Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 11 (1/5)

XI

Referring to our numerous enjoyable conversations on the subject of Socialism in which you have evinced entire acquiescence, I am directed by the Council of the Liblab Fellowship to call your attention to the advantages obtainable from comradeship as per enclosed. The entrance fee is two and six and the subscription five shillings per ann. payable in June and Dec. I may add that those are special terms which I have exerted my influence to obtain in your favour and I trust I shall meet with your esteemed approval. Would you decide to join, kindly notify me of the same per wire for wh. I enclose six stamps. Yes or No will answer all purposes, but personally I feel sure that it shall be yes. On receipt of your anticipated favour will at once propose and have you seconded at our evening meeting to take place on the night of the same day when you get this letter. Should your reply be in the affirmative I am to let you know that you shall at once be nominated as a member of a deputation, which I have the honour to be a member of as well, which is about to proceed to Rome for the purpose of diplomatically interviewing our mutual friend the Pope. The expenses of the trip will be borne by the Liblab funds so there is no need to worry on that score. You are aware that travel especially to such a famous town as Rome is considered advantageous in every respect. The Italian sky the numerous old ancient edifices and the Romans themselves in their native monasteries cannot fail to amuse the eye of the beholder. The excursion is entirely gratis and so that difficulty is removed. But in addition to what I have said there is also the prospect of renewing our acquaintance with his so-called “Holiness”!!!!! And I may say for certain of having private interviews with him in the innermost recesses of his haunts. More I shall not now add. The mission of the deputation is strictly diplomatic and connected with political affairs, and I am of course not at liberty to divulge the details to anyone but fellowshippers, it would be hardly prudent. Ah would that you dear Mrs. Crowe was one. But I may without any breach of confidence inform you in the strictest confidence that Rose alias Hadrian is in our power and therefore putting politics out of the question it shall go hard if you and me cannot do a little private business with him on our own account. Hoping to hear from you soon as per enclosed blank form and thanking you in anticipation

Sant’s lady-friend sat at the breakfast table, pondering this letter while her kidney grew cold. The four lodgers were gone to business; and she was alone except for the presence of her son. He was one of those beautiful speechless cow-eyed youths who seem born to serve as butts. Most people exercise some influence, assert some personal note. Alaric Crowe did neither. A course of female rule had produced him with about as much individuality as a cushion. He ate his breakfast in delicate silence. His mother was wrapt in thought. She found Sant’s letter delectable. The consuming passion of her whole life was for George Arthur Rose. Next to him, she desired fame, notoriety, as a leader in suburban literary and artistic “circles.” By perseverance, an undeniable amount of clever organizing power, a certain stock of third or fourth class talent, and any quantity of “push,” she had established a sort of salon where little lions hebdomadally roared. But she never had won the faintest regard from the man for whom she burned. The violence of her passion had caused her to make an irremediable mistake with him. She had not realized the feline temper which had caused him to repel advances as obvious as abrupt and as shameless as a dog’s. He had ceased to be aware of her existence. Then she had blundered further. Still ignorant of his peculiarity, she had treated him as the female animal treats the male of her desire. Finding him unapproachable by blandishments, she had turned to persecution. She would make him come to her and beg. Here, she also failed. In vain did she defame him to her followers: in vain did she libel him to the publishers from whom he earned his scanty subsistence: in vain did she force herself upon his few friends with stories of his evil deeds. He let those who listened to her leave him. He tolerated the ill-will or stupidity of Bar-abbas. He never said a word in his own defence. And he kept her severely and entirely at a distance, giving no sign that he even knew of her manoeuvres. It was galling to the last degree. Of course he was egregiously wrong. “Neither in woes nor in welcome prosperity, may I be associated with women: for, when they prevail, one cannot tolerate their audacity; and, when they are frightened, they are a still greater mischief to their house and their city.” His feeling to women was that of Eteokles in the Seven Against Thebes. It caused him to make the tremendous mistake of his life. A woman of this colour never can be neglected: she must be taken⁠—or smashed. That, he knew: but he would not take her, ever; and, a certain chivalrous delicacy, mingled with a certain mercifulness of heart, and a certain fastidious shrinking from a loathsome object, prevented him from prosecuting her with the rigour of the law. “Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer. Then, grant, O blind dumb gods, that we, rather the sufferers than the doers be,” expressed his attitude. It annoyed himself: it made her fierce and furibund: and it was absolutely futile.⁠—And now, he had leaped at a bound from impotent lonely penury to the terrible altitude of Peter’s Throne. He was famous, mighty, rich, and the idol of her adoration, despite the great gulf fixed between her insignificance and His Supremacy. Oh, what would she not give⁠—for a curse, for a blow from Him. The emotion thrilled and dazzled her. Not one hour during twelve years had she been without the thought of Him. It was a case of complete obcession.

Her daughter flowed into the room in a pink wrapper, finishing a florid cadenza. A touch on the teapot and a glance under the dish-cover revealed astringent and coagulate tepidity. She rang the bell.

“Mother, why aren’t you eating any breakfast?”

“I am eating it. I only just stopped a minute to read my letters.”

“A pretty long minute, I should think. Everything’s stone-cold. Why you’ve only got one letter! Who’s it from?”

“Mr. Sant. He wants me to go to Rome with him.”

“Oh mother, you can’t you know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything of the kind. In fact I think I will go. There’ll be a party of us.”

“Well, if it’s a party⁠—But what’s going to become of the house?”

“I’m sure Big Ann is capable of looking after the house, Amelia. If I can’t have a fortnight’s holiday now and then I might just as well go and drown myself. I’m sick to death of Oriel Street. I want to go about a bit. Yes, I will go. And the house must get on the best way it can. Anybody would think you were all a pack of machines that wouldn’t work if I’m not here to wind you up.”

“Oh, all right, mother, go and have a fling by all means if you like. But what about the cost? I’m sure I can’t help you as long as I only get these three-guinea engagements. And I simply can’t wear that eau-de-nil again. The bodice is quite gone under the arms.”

“You’re not asked to help. Mr. Sant pays all expenses. And, Amelia, if I can do what I’m going to try to do, you shall have as many new frocks as you can wear. We’re going to see the Pope.”

“Going to see the Pope?”

“Yes, you silly girl⁠—the Pope⁠—Rose!”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I say.”

“But you can’t.”

“Nonsense. Of course I can.”

“Well I mean of course you can see Him the same as other people do: but you’ll be in the crowd, and He⁠—I can’t understand you at all this morning. Let’s look at Sant’s letter⁠—How vilely the man writes! Like a⁠—You don’t mean to say you’ll join these people? M‑ym‑ym. Yes, I see the game.⁠—Yes.⁠—But d’you think you really could?⁠—Well: if you like the idea still, it’s worth trying anyhow.⁠—Silly little mother! Why I believe you’re in love with Rose even now. Ah, you’re blushing. Mother, you look a dear like that!”

“Amelia, don’t be stupid. Mind your own business.”

“Oh I’m not going to interfere. You needn’t be jealous of me. I’m sure I never saw anything particular in Him myself.”

They spoke as though they were alone. Alaric went quite unnoted. He folded his napkin and rose from the table.

“A⁠—and, mother,” he mooed, slowly, with a slight hesitation, in a virginal baritone voice, resonant and low; “if you go to Rome, don’t be nasty to Mr. Rose?”

Both the women whirled round toward him. They hardly could have been astounded if the kidneys had commented on their complexions.

“Alaric! how dare you sir!”

“A⁠—and I only say if you go to Rome I hope you won’t be nasty to Mr. Rose.”

“Did you ever hear such nonsense, Amelia? Why not, I should like to know?”

“A⁠—and he taught me to swim.”

“So he did me. At least he tried to. And what of that?” snapped the girl.

“A⁠—and I don’t think it’s fair. I liked him. A⁠—and father liked him.”

“Yes indeed, he’s just the sort of man your father would have liked, unfortunately. He liked that sonnet-man, too. A pretty kind of person! All I can say is, Alaric, if I were to let you see the letters I’ve got of his and the albums full⁠—: but there, you don’t know as much as I do about your father!”

The boy bellowed. “A⁠—and don’t you dare say anything against father! I won’t stand it. Amelia knows I won’t stand it from her; and I won’t from anyone, not even from you, mother. I won’t, I tell you! I’ll go right away if I have another word. Mother, I’m sorry: but you oughtn’t. A⁠—and I don’t want you to be nasty to Mr. Rose, because I liked him, a⁠—and father liked him,” concluded Alaric departing.

Mother and daughter looked at each other. “Who’d have expected Alaric to burst out like that? I’m sure it’s very hard, after all I’ve gone through, to have my own children turning against me.”

“I am not turning against you, mother. I think⁠—well of course I can’t see why you care for Rose: but if you do you’d be a fool to miss a chance like this. What does Mr. Sant mean about having him in his power?”

“I don’t quite know. I suppose Georgie must have got himself entangled with these people somehow; and they think he wouldn’t like it to come out. That’s very possible. He’s been mixed up with several shady characters in his time. However, we shall see. Amelia, do you know what I’ve been thinking? That mauve frock of my aunt Sarah’s⁠—now I believe I could make that up for myself for evenings and save a new one, you know. It’s lovely silk. You can’t get anything as good as that anywhere nowadays.”

“What the one with the fringe?”

“Well, isn’t fringe coming in again now? I think I know how to use every bit of it. The only difficulty’ll be with the sleeves. I wish someone would invent a sleeve that only covers the lower part of one’s arms. You see the best part of mine’s about the shoulders.”

“Why don’t you simply carry the fringe over the shoulders like straps; and wear long gloves?”

“Yes, of course I might do that. And Amelia, I really must have a new transformation; all things considered I think I will go to Du Schob and Hamingill’s for it this time. I’m afraid they’re rather dear: but when you look what a chance this is and how much depends⁠ ⁠… Then there’s another reason why I should go. People are beginning to neglect our Wednesdays. Well now, if I go to Rome with these whats-his-names it’s sure to be in the papers; and then when I come back all our old friends are sure to want to know.”

So this precious pair of would-be blackmailers accompanied the deputation from the Liblab Fellowship to God’s Vicegerent. Much of the formality prescribed for pontifical audiences had fallen into abeyance. Hadrian received ambassadors or personages with various degrees of ceremony: but, almost every day, He was to be found pacing to and fro in the portico of St. Peter’s; and then He was accessible to all the world. When, however, the Socialists applied for an audience, it was intimated that the Supreme Pontiff would deign to receive them at ten o’clock on the following morning; and the Vatican officials were instructed that the reception would be carried out with full state. It was George Arthur Rose’s birthday. For twenty years no one had cared to remember it. Now there were scores who cared; and none who dared. Hadrian was more remote than George Arthur Rose had been.

A nervous little group of twenty obvious plebeians, male and female, awaited Him in the Ducal Hall. Superb chamberlains showed them the door by which the Pope would enter, and instructed them to approach the throne when He should have taken His seat. The great red curtains at the end of the Hall were drawn-back; and cardinals, prelates, guards and chamberlains, flowed-in like a wave whose white crest was Hadrian. As the procession passed, Sant growled to Mrs. Crowe,

“Does Himself well, don’t He?”

“Oh isn’t He just splendid!” she yapped.

Then chamberlains manoeuvred the Liblabs into position at the foot of the throne steps. Jerry by common consent had been chosen spokesman; and the united intellect of the Fellowship had drawn up the address which he, with ostentatious calmness, began to read. The Pope’s ringed hand lay on His knee: His left elbow rested on the crimson chair and the hand supported the keen unfathomable face. He had prepared His plans: but He alertly was listening, lest unforeseen necessity for alteration should arise. He was watching with half-shut eyes and wide-open mind for an opportunity. None came. His prevision had been singularly accurate. The Liblab Fellowship really had nothing to say to Him, beyond turgid sesquipedalian verbosity expressive of its own disinterestedness, and fulsome adulation calculated (according to the Fellowshippers’ lights) to tickle the conceit of any average man. It would have been funny, if it had not been terribly tiresome: impertinent, if it had not been pitiable. Sant’s tongue clacked on his drying palate. To himself, his voice sounded quite strange in that atmosphere of splendid colour and fragrant odour. Mrs. Crowe quivered; and wondered. The others were in a torpor. No one listened to the reader, except the Pope. The curia rustled and whispered, exchanging jewelled snuffboxes. The guards resembled tinted statues tipped with steel.