Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 8 (2/2)

That was considered an additional indecorum. His quaintly correct and archaic diction exasperated men who had no means of expressing their thoughts except in the fluid allusive clipped verbosity of the day. Objections were made to His hendecasyllabical allocutions, by mediocrities who could not away with a man who discoursed in ithyphallics. His autocratic dogmatism, which really was due to His entire occession by His office, shocked the opportunist, irritated the worldly-prudent. Outside in the world too, He was by no means a complete success. People, who were not of His Communion, thought it rather a liberty that a Pope should have the Authorized Version at His fingers’ ends. At first, a lot of fantastic instabilities prepared to hail Him as a Reformer: but He gave dire offence to them, and to all pious fat-wits, by flatly refusing His countenance to any kind of Scheme or Society. “The Church suffices for this life,” He said; and His sentence “Cultivate, and help to cultivate individuality, at your own expense if possible, but never at the expense of your brother,” was highly disapproved of. Where did the Rights of Man come in? But then Hadrian was quite certain that Christians actually had no worldly “rights” at all. Arraigned on the question of superstition by the stolidly commonsense Talacryn, He said “Extra-belief, superstition, that which we hope or augur or imagine, is the poetry of life;” and His utterance was regarded as almost heretical. His utter lack of personal swagger or even dignity, His habit of rolling and smoking continual cigarettes, His natural and patently unprofessional manner, offended many outsiders who only could think of the Pope as partaking of the dual character of an Immeasurably Ambitious Clergyman and a Scarlet Impossible Person. He had enemies at home and abroad. And He remained quite alone, psychically detached: to a very great extent unconscious of, certainly uninterested in, the impression which He personally was creating; and altogether uninfluenced by any other mind or any other creature.

A parcel of curial malcontents waited-on the Pope; and poured forth flocculent interrogations and sophomoric criticisms to their hearts’ content. Hadrian sat perfectly motionless except for an occasional twinkle of His ears⁠—a muscular trick which He had forced Himself to learn for the disconcerting of more than usually oxymorose fools. He was mute: He was grave. He looked, with large omniscient imperscrutable eyes, with the countenance open, with the thoughts restrained. Cavillers recited grievances⁠—His refusal to wear the pontifical pectoral-cross of great diamonds, or any gems except His episcopal amethyst, was one;⁠—and appended sentences beginning “Now surely⁠—,” or “And the scandal⁠—,” or “Ought we not rather⁠—” He was mute: He was grave: He was attentive. His intelligent silence had its calculated effect of causing errancy from points which primarily had been deemed important. Anon, only one objection remained: an objection to the new form of pontifical stole. No one complained of its colour. Red was canonically correct. But the silk should have been satin. Also, the pattern of the gold embroidery was uncommon. A rich design, of conventional foliage and grotesques enclosing armorials and keys, was what custom demanded. (Hadrian had no armorials. Years before, while discussing heraldic blazons with an aged clergyman, he had burst out with “My shield is white.” “Keep it so,” the other replied. And Hadrian’s shield was Argent.) But this narrow strip, no wider than a ribbon, severely adorned with little fylfot crosses (“a Buddhist emblem” Berstein sneered) in little rectangular panels, with no expansive ends, and a scanty fringe, was hardly at all the kind of stole to inspire either the admiration or the homage of the faithful. Still Hadrian sat immobile, great-eyed, all-absorbent; and let them furiously rage, and imagine very vain things. And at the end of three-quarters of an hour, He merely murmured “Your Eminencies have permission to retire;” and stalked into the secret chamber.

It was felt that something ought to be done. Ragna put a case to Vivole and Cacciatore. The Oecumenical Council of the Vatican stood adjourned since 1870: but, if the Sacred College should demand⁠—They found the notion excellent: communicated it to Berstein, and the French: plumed themselves; and went about mysteriously with their noses in the air. And there were intrigues in holes and corners.

Hadrian went up to the Church on the Celian Hill; and conferred diaconate on Percy Van Kristen. The Passionists liked that one for his stately shyness which did not wear away. It was the mark of a soul verisimilar to his patron’s own, of a soul knit to no other: but, whereas the soul of Hadrian had been torn out of seclusion and bitterly buffeted by the world, the soul of Percy Van Kristen preserved its pristine tenderness. The Pope perforce went armed. His deacon remained by the altar.

The consistory was summoned for the twenty-fourth of May. That morning Hadrian woke just on these words of a dream, Oecumenical Council, Pseudopontiff, Heretic. A man with an active brain like His naturally suffers much unconscious cerebration. Very often it happened to Him vividly to dream some scrap or other of something apparently unconnected with the present. He used to wonder at it: mentally note it: generally forget it. Now and then, an event (of which it was the tip) immediately followed; and He scored. Hadrian named to the consistory the Lord Percy of New York as Cardinal-deacon of St. Kyriak-at-the-Baths-of-Diocletian. His Eminency became resplendent in vermilion, tall, refined, reticent, with dark wide dewy eyes. He was admired in silence. The Pope by some accident turned His gaze to Ragna: he had such an aspect as caused His Holiness to look more intently. Ragna’s great strong jaw moved as though to munch; and his glance defiantly shifted.

“Your Eminency is free to address Us,” the Supreme Pontiff said to Him.

“I wish rather to address the Sacred College,” Ragna answered, rising.

Hadrian had an intuition: His face became austere, His voice deliberate.

“On the subject of an Oecumenical Council where you may denounce Us as pseudopontiff and heretic?”

Ragna hurriedly sat down twitching. Berstein and Vivole muttered of divination and necromancy.

“That generally is done,” the Pope continued in the tone of one merely selecting fringe for footstools⁠—

“That generally is done by oblique-eyed cardinals” (He meant “envious” but He used the Latin of Horace) “who cannot accustom themselves to new pontiffs. Rovere ululated for an Oecumenical Council when he found Our predecessor Alexander antipathetic; and there be other examples. But Lord Cardinals, if such an idea should present itself or should be presented to you, be ye mindful that none but the Supreme Pontiff can convoke an Oecumenical Council, and also that the decrees of an Oecumenical Council are ineffective unless they be promulgated with the express sanction of the Supreme Pontiff. Who would sanction decrees ordaining his own deposition? Who could? If We pronounce Ourself to be a pseudopontiff, what would be the value of such pronunciation? Ye were Our electors. We did not force you to elect Us. If We be Pontiff, We will not, and, if We be pseudopontiff, We cannot, depose Ourself. We are conscious of your love and of your loathing for Our person and Our acts. We value the one; and regret the other. But ye voluntarily have sworn obedience to Us; and We claim it. ‘Subordination,’ so the adage runs” (He was citing the Greek to every Latin’s disgust) “ ‘is the mother of saving counsel.’ Nothing must and nothing shall obstruct Us. Let that be known. And We should welcome cooperation. Wherefore, Most Eminent Lords and Venerable Fathers, let not the sheep of Christ’s Flock be neglected in order that the shepherds may exchange anathemas.”

Mundo and Fiamma rose by impulse: went to the throne; and renewed their allegiance. The new cardinals mixed with the others and began to talk, while the rest of the Compromissaries approached the Pontiff. Orezzo moved that way with eight Italians. Then the seven brought each a companion. When, at last, the Benedictine struggled to his feet, opposition died. Ragna toed the line.

“His Holiness has averted a schism,” said Orezzo to Moccolo.

“One has to admire even where one hardly approves.”

“And to hobble-after even when one cannot keep-up-with the pace.”

“Saint or madman?” Mundo repeated to Fiamma.

“One-third saint, one-sixth madman, one-sixth genius, one-sixth dreamer, one-sixth diplomatist⁠—”

“No. All George Arthur Rose plus Peter,” Talacryn put in. “He said as much Himself to me once, whatever!”

Hadrian went out to take the air. Under His cloak He carried a pickle bottle, the label of which He had washed off and destroyed. As He went along, He picked up a trowel left by some gardener in a flowerbed. He found a solitary corner filled with rose-acacias and lavender-bushes behind the Leonine Villa. He looked up at the cupola of St. Peter’s and saw no Americans levelling binoculars. Then He dug a little hole; and buried pickles; and hid the bottle a few yards away beneath the beehives by the lavender-bushes, mauve-bloomed, very sweet to smell. The solemn odour stimulated his brain; and He returned to chat with His gentlemen. They were engaged in physical exercises in a parlour. The Italian, who was one of nature’s athletes, with so tremendous a power of chest-inflation that his ribs seemed unconnected with his sternum, interminably floated down and up and down to the floor on one leg, with the other leg and both arms extended rectangularly before him. The Englishman, a student, graceful and slim but not muscular, watched him and would imitate. His sinews had not the elastic force rhythmically to lower and raise him. He could get down but not up. He often lost balance, and rolled over in frantic failure. “You must have thighs made of whipcord and steel to do it,” he was saying. Then they saw their visitor and attended. Hadrian asked what the exercise was and whence it came.

“Santità, from the bersaglieri,” Iulo responded. “That they do, during an hour of each day for the fortification of their legs. From which they run.”

“It is beautiful. And are you going to emulate the bersaglieri?”

“My comrade goes to educate my mind. I go to discipline the physic of him,” the gymnast said.

“Oh, I’m going to help him rub up his classics as far as my poor knowledge lets me, Holiness: that’s all:” the student added.

“Very good indeed,” Hadrian pronounced. “Well now, something is going to happen to you. Go and escort the Secretary of State to the secret chamber.”

Ragna and the young men appeared within the quarter-hour. The Pope was seated; and a couple of Noble Guards stood behind His chair.

“Eminency,” He said, “it is Our will to give these gentlemen the rank of Cavaliere⁠—in English ‘knight’⁠—”

“Nai-tah,” Ragna repeated.

“Your Eminency will cause letters patent to be prepared⁠—”

“But this is the act of a sovereign!”

“And We, having no temporal sovereignty, exercise Our prerogative as Father of princes and kings.” He beckoned the gentlemen to kneel, took a sword from the guard on His left, and struck them on the shoulder in turn, saying “To the honour of God, of His Maiden Mother, and of St. George, We make thee knight. Be faithful. Rise, Sir John. To the honour of God, of His Maiden Mother, and of St. Maurice, We make thee knight. Rise, Sir Iulo.”

The cardinal retired mumbling. In the first antechamber, Sir Iulo cut a caper. “Oh but that I should come to know such a one as this!” he chortled. Sir John went to his own room: opened an interlinear crib of Horace; and could not see one letter.