Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 11 (2/5)

“We have the honour to remain, in the cause of humanity,” concluded Jerry Sant, reciting the commonplace names of the signatories, “On behalf of the Liblab Fellowship.” He refolded the foolscap sheets, and drew them through his fingers, looking as though he were about to hand them with a flourish to the Pope. A frilled black-velvet flunkey took them from him, gave them to a purple prelate, who passed them to a vermilion cardinal, who kneeled and presented them. The stately Cardinal Van Kristen moved from the side presenting a second manuscript. Hadrian unfolded it and began to read His reply. It was courteous and concise, distant and independent, simply an allocution on the distinction necessary to be drawn between Demagogues and Demos, the worthiness of the latter, the doubtfulness of the former. At the end there was a silence. Chamberlains discreetly made it known to the Fellowshippers that homage might be rendered by any who desired to render it; and gave instructions as to the customary manner. Twelve of the demagogues preferred a noncommittal pose, having fear of the snorts of the Salpinx; and, of these, two found it convenient to glare uncompromisingly, letting it be seen that they regarded their host as the Man of Sin. But eight approached the throne. Five of them bowed, as over the counter: one kneeled on one knee and read his maker’s name in his hat: Sant held his own elbows and looked along his nose; and Mrs. Crowe laid her lips on the cross gold-embroidered on the Pontiff’s crimson shoe. That was all. These people were bewildered, almost inebriated by the magnificence of the scene, by the more than regal ceremonial, by the immense psychical distance which divided them from the clean white exquisitely simple figure under the lofty canopy, by the quiet fastidious voice purring unknown words from an unimagined world, by the delphic splendour of Apostolic Benediction waved from the sedia gestatoria retiring in a pageant of flabellifers. On leaving the Vatican, they were thoroughly dazed: they knew not whether their diplomacy had been successful or unsuccessful. Jerry Sant had an indistinct notion that he might expect to be summoned after nightfall; and surreptitiously introduced to some pontifical hole or corner in order to be bribed. Mrs. Crowe exulted in a new emotion. She actually had touched Him: and she thrilled: and she was sure that this was only a beginning.

When Hadrian was about to descend alone into St. Peter’s to say His night prayers, He observed one of His gentlemen practising a new and curious gymnastic in the first antechamber. Sir Iulo was in solitude; and he did not hear the feline footfall which came near. He had a longish knife in his right hand, held behind his back. Then, with his teeth clenched, and his eyes firmly fixed on an imaginary pair of eyes in front of him, and every sinew of him at its tensest, he suddenly whipped hand and knife face-high to the front hilt-upward, down to arms’ length and forward-up again point-upward, all with frightful force and rapidity. Hadrian watched him during five performances. Then Sir Iulo became aware of the Presence; and relaxed into upright stillness, grinning and glittering.

“What is this game?” the Pope enquired.

“Not game: but for the protection of You.”

“Protection? Protection from what?”

“From those most horrible peoples who have been today here pursuing some vendettaccia.”

“Do you mean those Liblabs?”

“But yes, those Libberlabberersser: especially a Libberlabber who has read, and a she-Libberlabber who goes with him. It is I who have seen of them both the eye. From which I vibrate a knife most commodious for the bellies of those. His Holiness can rest secure.”

“Do you mean that you are going to rip them up?”

“But yes, in the manner which I have learned of the chef from Naples. Now I watch them. When I shall have seen them make a movement, behold the tripes of them sliced precipitatissimamente!”

“Iulo. No. Understand? No.”

“There is not of dishonour! First like this, I demonstrate the knife⁠—they view the mode of their deaths. There is in it nothing of sly⁠—Next, I give them the death which they have merit. That is not the deed of a dishonourable.”

“You are commanded not to give death⁠—not to think of giving death. It is prohibited. O Viniti, quo vadis? Understand? Bury the knife in the garden. Sotterratelo nel giardino, Vinizio mio. Capisce? Break it first. Then bury it in the garden⁠—If you wish to be protector of Hadrian, learn to fight with fists⁠—pugni. Understand? Tell John to buy a punching-bag⁠—punching-bag⁠—and practise on that.”

“Bai a punnertchingerbagger,” repeated the devout murderer-in-posse with disappointment, as the Pope left him limp.

A sign drew Cardinal Van Kristen to walk by Hadrian’s side on the return from San Pietro and Vincula on Lammas Day. From time to time, his shy grand eyes turned to the Pope as they rhythmically paced along. From time to time, a blessing fluttered from the Apostle’s hand to some stranger by the roadside.

“Holiness,” at length he said, “do you remember the saint You used to worship on this day at Maryvale?”

Hadrian detached Himself from a reverie. “Little Saint Hugh? Fancy your remembering that!” And He again dived into silence.

“One would hardly fail to remember anything You said or did in those days, Holy Father.”

The Pope said nothing. He was thinking of something else.

“I put the picture you painted of Little Saint Hugh up in our refectory at Dynam House.”

No answer came. The cardinal’s long eyelashes lifted a little as he looked at his companion. He was not sure that his attempt at conversation was welcome.

“Your Holiness does not care to be reminded perhaps. I did not mean to intrude. Sorry.”

Hadrian put out a hand. “No, Percy, you don’t intrude. We were wondering how long this King is going to be.”

“Which King?”

“Italy.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Things are at a standstill.”

“For example?”

“Everything⁠—at least in Italy⁠—as long as something better than sulky peace is lacking. We want friendship, collaboration. See whether you can follow this. The personal influence of His Majesty is enormous. Although his acts are quite constitutional, yet, such is his magnetic force of character that he actually rules. No matter which party is in power, the King’s Majesty rules. Practically he is an autocrat; and he, so far, has not made a single mistake, nor done a single unjust or even ungenerous deed. Now We also have some power, some personal influence. These people seem to like Us. They’re charmingly polite. They run about after Us. We do not doubt but that they would obey if We commanded⁠—if We ordained that no woman should cover her hair with a terrible handkerchief when she goes into a church⁠—if We substituted silver sand for those abominably insane sponges in the holy-water fonts, for example⁠—but how many of them would obey Us if We ordered them to cease from drying their linen at their windows, or to stop spitting? Do you follow?”

“No, Holiness.”

“Our influence is over particulars, is sentimental, is ideal. The influence of the King’s Majesty is over universals, is practical, is real⁠—”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Well, then⁠—”

“You mean that Your influence and the King’s⁠—”

“Could do a great deal more for this dear delightful country than⁠—”

“Do you think that this King knows of Your desire for reconciliation?”

“Victor Emanuel is one of the four cleverest men in the world. It is impossible that he should not have understood the Regnum Meum. Besides, We addressed him by name. He owes Us the civility of a response.”

“Holiness, let me have that news conveyed to him. Guido Attendolo⁠—”

“No. We Ourself have not yet seen clearly the next move. We believe that His Majesty of his own initiative ought to have approached Us⁠—the son to the Father⁠—before now. We have given him a token of Our goodwill. There the matter rests. He cannot have a doubt as to what Our purpose is. But⁠—His Majesty must do as he pleases. We think that We have done Our part so far. At present, We are not moved to proceed further. When We are moved⁠—and that is what occupies Us now. An idea seems to be forming in Our mind: but as yet⁠—Percy, do ask Our friends to tea in the Garden of the Pine-Cone at half-past sixteen o’clock today.”

The same afternoon after siesta, Hadrian sat at one end of the great white-marble arc-shaped seat. A yard away sixteen cardinals spread their vermilion along the same seat. Little tables stood before them with tea, goat’s milk, triscuits and raisins. The Pope preferred to sit here where the pavement was of marble: because lizards avoided it, and their creepy-crawly jerks on grass or gravel shocked his nerves. He was sure that reptiles were diabolical and unclean; and His taste was for the angelic and the clean. He smoked a cigarette; and flung a subject to His Court, as one flings corn to chickens.

“Was not the question of requiems for Non-Catholics settled two or three years ago?” replied Courtleigh.

“Yes:” said Talacryn. “It was declared impossible, profane, inconsistent.”

“Why?” Hadrian’s predilection was for the inconsistent, rather than for that undevelopable fossil which goes by the name of consistency.

“It would be inconsistent, Holiness, for the Church to proclaim, by the most solemn act of Her ministry, as a child submissive to Her, one who always refused; or certainly never consented, to recognize Her as a mother⁠—one who, while alive, would have rejected any such recognition as a grave insult and an irreparable misfortune;” Talacryn responded.

“I don’t follow Your Eminency,” said Whitehead: “it’s eloquent⁠—but it’s only eloquence.”

“Isn’t Cardinal Talacryn rather begging the question, Holiness?” Leighton enquired. “Who spoke of proclaiming as a submissive child one who never was submissive?”

“Holy Mass is the public and solemn testimony of visible communion; the tessera communionis, if I may use the term; and, therefore, the Church can only offer publicly for those who have departed this life as members of that visible communion:” Talacryn persisted.

“Holy Mass is a great deal more than that!” interjected Carvale.

“Yes?”

“Holiness, it is not for me to tell Cardinal Talacryn that Holy Mass is not only a sacrament for the sanctification of souls, but a sacrifice⁠—the Real Sacrifice of Calvary, offered by our Divine Redeemer and pleaded in His Name by us His vicars. It is not another sacrifice, but the Sacrifice of the Cross applied. It is the Clean Oblation, offered to God for all Christians quick and dead, for all for whom Christ died.”

“Would not the bonafides of the Non-Catholic in question come in?” said Semphill. “Take for instance the Divine Victoria⁠—”

“ ‘Divine’?” queried della Volta.

“Yes, ‘Divine.’ You say ‘Divus Julius’ and ‘Divus Calixtus,’ meaning ‘the late Julius’ and ‘the late Calixtus.’ Very well, then I say ‘the Divine Victoria’ for a more thoroughly, worthy woman⁠—”

“Well, but that would mean that on the death of such and such a Non-Catholic, we should have to institute a process of inquisition, and adjudicate on his or her life and career:” Ferraio ventured.

Hadrian threw His cigarette-end at a lizard on the gravel, and laughed shortly. “ ‘Pippety-pew, me mammy me slew, me daddy me ate, me sister Kate gathered a’ me baines⁠—’ ” He quoted with deliciously feline inconsequence. “How you theological people do split straws, to be sure! Go on, though. You’re intensely interesting.”

The Patriarch of Lisbon slapped his knee.

“Holiness, there are several decrees which are supposed to bear on the subject,” Gentilotto gently put in.

“Can Your Eminency remember them?”

“Innocent III ruled that communion might not be held with those deceased, with whom it had not been held when they were alive.”

“I concede it. But it doesn’t touch the point. I distinguish. Holy Mass is more than mere communion. Besides, we don’t communicate with, but on behalf of, the deceased. It’s not a concession to the deceased. It’s our duty to God and to our neighbour,” Carvale persisted.

“Then there was the case of Gregory XVI and Queen Caroline of Bavaria,” Gentilotto continued. “The argument is the same: but perhaps it has been expanded a little. It definitely prohibits persons, who have died in the eternal and notorious profession of heresy, from being honoured with Catholic rites.”

“Another point occurs to me,” Talacryn went on. “Supposing that we sing requiems for Non-Catholics, we should imply that one religion is as good as another.”

“I guess I deny the consequence,” Grace retorted. “Of course people would infer all sorts of things which ought not to be inferred: but I can’t see that that need concern us.”

“One might imperil the salient and sacred aloofness which marks off God’s Work from man’s work, the Church’s unmistakeable contrast to the whole world,” said the Cardinal of St. Nicholas-in-the-Jail-of-Tully.

“And her complete discordance from the world by all the difference which separates the Divine Institution from the human, the Church of God from the churches of men,” Saviolli appended.

“All the same I think I go with the Cardinal of St. Cosmas and St. Damian,” said Mundo.

“There would not be any real ground,” Sterling continued, “for suspecting one of disloyalty to the Church, if one were to recognize the Invincibly Ignorant as the ‘other sheep’ which His Holiness mentioned in His first Epistle. One is not going to take part in their worship, or frequent their services: because one knows better. And one is not going to accept the principle of a conglomerate Church of the ‘common-christianity’ type any more than one is going to accept an Olympos of gods for a Divinity. But one confesses that one can see no reason why one should not pray for outsiders, offer Mass for outsiders, recognize them in short, as His Holiness seems to ordain. They don’t know us; and, naturally, they invent a caricature of us, as things are. Yes, on the whole, perhaps one ought to support Carvale.”

“Well: if we’re taking sides, I’ll follow you,” said Semphill.

Their Eminencies rose and surrounded Cardinal Carvale. Talacryn was left alone at the other end of the seat; and Percy moved a few inches nearer to the Pope.

“Now Percy?” said Talacryn with invitation. The youngest cardinal shook his grand head in the negative.

“And will not you yourself join the majority?” Hadrian inquired of the single minority.

“I shall follow your Holiness,” Talacryn answered. The others looked their interest.

The Pope smiled. “Note please, that We are not uttering infallible dogma, but the fallible opinion of a private clergyman, weak-kneed perhaps, or worldly. We know no more than this⁠—that Christ died for all men.” Rising He began to throw on his white cloak, for it was the hour before sunset and the air was cooler. “Eminencies,” He continued, “We learn much from you. This discussion was an accident, due to Our negligence. The case which We intended to submit to you was not the case of an outsider: but, while you have been talking, We have reached the solution of Our problem by another road. We request you immediately to publish the news that tomorrow at ten o’clock the Supreme Pontiff will sing a requiem in St. Peter’s for the repose of the soul of Umberto the Fearless King of Italy.”