Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 13 (3/3)

The Pope put His hand on the table⁠—pontifically. “Will Your Majesty, for the purposes of argument, consent to imagine a place called Poland, partly Russian, partly German, inhabited by a race which is neither German nor Russian, a race very tenacious of its traditions. In the event of your annexation of France, and Russia, for example⁠—and Austria which is composed of sixteen distinct races speaking thirty-two distinct languages, the various Slavonic nationalities of Parthians, Medes, and Elamites⁠—”

“Parthians, Medes, and Elamites?”

“Well: Croats, Slovenes, Dalmatians, and the dwellers in Bosnia and Herzegovina, to say nothing of the Czechs and the Magyars⁠—in the event of your annexation of all these, you would be obliged to have regard unto the racial characteristics of your new subjects. Now, at the same time, would you not be well advised to regard the racial characteristics of Poland?”

“In what way?”

“For example, would you concede to Poland, the Polish language, and a Polish king and constitution under your imperial suzerainty?”

“Your Holiness means something of the nature of federation, such as Your Own country so successfully has adopted?”

“Concisely.”

“I had not thought of it. It merits my profound consideration.”

“And what would happen to the other fragments of Austria, and to the Balkan States?”

“I do not know. The Sultan would have something to say.”

“And what will he say?”

“I must tell Your Holiness that I am much disappointed in Turkey. I looked upon it as the military power, whose ability to hold back Russia, and to prevent the political strangulation of Germany in Europe by keeping-open the gates of the East, must be strengthened at all costs. Hence I practically rearmed the Sultan’s forces; and passed numbers of young Turkish officers through my military schools. You may say that I made the Turkish Army. All to no purpose. The new Sultan has played me false. I am afraid now that Turkey will be more influenced by England and by Italy than by me.”

“Is that king blind?”

“My uncle?”

“No. Italy.”

“Not that I am aware of. Why does Your Holiness ask?”

The Supreme Pontiff stood up. “We thank Your Majesty for the sincerity of Your conversation; and assure you of Our goodwill. We will ponder the matters which you have laid before Us.”

“I hoped to have had⁠—” But there was no mistaking the sealed face. And William II was one of the cleverest men in the world; and he also was half an Englishman. “I should be greatly obliged if Your Holiness would write down that doctrine of Aristos. I should prize it greatly.”

The Pope went to a writing table and produced a couple of lines in His wonderful fifteenth-century script.

“I will make this one of the heirlooms of Hohenzollern” said the Kaiser.

“May God guide you, well-beloved son.”

Hadrian walked that afternoon with Cardinal Semphill on Nomentana, as far as St. Agnes beyond-the-Walls. It was one of those deliberately lovely Roman autumn afternoons, when walking is a climax of crisp joy with the thought of a cup of tea as the fine finial. They talked of books, especially of novels; and His Eminency asserted that the novels of Anthony Trollope gave him on the whole the keenest satisfaction. There was a great deal more in them than generally was supposed, he said. The Pope agreed that they were very pleasant easy reading, deliciously anodynic. His Own preference was for Thackeray’s Esmond. He, however, would not commit Himself to approval of all the works of any one writer, simply because no man was capable of being always at his best. As they passed through Porta Pia into Venti Settembre, Hadrian pointed to the palace on the left of the gate, saying, “Have you ever been there?”

“No, Holiness. At least, not since I’ve been wearing this.” He indicated his vermilion ferraiuola.

“Don’t you think if we asked them very nicely they would give us a cup of tea?”

The cardinal mischievously chuckled. “I am of opinion that the English Ambassador would be very pleased to make Your Holiness’s acquaintance over a cup of tea.”

Hadrian rang the bell. “Semphill,” He said as they waited at the gate, “if there be any ladies about, will you kindly talk to them and leave the Ambassador to Us.”

Sir Francis was at home. And much honoured. So were two secretaries. And no ladies. And there was tea. Cardinal Semphill devoted himself to the secretaries; and told them funny stories about clergymen. They laughed hugely at the tales, (which were witty), and at the wittier clergyman who told them. The Pope mentioned to the Ambassador that He had had a call from the Duke of Königsberg that morning; and drifted-off into an inquiry as to where reliable maps were to be procured. Sir Francis named Stanford of Longacre; and was much interested. Was there any map in particular which His Holiness desired to consult. They were fairly well-off for maps at the embassy. Perhaps the Holy Father would condescend⁠—

“No thank you, Sir Francis. They would ask questions about you in parliament if We were to borrow your maps. Why, Lady Wimborne will have a fit as it is, when she hears that you have entertained the Ten-horned Beast with tea.”

“I am not afraid of that, Holiness.”

“No, of course not. But Stanford will give Us all the information which We need⁠—unless you will tell Us” (the interest concentrated) “what England is going to do in the present crisis?”

“I can tell Your Holiness one thing which She has done; and which will appear in tomorrow morning’s Times. England and Turkey, the two great Muhammedan Powers, have entered into an offensive and defensive alliance today.”

“Which means that England’s interests lie in Asia and Africa; and not in Europe.”

The Ambassador slightly started. “May I know why Your Holiness thinks that?”

Hadrian rose and shook hands. “Because of England’s previous alliance with Japan: because of Her conscious sympathy with the barbaric. Read ‘success’ for ‘sympathy’ in the last sentence, if you prefer it. And please remember that this is not an infallible utterance.”

“It’s an astonishingly smart one, all the same,” said the Ambassador with a genial grin.

“Thank you very much for your tea. Stanford, you said? Goodbye. And, Sir Francis⁠—there are no closed doors in the Vatican.”

Hadrian chattered at large during the remainder of the evening; and industriously dreamed all night, first of certain portents connected with emperors’ knuckles: then of tremendous maps on which one crawled: and finally His usual and favourite dream of being invisible and stark-naked and fitted with great white feathery wings, flying with the movement of swimming among and above men, seeing and seeing and seeing, easily and enormously swooping. In the morning reaction supervened. He was listless: He wanted to be alone. They left Him alone; and during several days He was inaccessible, writing, and burning much writing. The palace, with its fifty separate buildings, its eleven thousand rooms, its fourteen courtyards hummed with the life of a population of a small town. Up in the series of small chambers under the eaves, in the large and lovely pleasaunce on the slopes of the Vatican hill, He found quiet and peace. He thought for hours at a stretch, smoking cigarette after cigarette, gazing out of the window or across autumnal lawns. Sometimes He remained rapt in contemplation of the perfect beauty of His new cross, gently stroking it with delicate finger. A portfolio of vast maps arrived from London. He pinned them on His blank brown walls and pored over them. In the night He often would rise and stand before them till His breast ached and His arms were stiff with the weight of the lamp. He sent a holograph letter to the King of Spain; and received a reply which lightened His brow. He concentrated His mind on the future. He began to form His plans.

At the beginning of November, He signed the decree of canonization of Madame Jehane de Lys, commonly called Joan of Arc; and simultaneously issued the “Epistle to the Germans.” Very few perceived the true inwardness of the paradox. Those Frenchmen who remained Christian were so overjoyed, at the honour accorded to their national heroine, that they failed to appreciate the significance of the “Epistle.” The Germans were so occupied with the contents of the “Epistle,” that the glorification of a Frenchwoman passed unnoted. In England, it was thought that the Pontiff was feeling his way. The Worldly Christian asked what you would expect of a Jesuit; and the Daily Anagraph compared Him to Machiavelli. Certainly The “Epistle to the Germans” was remarkable not so much for its matter as for its suggestion. It was a masterpiece of what Walt Whitman calls revelation by faint indirections. The Kaiser did not know whether to be satisfied or dissatisfied with it. Hadrian praised the Teutonic race for its poetic (in the Greek sense of “creative”) and diligent habits. He dwelled with admiration upon the many benefits which civilization owes to the German constructive faculty. But He indicated the want of the “open air and fresh water” element in all departments, physical and intellectual, of German life. “Scope is what ye need, free movement of mind and body. Stagnation breeds purulence, rancorous, suffocating, sour. Brooding never can bring satisfaction, nor can iron, nor can blood: but only the gold of Love. Wherefore, well-beloved sons, seek your salvation in Love. Love one another first: be patient, knowing that Love is manifest in obedience, and hath exceeding great reward.”