He moved onward, sitting erect, godlike, with a frozen mien prohibiting personal homage. Mitred and enthroned, He was the servant of those who would serve Him: that was the import of His demeanour. A child acolyth of the lowest rank held up before him a salver containing flax: set it on fire; and shrilled,

“Behold most Holy Father, how that the glory of this world passeth away.”

His features showed no emotion. He well knew all about that. He was accepting, even insisting on, the observance of all rites to consolidate Him in the Supreme Pontificature: not that He cared for them, but that He might be free to act. It was not the glory of the world which He craved: but the combat, the combat⁠—because one rests so much more sweetly after strife.

Slowly, and with all the unspeakable solemnity accumulated during centuries, the mass was sung. The Apostle elevated the Host to the four quarters of the globe. Cardinals ruffled like huge flamingoes round Him. He always was white and still. At the end, the Cardinal-Archpriest of St. Peter’s brought Him a damask purse containing twenty-five gold coins, honorarium for a mass well-sung. He bestowed it on della Volta and Sega, who had intoned the Gospel in Greek and Latin; and they passed it to their trainbearers. Down the nave, He went again toward the great porch. Out of the crowd a voice cried “Christus regnat.” As He sat enthroned amid the surging peoples, Macca crowned Him, saying,

“Receive this tiara adorned with three crowns, and know Thyself to be the Ruler of the World, the Father of Princes and Kings, the earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ our Saviour.”

Hadrian understood the formula in no metaphorical, but in the plain and literal, sense of the words. He neither minimised nor magnified their significance. He had an opportunity which was entirely grateful to Him. He was Ruler, Father, Vicar. And He was altogether unafraid. He stood up, and blessed the City and the World.

In the Xystine Chapel, they relieved Him of the pontifical regalia, and the voluminous far-flowing petticoat of white taffetas, which is so sumptuous to the eye of the beholden and so ridiculously cumbersome to the legs of the wearer; and He ate some apples while Orezzo, on behalf of the Sacred College, recited time-honoured compliments.

“Lord Cardinals,” said Hadrian, “We thank you for your service: and We invite those of you who are able and willing to attend Us, now, when We go to take possession of Our episcopal see.”

He moved towards the door. The short train of His cassock trailed behind Him, and the Bishop of Caerleon stooped to it.

Ragna had something to howl.

“Holiness, this is suicide for You and murder for us. The City is full of Jews and Freemasons; and we shall most assuredly be stabbed, or shot, or shattered to pieces with bombs, or drenched with vitriol⁠—”

“The Church wants a martyr badly. Your Eminency is invited, not commanded.”

Berstein muttered to Vivole, in a scandalized tone, that the Pope was courting popularity. Pepato, with a note of admiration, commented on the mad English. Word of the invitation rushed on ahead. Of the crowd of officials, many began to arrange themselves in a certain order: others had pressing calls elsewhere. Masters-of-ceremonies, wracking their brains for long forgotten details, flew hither and thither with instructions and pushes. Poor old Grani sat down in a recess; and wept to think that there was no time to get out the white gennets annually presented by the King of Spain. Hadrian came on slowly, chatting with Caerleon, giving people a chance of making up their minds. When He emerged from the colonnade in the Square of St. Peter’s, the Syndic of Rome fell into the ranks just before the Pope; and a royal escort of the Praetorian Guard surrounded Him. Hadrian stopped; and beckoned Prince Pilastro.

“Sir Syndic, are We free?” He mewed.

“But free, Holy Father.”

“Let your soldiers precede and not surround Us; and let no one come within ten paces of Us. We go by Via Giulia and Monte Celio.”

The squadron moved to the head of the line. The Pope took His train from the Bishop: threw it over His left arm: and came-on alone. Acting as though the ideal were real, He made it real. If Jews and Freemasons would slay Him, well and good: it was part of the day’s work, no doubt. He was by no means anxious to be martyred; and He sincerely hoped that, if it should come to Him, it would not be very painful or distorting. But, as it was His Own affair, a piece of the part He was fulfilling, He displayed Himself alone. Ten paces before Him went Prince Pilastro, looking back from time to time. Ten paces behind Him came the bishop, ruddy and strong in white and purple, wondering. The vermilion nine followed in a compact phalanx, very venerable and grand; and, after a great deal of bustle and noise, seventeen other cardinals added their magnificence. A motley of patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, prelates, and pontifical guards closed the rear.

A tremendous shout greeted Hadrian’s first appearance in the square. It was quite incoherent: for the real significance of the pageant was not immediately realized. No Pope had set His foot in Rome since 1870: but here undoubtedly was the Pope, with a gentle inflexible face⁠—a lonely white figure Whose left hand lay on the little cross on His breast, Whose right hand gravely scattered the same sign. This crowd was not the even human parallels which authority is wont to describe on streets when the Great go by. It was a concurrence from sideways coalescing with loafers and ordinary passersby, suddenly dipping its knees, gazing, panting, and emitting howls of delirious onomatopes. Cabs and carts swept to the side of the road; and the drivers kneeled on the boxes. Here and there, some dowdy alien said “What mockery” and patronizingly explained that the Salvation Army did these things much more properly. Here and there, some sour sorry incapable stood spitting in praise of secret societies. Here and there some godless worldling scoffed in an undertone. But Hadrian went-on, walking at that deceptive pace of His, which seemed so leisurely and was so swift. His movements resembled the running of a perfectly-geared machine: they had the smooth and forceful grace of the athlete whose muscles are supple and strong: even the occasional impulse had no jerkiness. It was the manner with which He disguised His natural timidity. He sometimes glanced from side to side. Once He smiled at a bare-legged rascalt of brown boys who kneeled by one of Bernini’s angels on the parapet of the bridge. He adored children, although He was so desperately afraid of them. Going up the hill by the Church of Sts. John and Paul, a little girl dabbed an indescribable rag on her head: rushed into the road, dashing primroses; and remained transfixed by her own audacity. He led her by the hand to her mother; and blessed them both. All His life long He had yearned to be giving. Now, under any circumstances, He always had something to give, ten words and a gesture; and people seemed so thankful for it. He was glad.

In the porch of the Mother and Mistress of All Churches in the City and the World, He sat on the low throne while canons made shift to intone, “He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dunghill; that He may set Him with the Princes, even with the princes of His people.” They gave Him gold and silver keys. They attended Him to the throne of precious marbles in the centre of the apse. They intoned Te Deum. Ascending to the lodge of benediction, He blessed the mobile vulgar in the Square of St. John; and anon returned in the way by which He came, Bishop of Rome in act and deed, and Supreme Pontiff.