Hadrian the Seventh · Chapter 15 (2/3)

He spoke with fervence. Some savages wondered what the blazes He was driving at. There was a little silence. No one seemed to know how to break it. Then the sparrow-like student appeared with a red chair which he had taken the liberty of extracting from the reception-room; and dragged it behind the Pontiff at the stairhead. It was a welcome interruption. Hadrian sat down; and dismissed Cardinal Carvale with the superiors. He was going to have the college to Himself for half-an-hour. The improvised throne stood alone in the bare corridor: the students clustered up the stairs below it. Hadrian perceived the inevitable odour of hot boy. He produced a sentence wherewith to address them.

“Dear children,” he said, feeling as old as Methuselah for the moment, “do learn to love: don’t be hard, don’t be cruel to any living creature.” And that was all.

He beckoned the dean who came and kneeled before Him: laid His hand on the young man’s head; and blessed him. The others followed in rotation. In a secret voice, He invited each one to ask a favour. Most asked Him to pray for them and held up their beads for a blessing: some asked for the apostolic benediction in the hour of death for themselves and their relations: the fastidious person asked for nothing.

“Nothing?” the Pope whispered.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” (very tenderly)

“Everything, O Sanctity:” the stoic responded with a sob and a stony glare. Hadrian inquired for the number of his room; and put a similar question to the other four whom He had noted. When He had blessed all, He sent them away, and sat alone for a minute or two. Then He went to visit the big boy: who looked at Him bravely, with tearful innocent eyes. To Hadrian, it was wonderful to see this great virile virgin of nineteen. He elicited a not unusual and simple tale: a little Gaelic farm, always Catholic through all persecutions, the third of eight sons, the Vocation at twelve years of age, the mother wanted to confess to her own son. It was idyllic. It would come exquisitely in the objective bucolic manner of Theokritos. The long shapely limbs trembled before Him; the grand shoulders bowed. He gave the boy His Own white sash as a present for his mother: bade him be a good priest; and left him wallowing in happiness. Hadrian stopped in the corridor, disappointed because the lad came from a farm: He had placed him beside the sea, and had conceived a mental image of him, bare-legged, in a blue guernsey, at the rudder of a fishing-smack. But the next, the muscular hobbledehoy, really did come from a farm: his skin had the unmistakable tan of the sun on a wheat-field: and his front was bovine. So was his manner. He was so frightened by the importance of his visitor that he spoke with surliness, and in the voice of a child of thirteen. Hadrian was astonished at the discrepancy between the voice and the speaker: He made him less uncomfortable by substituting an official manner for His friendly one (which the hobbledehoy could not understand) asking his name and ordinary questions about his status and addressing him as Mr. Macleod. It was a magnificent animal, incapable of the finer sentimental emotions, likely to conceal fat in a cassock (or in corduroy, if on a farm) before the age of thirty. Privately the Pope wondered what in the world was the sign of this one’s Vocation. He Himself could perceive none: but then He was inexperienced; and the youth was secretive. Hadrian tried to draw him out. Was he happy? Oh yes. Did he want anything? Oh no. To what diocese did he belong? To Devana. When did he expect the priesthood? A look of wild terror came into the grey eyes. Hadrian perceived a clue; and pressed on, repeating his inquiry. “I never will be,” the creature shrilled.

“Why not?”

No answer: but a rush to the bedside and a face hidden. Hadrian took him by the shoulders, and made an act of will. “Why not?”

“I cannot:” and then the fountains of the great deep were discovered. His veneer of English peeled off: he spoke with the sibilate dental, the clipped deliberation of the Gael. No one ever had told him. He did not know till a month ago. No one knew. He had not mentioned it to his confessor, because it was not a sin. He read of it in Lehmkuhl and Togni. He would be obliged to go back and work on his uncle’s farm where he had been brought up. They belonged to the Free Kirk there. He was an orphan. It was his uncle by marriage. Hadrian looked steadily into his eyes:

“Is this the truth, as though you were speaking before kings?”

“It wass the truth ass though she wass speaking pefore kings,” the response came in the strongest form of asseveration known to a Gael, deliberately selected and offered by Him Who knew so little, and so much of so many little things. Hadrian comforted him; and bade him pack his bag. His secret was safe. Vatican was the place for him, until some sort of useful happy life could be planned for him.

The Pope very slowly went-up the last two flights of stairs to the top corridor. No man can come into a human tragedy without some vibrance of sentiment; and Hadrian’s senses, keen by nature, were intensified by art. He entered the room of the black-haired Erse, who most certainly had kissed the blarney-stone. Och! Blessins on the Howly Forther’s blessid head and might the howly saints receive Him into glory. The Pope wrote a blessing in a garish birthday book; and got out of the room as quickly as possible. That such a lovely bit of colour and litheness should be so abject on the floor! His Holiness shut down the lid on memory; and knocked at another door.

“Come.”

He entered a large bare square room with a window which displayed the City from the Quirinal to St. Peter’s. He noted the bed, the chest of drawers whose top was arranged as a dressing-table, the writing table, book case, and two chairs. A bath stood under the bed; and there were two large tin cans of water against the wall. The fastidious inmate offered a chair; and remained standing in the Presence. Hadrian signed to him to be seated also.

“Dear son, you are one of the unhappy ones. Will you tell Us your grief?”

“Sanctity, I have not complained.”

“No. But, complain.”

“I will not complain.” The Pope liked him for that; and for an air of distinction which was not breeding. Dialectic should be tried.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“In which month were you born?”

“In July.”

“In England?”

“In England.” A rapid horoscopical calculation let Hadrian know the lines on which to proceed.

“You find your environment disagreeable?”

“All environments are more or less disagreeable to me.”

“All which you have tried up to the present, perhaps. Perhaps the future may be more propitious.”

“Sanctity, I earnestly hope so: but I do not expect it.”

“Why not?”

“I do not know.”

“Don’t you find that your circumstances influence your conduct? Don’t you find that they prevent you from doing yourself justice?”

“Always.”

“In this college, you have found no kindred spirit?”

“That may be my fault.”

“More likely your misfortune⁠—and misfortunes are not faults, no matter what fools say. Note that. Note also that misfortunes may be overcome.⁠—But, they do not understand you here?”

“No.”

“They mock you?⁠—They do. Why did they mock you today?”

“They did not mock me today.”

“Yesterday?”

“Because I carry those two cans full of water up two-hundred-and-two steps every day.”

“Do you mean to say that there are no baths in this college yet?”

“We may have footbaths once a week, if we apply to the infirmarian. There is nothing else. And I like to tub decently.”

“No doubt they say that you must be a very unclean person to need so much washing?”

“Sanctity, You are quoting the rector.”

The Pope abruptly laughed. “Have they ever put a snake⁠—a snake⁠—in your water-cans?”

“No they have not done that.”

“They did in Ours.”

The distance between the two now became considerably lessened. The fastidious person began to feel more at ease. His fastidy evidently was only a chevaux de frise for the discomfiture of intruders; and this delicate tender inquisitor was no intruder, but a very welcome⁠—Apostle.

The Pope continued. “Isn’t it very absurd?”

“It is very absurd. Also, it is very disconcerting.”

“Of course you try not to let it disconcert you?”

“I try: but I fail. My heart always is on my sleeve; and the daws peck it. At present, I am trying to contain myself and to use myself in isolation.”

“That they call ‘sulkiness’?”

“Yes.”

“How much longer must you remain here?”

“Perhaps one year: perhaps two.”

“Can you persecute, can you hold out so long?”

“Oh, I will hold out. Nothing shall deter me. Sanctity, it is not that which makes me afraid.”

“Dear son, what makes you afraid?”

“The afterwards. These people are to be my superiors or equals⁠—colleagues for life. I am not afraid of poverty or wickedness among the people to whom I am to minister: but, my brother-priests⁠—I shall be at the orders of some of these people, my rectors, my diocesans even. That makes me afraid.”

“Did you not know what kind of people⁠—”

“Yes, I did know: but I did not realize it till I came here.”

“Yet you choose to persevere?”

“Sanctity, I must. I am called.”

“You are sure of that?”

“It is the only thing in all the world of which I am sure.”

“Do you always live on bread and water?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think the food beastly. I have been into the kitchen; and I have seen⁠—things. I am afraid to eat anything except boiled eggs. They cannot deposit⁠—sputum inside the shells of boiled eggs. But the servants complained of the extra trouble in boiling eggs especially for me. The bread is not made in the college. In order not to be singular, I eat and drink what I can eat and drink of that which is set before me; and I am deemed more singular than ever.”

“Have you said this to the rector?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like bread and water?”

“I think them both exceedingly nasty.”

“Does it affect your health?”

“Not in the least. It makes my head ache. But I am as strong as a panther.”

“Why ‘panther’?”

“I really don’t know. It seemed to be the just word.”

“And you believe that you are able to go on?”

“I intend to go on.”

“You know that this college is not the place for you?”

“I suppose not: but my diocesan sent me here; and I intend to serve my sentence.”

“Dear son, what is your ambition?”

“Priesthood.”

“With a small patrimony, you would be on a more satisfactory footing here; and afterward you need not take the mission oath. The mere fact of the possession of a patrimony would purchase courtesy and consideration for you during your college-life: and would give you an opportunity of cultivating your individuality independently when you reach the priesthood.”

“Oh, yes. But I am a church-student.”

“So were We.”

“And Your Sanctity persevered?”

“Yes.”

“So will I.”

“What is your name?”

“William Jameson.”

Hadrian took a sheet of paper and wrote the apostolic benediction to William Jameson. “You will like to have this? Persevere, dear son; and pray for Us as for your brother-in-the-Lord. And⁠—do you know Cardinal Sterling? Well: come to Vatican whenever you please and make his acquaintance. He will expect you. Goodbye. God bless you.”

The Pope went down to the bald old amiability, who was correct and mild enough in expressing a profound sense of the honour. Hadrian spoke to him of himself; and found that a public-school, university, and Anglican parsonage, had dulled what capability of emotion he ever had had, or had taught him the rare art of self-concealment. He was a capital specimen of the ordinary man, stinted, limited: one whose instinct prevented him from asserting an individuality. But he was a gentleman; and a Christian of a kind, actuated by the best intentions, paralysed by the worst conventions.

“We wish to speak to you of Jameson:” at length the Apostle said.

“Ah, poor fellow!”

“Now why do you say that, Mr. Guthrie?”

“Well, Holiness, I’m afraid he’s in a most uncomfortable position. I’m sure this is not the place for him. You see he doesn’t get on with the men.”

“Does he quarrel with them?”

“Oh, dear me no! But he avoids them.”

“Perhaps he has his reasons.”

“Well, I’m afraid he has. But then it doesn’t do to show them. I often tell him so⁠—try to chaff him into a more come-at-able frame of mind, you know, Holy Father.”

“That hardly would be the way.”

“No I’m afraid it wasn’t. He’s so very sensitive, you see. Why he actually got quite angry with me.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he said that he really did think I ought to have known better.”

“And what did you say then?”

“Oh I called him a⁠—but I couldn’t possibly tell You what I called him, Holy Father.”

“Why not?”

“Well really it was too dreadful. I’ve been regretting it ever since.”

“What did you call him?”

“Oh it’s quite impossible that I should repeat it to You, Holy Father. I should never be able to hold up my head again.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Guthrie. We desire to know it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what You’ll think of me, Holy Father: but the fact is I went so far as to call him a⁠—no, really I cannot⁠—well⁠—I’m sure I can’t think what possessed me to use such an opprobrious term but I was excessively annoyed You see at the moment and the word slipped out before I was quite conscious of what I was saying⁠—”

“What did you call him?”

“Well really if You must have it, Holy Father, I called him a Goose!”

“Oh.⁠ ⁠… And what did he do to you?”

“Burst into a roar of laughter and shut his door in my face.”

“Did you feel pained?”

“Well perhaps just a little at the time: but not when I came to think it over. You see I really can’t help feeling sorry for him.”

“Why?”

“Well because really he must be very unhappy, You know, Holy Father.”

“In your opinion, Mr. Guthrie, he himself is the cause of his own unhappiness?”

“Quite so, Holy Father. You see he doesn’t seem to be able to rub along with the other men. He can’t come down to their level so to speak. He keeps himself too much to himself: won’t or can’t conciliate the least little bit. Of course they all think it’s pride on his part; and they pay him out with practical jokes of a rather doubtful kind I’m afraid. He’s good and kind and clever and all that sort of thing: but he hasn’t the slightest idea of making himself popular as a church-student should be among church-students. You see, he’s what I may call (if I may be quite frank about him) such a Beastly Fool. The rector doesn’t like it I’m sure.”

“Then perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the fault is not so much in the man as in his environment?”

“That’s what I’ve always said, Holy Father. His present environment is quite unsuitable for a man of that kind. He must find it extremely unpleasant.”

“Mr. Guthrie, won’t you try to make it more pleasant for him? Bear with him: defend him: don’t seem to form a party with him against the others: but don’t give the others the idea that you approve of their attitude to him. Will you do as much as that?”

“I’m sure I’ll do anything in my power, Holy Father.”

“That at least is in your power.⁠—God bless you.”

The Pope went on to the reception room to fetch Cardinal Carvale. Not to neglect the superiors, (although He was very tired) He allowed them to show Him rather dubious and very ugly treasures; and tolerated half-an-hour of vapid conversation. They thought Him so nice. He was bored to death. After conferring the usual favours, He obtained a whole playday for the college: notified the rector that He was carrying off a student: arranged for Mr. Jameson to visit Cardinal Sterling; and took His departure. He put His acquisition into a victoria, and bade him drive to the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square.

“Dreadful place!” Hadrian ejaculated to Carvale as they turned down Tritone. “Do you think you could make it decent if you were rector?”

“I would try, Holiness.”

“Well: We do not see how We can make you rector, because of Monsignor What’s-his-name. But you might do something as protector⁠—”