Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 8 (1/2)

VIII

“The key to all your difficulties, present and to come, is Love.” Hadrian was at His old self-analytical games again; and the aphorism, which He had gleaned in the most memorable confession of His lifetime, suddenly came back to Him. He went over a lot of things once more. He was convinced that, so far, He did not even know what Love was. People seemed to like Him. Up to a point there were certain people whom He liked. But, Love⁠—He admitted to Himself that men mostly were quite unknown to Him. Perhaps that was His fault. Perhaps He could not get near enough to them to love them simply because He did not admit them to sufficient intimacy⁠—did not study them closely enough. That was a fault which could be mended. He summoned His fifteen cardinals to spend an hour with Him in the Vineyard of Leo. The day was a glorious Roman day of opening summer. The Pope desired to use Their Eminencies for the discussion of affairs, to sharpen His wits against theirs, to pick their brains in order to assist in the formation of His Own opinions.

Gentilotto gently remarked that, if His Holiness would state a case, they would do their best to help Him. He designated the renunciation of the temporal power; and struck them dumb. Of course, in most of their own minds, they disapproved of it. It had shocked them. One and all of them had been brought up in the fatuous notion that the success of the Church was to be gauged by the extent of Her temporalities. An idea of that species, especially when it is inherited, is not dug-up by the roots and tossed-out in a moment, even by a Pontifical Bull. Hadrian understood that His supporters (as well as His opponents) disliked that audacity of His.

“Holiness, we don’t presume to condemn it: but we don’t praise it. Yet You must have had reasons?” Fiamma at length said.

The Pope had not His reasons ready on the surface: they were fundamental. And the temper of Him used to lead Him to disguise the sacrosanct with a veil of frivolity: that is to say, when His arcana seemed likely to be violated, He was wont to divert attention by some gay paradox or witticism. A little roguish glimmer lit His thin lips; and a suspicion of a merry little twinkle came in the corners of His half-shut eyes.

“Once upon a time We used to know a certain writer of amatory novels. The sentimental balderdash, which he put into the mouths of his marionettes (he only had one set of them), influenced Us greatly. He had a living to get. He thought He could get it by recommending the Temporal Power. He was a very clever worldly Catholic indeed: but the arguments, which he produced in so vital a matter as the earning of his living, were so sterile and so curatical, that We summed up the Temporal Power as negligible. Then there was the disgracefully spiteful tone of the Catholic newspapers⁠—gloating over the misfortunes of hardworking well-meaning people, prophesying revolution and national bankruptcy for this dear Italy, and so on. Well: Our sympathy naturally went, not to the malignant but, to the maligned. Oh yes, We had reasons.”

“That is enough. One’s hands obey one’s head,” said Sterling.

“For my part, I think that if the temporal Power is worth having it is worth fighting-for. Lord Ralph Kerrison, who’s a British general, once told me that, if the Pope cares to call-upon Catholics throughout the world and order military operations, he is quite ready to throw-up his commission tomorrow and enlist in the pontifical army,” Semphill asserted.

“No?” Mundo with big eyes inquired.

“Fact: I assure you,” Semphill asservated.

“But is it worth fighting-for?”

“Of course, Holy Father, the possession would confer a certain status,” put in Saviolli.

The Pope smiled. “ ‘Certain’⁠—and ‘status’? Oh really!”

Talacryn was annoyed. He considered the query too sarcastic.

“His Holiness perhaps leans upon the theory that the Church never was more powerful than She is now,” della Volta ventured.

“I calculate that’s fact, not theory!” exclaimed Grace.

“Well then?”

“I see. In these thirty-odd years without the Temporal Power, the Church has increased in power. It might be argued on that that Temporal Power is not essential.”

“Prosecute that argument, and⁠—”

“Has anyone a theory as to what precisely is the chief obstacle in Our way here in Italy?” the Pope interpolated.

“The secret societies.”

“Atheism.”

“Poverty.”

“Socialism.”

“Corrupt politicians.”

“What do we newcomers know of Italy?” asked Whitehead of Leighton, who had made the last remark.

“The newspapers say⁠—”

“The newspapers!” Carvale ejaculated. “Don’t we know how the newspapers are written? Has no one of us ever contributed a paragraph? Well then⁠—”

“Please view the question from this standpoint. On the one side, you have the Paparchy and the Kingdom, Church and State, Soul and Body. On the other, you have the enemies of those. What is necessary?”

“The destruction of the enemies.”

“Or the conversion of them into friends. But how?”

“How shall two walk together unless they be agreed?” the Pope inquired.

“The Paparchy and the Kingdom are not agreed,” said Courtleigh.

“Your Holiness means that they should be agreed: that they should unite forces?” Ferraio asked.

“It is Our will and Our hope to be reconciled with the King of Italy.”

“But is His Majesty willing?”

“We know not: but We have shown that We will not block the way.”

“Certainly the Pope and the King together would have almost unbounded influence for good,” Ferraio reflected.

“Then Your Holiness does not think the Temporal Power to be worth fighting-for?” Sterling concluded.

Hadrian’s eyes no longer were half-shut. “No,” He answered. “Try, Venerable Fathers, to believe that the time has come for stripping. We have added and added; and yet we have not converted the world. Ask yourselves whether we really are as successful as we ought to be: or whether, on the whole, we really are not abject and lamentable failures. If we are the latter, then let us try the other road, the road of simplicity, of apostolic simplicity. At least let us try. It’s an idea; and for Our Own part We are glad to have a chance of realizing it, the idea of simplicity, going to the root of the matter.”

“Your Holiness is not afraid of going too far?” inquired Talacryn.

“William Blake says that truth lies in extremes. To the humdrum champion of the so-called golden mean, (which generally is a great deal more mean than golden), that maxim is nothing less than scandalous. All the same, it is as sound as a bell, Eminency, and nowhere does it ring more soundly than in the principle of the union of Church with State.”

As they were going in to dinner, Mundo whispered to Fiamma “Have we a saint or a madman for a Pope?”

“Two-thirds of the one and one-third of the other,” replied the radiant Archbishop of Bologna.

After one of the receptions of English pilgrims, Hadrian privately received an unusual visitor in the last antechamber. She was brought in by a gentleman, who remained outside one of the doors during the interview, while his fellow guarded the outside of the other. It was as secret an audience as ever has been deigned to a sovereign; and it was accorded to a woman of the lower-middle class, about sixty years old, who looked like an excessively worthy cook. She flopped on her knees when the Pontiff came to her: mentioned her joints when assisted to rise; and made bones about using the chair which He placed for her. Hadrian’s manner was absolutely divested of pontificality. No one would have taken him for anything but a plain Englishman, perhaps of a slightly superior type, and perhaps rather oddly attired. He spoke kindly and easily; and gradually brought His guest from a glaring twitching state of terror and obsequious joy to her honest ordinary self.

“Ee‑e‑h,” she burbled, “but I can never tell Your ’oly Majesty what I felt when I knew that You was going to let me come and see You. Oh thank You and God bless You, Sir. And I always knew You’d come to it. And, O ’oly Father, ain’t You very ’appy to think of all the good You’re doing? Just fancy that ever I should say that to Your ’igh ’oliness and me sitting on one of your own chairs. God bless You Mr. Rose, Sir, as if You was my own boy. Well now, I knew in a minute who it was that sent it me. Why ’oly Father? Why because Your ’oly ’ighness named that very amount years ago as what You’d give me if You was paid properly. Yes ’oly Father: I’ve done what You wished me. I got it cheaper than we thought because it’s been empty so long. Thirteen ’undred pound cash on the nail for the ’ouse: a ’undred for doing it up: four ’undred and two for furniture and things: and please ’oly Father I’ve brought the change.”

She lugged out a great bank-bag containing one hundred and ninety-eight English sovereigns.

“Oh but, you dear good soul, you shouldn’t have done that. It was all yours.”

“All mine, ’oly Father? But I tell You I got it cheaper than we thought.”

“Well then you see you’re a hundred and ninety-eight pounds to the good. You have the house and the furniture; and, if you can get the lodgers, you’re safe for life.”

“If I can get lodgers, ’oly Father? Why I’m filled up, and turning them away.”

“Good! Well, put that in the bank for the winter.”

“But then I shall have oceans of money I’ve made in the summer, ’oly Father.”

“Look here, Mrs. Dixon. Do you remember cooking two dinners one Christmas Day? One, we ate. The other, you carried under your apron to some carpenter who was out of work. Don’t you remember who caught you pretending that you weren’t spilling the gravy on your frock?”

“Oh, Mr. Rose, Sir, how You do recollect things!”

“Well now, you stinted yourself then, didn’t you?”

“Well perhaps a little.”

“Now don’t stint yourself any more; and give away as many dinners as you like. See?”

The tears were streaming from her glaring eyes and running down her kitchen-scorched cheeks. She certainly was looking frowsy.

“See? I should think I did. Mr. Rose Sir, if I say it to Your face, saint was what I always said of You. Dear! Dear! To think of me giving way like this. Well, well, You’re too good for this world, Your Majesty. Oh and I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a jar of pickled samphire like what You used to fancy. I’ve picked it and did it up myself with my own ’ands;⁠—and I thought perhaps You wouldn’t mind ’aving this antimacassar which I’ve worked for You, ’oly Father. I knew all Your ’oly chairs’ld be red, because I’ve seen pictures of them; and I thought that the grey and the orange would brighten up a dark corner for You.”

Hadrian thanked her kindly; and took her little offerings as though He prized them more than His tiara; and made her infinitely happy.

“Well now I won’t detain Your Majesty, because I know there must be no end of grand people waiting about to see You, and me occupying Your time like this, ’oly Father. So I’ll just ask You to pray for me and give me a blessing; and thank You Sir for all You’ve done for me, and I’ll say a prayer for You every day as long as I’m spared.”

She got on her knees: and the Pontiff blessed her. Then He said,

“When do you go back, Mrs. Dixon?”

“Well, Your ’oly Majesty, I was thinking of looking about a bit while I’m ’ere, so as to have plenty to say to the lodgers: but I can’t stay more than a week longer.”

Hadrian wrote on a card, “The bearer, Mrs. Agnes Dixon, is Our guest. Receive and assist her.” He signed it; and gave it to her, saying, “You know this place is full of lovely things, pictures and so on. And there are heaps of sacred relics in the churches. Well now, that card will admit you to see everything.”

“Will they let me see the fans?”

“Which fans?”

“Them they fan You with when You’re glorified?”

“Oh yes. Show that card to the gentleman who is going to take you downstairs and tell him what you want to see.”

“Will they want me to give the card up at the door?”

“No. Not if you want to keep it.”

“Ah well, I’ll see everything; and I’ll keep the card till I’m laid out, ’oly Father. Oh what ever can I say! You’ll excuse me Sir, and I’m an honest woman: but I must kiss Your ’oly Majesty’s anointed ’and. Oh bless You, my dear, bless You!”

Hadrian paced through and through the apartment as soon as He was alone. “Dear good ugly righteous creature,” He commented. Passing the safe in the bedroom, He let-out with His left and punched the iron door. “That’s what use you are,” He said; and put glycerine on His bleeding knuckles. Catching a glimpse of His face in the mirror, “Beastly hypocrite” He sneered at Himself.

Very disagreeable talk went on in Ragna’s circle. The pontifical acts of Hadrian were vile enough, but His private ones were simply criminal. A Pope who asked you the hour and the date and the place of your birth, drew diagrams on paper, and then told you your secret vices and virtues, was a practisant of arts unholy. Doubtless that frightful yellow cat, which He took into the gardens every morning, was His familiar spirit. It had cursed Cacciatore in a corridor, almost articulately. Balbo, the chamberlain, was prepared to swear two things, which he had gathered from the gentlemen of the secret chamber. First, that His Holiness stood under a tap in His bedroom every morning and evening, and sometimes during the day as well. Undoubtedly that was to allay the fervence of the demon who possessed Him. Secondly, that His Holiness sat up half the night writing or reading, and yet the pontifical wastepaper basket always was empty. Not even a torn shred of paper remained. But then, the ashes in the fireplace. Ah! The disposition was to refer to lunacy, or stupidity, or knavishness, or vileness, whatsoever was novel to the understanding. The Pontiff’s aggressive personality, His ostentatious inconsistency, His peculiarly ideal conception of His apostolic character, His moral earnestness, His practical and uncomfortable embodiment of His views in His conduct, caused Him to be as loathed by Ragna’s set as He was loved by the nine and the six. He was accused of an anarchistical kind of enthusiasm. When He heard that, He said,

“We are conservative in all Our instincts, and only contrive to become otherwise by an effort of reason or principle, as We contrive to overcome all Our other vicious propensities.”