XI

Dear Mrs. Crowe,

Secret and Confidential.

Please burn it when you have concluded reading.

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.

“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.”

An English Catholic painter came to paint the Pope’s portrait. Hadrian knew him for a vulgar and officious liar: detested him; and, at the first application, had refused to sit to him. His Holiness was not at all in love with His Own aspect. It annoyed Him because it just missed the ideal which He admired; and He did not want to be perpetuated. Also, He loathed the cad’s Herkomeresque-cum-Camera esque technique and his quite earthy imagination: from that palette, the spiritual, the intellectual, the noble, could not come. But, He thought of the man’s pinched asking face, of his dreadful nagging wife, of his children⁠—of the rejection of all his pictures by the Academy this year, of the fact that he was being supplanted by younger grander minds. Ousted from livelihood! Horrible! Love your enemies! Ouf! The Pontiff would give six sittings of one hour each, on condition that He might read all the time.

The privilege alone was an inestimable advertisement. Alfred Elms looked upon himself as likely to become the fashion. Hadrian sat in the garden for six siestas; and He read in Plato’s Phaidōn, which is the perfection of human language, until His lineaments were composed in an expression of keen gentle fastidious rapture. Elms’s professional efforts at conversation were annulled quietly and incisively. The Pope blessed him and handfuls of rosaries at the end of every sitting. Sometimes His Holiness was so elated with the beauty of the Greek of His book, that He even was able with a little self-compulsion to utter a few kindly and intelligent criticisms of the painter’s work. That was startlingly real, mirror-like. The varied whiteness of marble and flannel and vellum and the healthy pallor of flesh, gained purity from the notes of the reddish-brown hair and the translucent violet of the amethyst. The clean light of the thing was admirably rendered. The painter could delineate, and tint with his hand, that which his eyes beheld, with blameless accuracy. What his eyes did not see, the soul, the mind, the habit of his model, he as accurately omitted. Hadrian made him glad with a compliment on the perfection of the connection between his directive brain and his executive fingers. At the end of the last sitting also He gave him two hundred pounds, and the picture, and a written indulgence in the hour of death. The painter went away quite happy, and with his fortune made. He never knew how vehemently his work was detested, how profoundly he himself was scorned.

August was deliciously warm. The Pope moved the Court for a few weeks to the palace on the Nemorensian lake which the Prince of Cinthyanum lent. It was a vast barrack of a palace. Although three sides of it actually were in the little city, and a public thoroughfare pierced its central archway, yet it suited Hadrian admirably. Approached through numerous antechambers and picture-galleries, there was a huge room frescoed in simulation of a princely tent. Here they placed a throne for receptions. There was a great balcony high above the porch, facing a two-mile avenue of elms. When the faithful congregated (as they often did) the Pope could show Himself. There were innumerable chambers of state and private suites, where the curial cardinals took up their abode. But high on the fourth side of the palace, with no access except by several little private stairs, Hadrian found an apartment of five small rooms which was quite secluded. From its windows, (the palace stood on the crest of the cliff) a stone might be dropped into the fathomless lake three hundred feet below; and, beyond the lake, the eye soared to Diana’s Forest of oaks and the spurs of the Alban Mount. A private stair and passage led to the incomparable (and almost unknown) gardens, which crowned the rocks with verdure and descended by winding paths to the mirrored waters of the lake. Here the Pontiff established Himself, with the noise of the world of men and its limitations on the one side; and, on the other, quiet and illimitable space wherein the soul might spread wings and explore the empyrean.

Halfway down the cliff, a little ruined shrine stood in the garden. The broken grey-brown tracery of the window framed an exquisite panorama of water and distant hills, brilliantly blue and green. The nook stood away from the main path; and was quite enclosed by sun-kissed foliage, and canopied with vines and ivy. Hadrian was spending a morning here, alone with cigarettes and the Epinikia of Pindaros and His thoughts. The air was fragrant with the perfume of southernwood and the generous sun. He rested in a low cane-chair, soaking Himself in light and peace. His eyes were turned to the far distant shore where the great grove of ilex cast deep tralucid shadows in the water. A tiny slip of pink shot from sunlight to shade: another followed: two tiny splashes of silver spray arose, and vanished: two blue-black dots appeared in the rippled mirror. Hadrian envied the young swimmers. He remembered all the wild unfettered boundless sensuous joy of only a little while ago. Was the fisherman still down there with his boat and the brown boy who rowed it? He wondered what the world would say if the Pope were to swim in sunlit Nemi⁠—or in moonlit. Ah, the mild tepidity of moonlit water, the clean cold caress of moonlit air! Not that He cared jot or tittle for what the world might say⁠—personally. No. But⁠—No. If He were to ask for the use of the boat, tongues would clack. And He could not go alone with the deliberate intention. Still⁠—didn’t Peter swim in Galilee. Weren’t the Attendolo gardens private? Some night He might stroll down to the shore: the water was fathomless at once: there need be no wading with the ripples horribly creeping up one’s flesh⁠—Yaff! But the toads on the path, and the lizards and the serpents in the grass⁠—oh no. Then, thus it must be: the Pope must not go to seek His pleasure: if God should deign to afford His Vicegerent the recreation of swimming, an opportunity would be provided. Otherwise⁠—

Little footsteps pattered down the glade. His retreat was about to be invaded.

Three children burst through the shrubs⁠—and stood transfixed. They were a couple of black-eyed black-haired girls, and a very pale-coloured very delicately-articulated slim and stalwart baby-boy with dark-star-like eyes and brows superbly drawn. All Hadrian’s fearful terror of children paralyzed Him. These limpid glances made Him feel such a hackneyed old sinner. But He showed no outward tremor, looking gently and genially at His visitors, and wondering what (in the name of all the gods) He ought to say or do. Three nurses and an athletic tailor-made lady added their presence.

“A thousand pardons, sir,” a nurse exclaimed;⁠—“O Santissimo Padre!”⁠—Six knees flopped on the ground.

“Missy,” the boy announced, “I have found a white father. Why have I seen a white father before never?” His utterance was very deliberate, and his English quite devoid of accented syllables.

The tailor-made lady rose to the occasion with an intuition which only could be feminine and a self-possession which only could be English. She bowed to the Pope, saying “Your Holiness will pardon the intrusion. The children escaped us at the fork in the path⁠—”

“But it is a pleasure,” Hadrian hypocritically put in: “it is a pleasure,” He repeated, seeing that she was about to withdraw her charges; “and it would be a greater pleasure to know the names of these little ones.”

“The Prince Filiberto, the Princess Yolanda, and the Princess Mafalda,” the lady replied: “the Queen is giving a children’s picnic in Lady Demochede’s woods; and we took the liberty of trespassing here in search of wildflowers. Of course we had no idea⁠—”

“Missy,” said the boy again, “I wish to speak to this white father.” He was standing with his exquisite fair little legs wide-apart, his little body splendidly poised; and his glance was the glance of a young lion.

“Is it permitted?” Hadrian inquired of the governess.

“Oh surely;” she assented with perfection of manner.

“I wish to ask this white father whether he can speak English words like me;” the youngster proclaimed, keeping at a distance until he had reconnoitred the position.

“Don’t be silly ’Berto, of course he can. This is Papa Inglese, I think;” said the Princess Yolanda with the daintiest air of regality. She was a very stately little person, and quite aware of herself; and her great black eyes were wonderful. Her younger sister sucked a silent thumb.

“Then I wish to know whether I may kiss that ring⁠—the big one. I always kiss rings when fathers wear them,” her brother continued. He quite ingenuously offered his little token of regard, giving reasons for the same in the manner of one who is too noble to take advantage of ignorance or even of blind good-nature. Hadrian had not the faintest notion of what to say. He never in His life had spoken to a Royal Highness; and the childhood of the child had tied His tongue. He would not have hesitated for one moment to converse with an angel: indeed He would have been rather more than garrulous. But with a human baby boy! He extended His right hand.

The princelet took it: looked at it: looked from the great gold Little-Peter-in-a-Boat to the great amethyst; and pondered them. “I think I will kiss them both;” he said at length. The full soft rose-leaf of his lips flitted from the pontifical to the episcopal ring. He lifted his bright head; and boldly looked into the Pope’s eyes, with a smile disclosing the most wonderful little teeth⁠—with a gaze which told of a pact of friendship sealed.

“God bless you, little boy;” said the Apostle.

“Oh, He can speak my English words!” the youngster shouted with delight. “Yolanda, come and kiss these rings, and hear Him say ‘God bless you, little boy’ again⁠—no⁠—girl I mean, Missy dear;” with a side-look at the governess.

The princess came forward like a lady; and paid her respects. Her brother intently watched.

“God bless you, Princess,” said the Apostle.

“Oh but listen,” the Prince of Naples shrieked, jumping up and down; “He knows all the words ezattually, just like my own father. He said to me ‘boy,’ and to Yolanda ‘princess.’ Now go you too, Mafalda, and I will listen again.”

The tiny maid went. “God bless you, little Princess;” the Apostle said.

“That is right,” the boy cried: “he said ‘little princess’ because⁠—” There he stopped a moment. Then, “White Father, why for have You⁠—no⁠—why did not You say ‘prince’ to me? I am Prince Filiberto, aged five, Quirinale, Rome. Do You know that, White Father?”

“Yes, Prince. But you are a boy.”

“Well, I think so. Also I am a sailor, like Uncle Luigi. Cannot You see that, White Father? Do You know what thing is a sailor?” He stood by the chair, leaning against Hadrian’s knee, deliciously rosily maritime in white flannel.

“Oh yes: We know many sailors:” the Pope responded.

“Are they English?” The question possessed importance. His Royal Highness evidently was by way of verifying certain information.

“Most of them are English.”

“My father says that all good sailors are English, or like English.”

“And are you a good sailor?” The Pope switched the argument away from the Majesty of Italy, for reasons.

“But yes, I am very good this morning. But I always am a sailor⁠—even when I am⁠—not quite good;” the candid baby said with a little hesitation.

“Do you like being ‘not quite good’?”

“Oh but yes⁠—I should say, sometimes. I think I like it then: but not now. No⁠—I do not like being ‘not quite good.’ ” He settled the matter like that; and nobly lifted himself upon it.

“Won’t you try to be a good sailor?” (Hadrian hated Himself for preaching. But such a chance! To make a white mark on the heir to a throne!)

“But of course I always try⁠—except⁠—” and there seemed to be the difficulty. The child drooped a little.

“You always do try to be a good sailor⁠—and to give no trouble⁠—”

“Give no trouble? What not to father?” the prince inquired, as though the very notion clashed with his preconceived idea of the uses of fathers.

“No: not to your father.”

“Nor to Missy?” The round face became a little longer.

“No: never to ladies on any account.”

“To whom then may I give trouble, if I may not give it to father nor to Missy?” He felt that he had put a poser.

“Don’t give it.”

“What not to anybody?” This was a matter, a dreadful matter, which anyhow must be pursued to the bitter end.

“Not to anybody.”

The child’s great brave eyes considered the Apostle attentively: then they wandered to his sisters, to the governess, to the nurses; and came back again. Hadrian returned his gaze, very gently, quite inflexibly. The boy must learn his lesson now. Prince Filiberto pondered the novel doctrine from all his little points of view; and at last he grasped the consequence like a man.

“Ah well, then I suppose I had better keep it myself. I am sorry that I gave it to you, Missy, yesterday.”

Hadrian experienced the strangest-possible rigour of the throat. Another moment and something in Him would have spoiled all. He rose: blessed His visitors; and passed swiftly away through the trees to the left.

“Missy, I am liking that white father. When shall I see Him again?” came after Him in the incomparable voice of innocence.

He quickly went up the winding path, along the private passage, up the stairs to the terrace. He dragged a chair out there and sat down. “God!” He exclaimed aloud, with tremendous expiration, to the wide expanse of water and earth and sky which yawned before Him. Tears welled in His eyes: and the constriction of His throat was relaxed. He took His handkerchief from His sleeve. Thank heaven He was alone! And He became calm and analytical and infinitely happy. Verses of Melagros of Gadara streamed through his mind:

Our Lady of desire brought me to thee, Theokles,
me to thee;
and delicate-sandalled Love hath stripped and strewed me
at thy feet:

a lightning-flash of his sweet beauty!
flames from his eyes he darteth!
Hath Love revealed a Child who fighteth with thunderbolts?

the splendour of twin fires did scorch me through and through:
one flame indeed was from the sun, and one was love
from a child’s eyes.

His ecstasy was admiration of the lovely little person and the noble little soul. The clean and vivid candour, the delicate proportion, the pure tint, aroused in Him a desire to own. The frank self-hood, the unerring truth, the courageous tranquillity of self-renunciation, aroused in Him a sense of emulation. He, the Supreme Pontiff, was prostrate before the seraphic majesty of the Child. And, as though a curtain had been lifted, He had a peep into the human heart. Now, He thought that He could see and understand one cause, perhaps the chief cause, of human society⁠—the ability to say “This is mine, mine: for I did it.” He began to understand that the human mind must have external as well as internal operation⁠—and much beside. As for Himself, He was making experiment of the first personal emotion of undiluted enjoyment of human society which He could remember. “Then I can love, after all;” He reflected. Though He mixed freely and absolutely independently with all men, yet, in the tender inner soul of Him, He shrank more shudderingly than ever from the contact. Every single act of urbanity, of courtesy, was a violent effort to Him. His feeling for His fellow-creatures was repugnance pure and simple. But, in the case of this yellow-haired mannikin, there was a difference. He would like to own such a radiant little piece of the Divine-Human as that fair Prince Filiberto. He would appreciate the honour and the joy of tending such a treasure. But He could not seek; and it never had been offered. Perhaps He would shrink if it were offered. That was His peculiar nature. Had He ever wished to exert for intimate relations with anyone? No: plainly no. He was a thing apart. More, He was a thing to be avoided. He remembered how many times he aimlessly had strolled through London, watching His species gambolling in Piccadilly, or at the Marble Arch on a Sunday where the fierce lanky spiky sallow Anarchist raved, and the coy Catholic barrister cracked correct jests out of a shiny black exercise-book, and the bright-eyed clean Church-Army youth spoke with genuine conviction. He had moved through partner-seeking mobs everywhere, lazily, vigilantly, studiously: yet no one ever had addressed him. He was seen. He was avoided. Yes, He was a thing apart. That was His trouble. And⁠—what did the boy say?⁠—“I had better keep it myself.” The content of that saying was to Hadrian just like a thunderbolt. It was Love⁠—yes, that was quintessential Love, from the clear eyes and the stainless lips of childhood⁠—to keep one’s troubles oneself. For in that way one relieved others. And the Servant of the servants of God must⁠—He continued to sit in the sunlight in a sort of rapture. The lake and the hills and the turquoise sky faded from His vision. He was alone with His thoughts, His ideals, His soul.⁠ ⁠… After the noon-angelus, He went in to His solitary meal. Later in the afternoon, when He had slept and washed, and put on fresh garments, He descended to chat with His court. His demeanour was observed to be more warm, more human. His eyes had an unusual and more usual glow. He did not seem to be so very very far away.

“I guess the air of this village suits you, Holy Father,” said young Cardinal Percy. “You look like twenty cents this evening.”

“Yes, the air is delicious enough: but it is not the air.” Hadrian narrated the incident of the morning, ending, “and We have recognized in Ourself a new and unknown power, a perfectly strange capability. We have made experience of a feeling which⁠—well, which We suppose⁠—at any rate will pass for⁠—Love.”

He plunged again into business. He had noted three men for a purpose. Archbishop Ilario della Valla was a young and exquisitely polished prelate, son of an ambassador, thoroughly expert in the English language and habit. Signor Gargouille Grice was one of those nondescripts devoid of Divine Vocation, who fondly are believed to occupy an important place at the pontifical court, (equivalent at least to the English office of Lord Chamberlain) but, which in reality is that of a flunkey. Prince Guido Attendolo was a young Italian of very generous birth, who, as younger son of a younger son not overburdened with wealth, led an inconspicuous impotent uninteresting life. With the idea of giving these three a chance, the Pope dispatched them to America with the red hat for the American Archbishop Erin, whom He named Cardinal-presbyter of the Title of St. Mary-of-the-People. It was merely an incident, intended to keep them from stagnation, to give them that scope which human nature must have if it is to do itself justice, if it is not to become a public nuisance. At the same time, He was satisfied that the sympathy of the prelate, the antiquity of the decurial chamberlain, and the urbanity (to say nothing of the perfect Greek profile) of the prince, would recommend them as ambassadors from the oldest power to the newest nation. On the arrival of the Apostolic Ablegate in New York, Hadrian published the “Epistle to the Americans.” He praised their exuberant vigour and individualistic unconventionality, while He warned them of their obligations to their race and of the evils of oligarchical tyranny. He begged them not to live in the desperate hurry which was instanced in their carelessness in details. He advised them not to be too proud to learn from the history of other nations, dwelling on the principle of the intermittent tendency of human nature. He pointed out that, as effect is due to cause, and as the scope and quantity of human ideas is very far from being illimitable, so, as human types recur, human ideas and the situations produced by them are bound to recur. “Yet,” He continued, “human nature itself, when inspired by Divine Grace, being so very fine and so very potent a force, is capable of immense development. It has Will, Free-will, which, rightly directed can rule itself, can control natural laws, can dispose events.” Wherefore, He admonished the Americans to divest themselves of juvenile arrogance and selfishness, in order that (having learned the causes which produce effects) they might know the rules and play the game. He spoke to them, not only with the authority of His apostolature, but with the affection of a comrade who wished to serve them from the experience (inherited and acquired) of a member of the older nations. He concluded with delicious slyness, “The young ones think the old are fools: the old ones know the young ones are.”

America was openly delighted, not only by the consideration which the Pope showed in addressing Her next to England but, by the pungent vivid validity of His remarks. She said that He had a dead cinch on things, that He was on to His job, that as a skypilot He suited Her to a gnat’s bristle; and She began to regard Him with close attention.

The death of Francis Joseph, Austrian Emperor and King of Hungary, in September, had its not unexpected consequences. The confusion of Europe was worse confounded by conflict between Hungarian national sentiment and the Pan-germanic League. Francis Joseph’s successor did not inspire his multilingual subjects with the same respectful devotion as that which had been paid to the old Emperor on account of the triple prestige of his dignity, his long reign, his many sorrows. Hungary cried for a Magyar king. Bohemia cried for a Czech king. Russian Poland also cried aloud for a Polish king; and German Poland would have cried with her, had she dared. As it was, she opened longing eyes and waited. The Germans of Austria appealed to the German Emperor to come to their aid and take them into his mailed fist. The Habsburgh dynasty was tottering. Serbia was a small hell. Turkey and Romania viewed the prospect of Germany’s expansion with favour: Turkey, because she found it easy to outwit the Teuton: Romania, because the power by whose favour she existed was possessed by devils. Albania, Montenegro, and Greece, strongly disapproved: they prized their individual national existence, and the idea of being reduced to dependency upon the Gothic Michael did not suit them. The distracted state of Austria, and her inability to keep her obligations to Germany and Italy, caused the lapse of the Triple Alliance. Yet Italy made no sign and Germany made no sign. There was an interval of intense and silent vigilance.

Hadrian read in the Times that Signor Panciera, Italian Ambassador at the Court of St. James’s, was leaving town for Rome for a few weeks. Cardinal Fiamma sought-out His Excellency; and brought him privately and unofficially to the Pope’s apartment. His Holiness was very happy to renew acquaintances with so genial and so solid and so trusty a man. (It was comparatively easy to love such an one.) The ambassador bowed; and wondered what was expected. The Pope put it patently. He was profoundly interested in affairs: He pried into no secrets: He did desire to collect facts and opinions from experts and secular statesmen: the six ambassadors left to the Vatican were sterile: if Signor Panciera could see his way to converse of current events, without betraying his sovereign’s confidence, but simply as between two men whose motives were pure and patriotic, he would confer a favour upon, (or, if he preferred it the other way, he would render a service to) the Pope. His Excellency bowed in reciprocation of the honour. Privately noting that His Holiness was concealing nothing, and (in fact) was unable to conceal, he thought that there would be no difficulty. This was not a matter of diplomacy or statecraft. The crystalline candour of the Pope made Him negligible as a statesman: as a mere man He was charming, perfectly transparent: He wanted, not state-secrets but, the opinion of a man-of-affairs upon affairs. Signor Panciera was quite delighted. The state of Europe as revealed in the newspapers was passed under review. His Excellency thought that Germany was looking east and west rather than elsewhere. What could be expected? Naturally she would look that way where were her two natural enemies. As for Austria⁠—peuh!⁠—a secondary matter. Austria would not be touched by Germany as long as danger threatened from France and Russia. Italy? Well, Italy now was independent. No longer bound to Germany and Austria, Italy’s attitude was that of the lion on guard (in the words of the immortal Dante).

“Naturally,” Hadrian interpolated, “Italy would watch events and direct her policy in accordance with her interest.”

“But securely,” the ambassador responded.

The Pontiff spoke of Spain. Signor Panciera chopped his right wrist with his left hand. Spain was finished. Portugal? Portugal was English. England? England was England. The Pope and the ambassador produced a smile apiece: the one meant triumphant pride of race: the other, boundless and intelligent admiration. Hadrian swooped eastwards: the Balkan States? His Excellency began to discriminate: that little group of separate sovereignties was very difficult. He seemed to hesitate, to pick his words:⁠—of course the subject interested him very greatly. The Pope was quite singularly still. Now and again, as His massive dark guest passed Him in pacing, He plumped in a question. The Balkan States? Signor Panciera strode on toward the window, as though seeking the response there: came back: began a reply: returned to the window: came back again with a fresh half-dozen of unilluminating words. Hadrian went to one of his cupboards: took out two little brown bagatelle-balls; and placed them in the royal ambassador’s hands. “Your Excellency’s aid to conversation,” He purred with a recondite smile. “Don’t be discomposed. All men have some trick of this kind. Ours is to play with Our rings or to push up Our glasses. Your friend Fiamma plaits the fringe of his sash. The Cardinal-Dean strokes the mother-of-pearl disk which stands on his wig for the tonsure. The Secretary of State munches his new teeth. And you like to click a pair of bagatelle-balls, if We rightly remember. You were saying that that little group of separate sovereignties was very difficult. Because of their present autonomy?”

Click-click-click went the balls on the brown palm: and the ambassador tralated their clicking. “Yes Holiness, for that reason: but also, I think, because they are racially distinct from the nations with which they expect to be incorporated.”

“Russia, Germany, Austria, Turkey, for example?”

(Click) “I think we may neglect Russia.”

“Yes? In the case of Romania?”

“I think that Romanian sentiment has veered round toward Germany.”

“Well now, let us ignore opinions; and go to these racial differences of which you speak.”

“I am of opinion that the Romanian people find themselves in sympathy with the German peoples,” Signor Panciera persisted.

“Bulgaria then?”

Signor Panciera took two or three journeys to the window and back, vigorously clicking the balls. “Holiness, You do not ask for my opinion; and I only can give You the speculations of an amateur ethnologist.” (Click-click) “I have⁠—” (Click) “I can tell You what my studies have taught me⁠—no more.”

“But that is most interesting, Signore. We are all students. Some are anxious to learn: some are not: but both are better off than the man who knows that he has nothing more to learn. Tell Us what your studies have taught you.”

“I really believe that the principalities south of the Danube contain the descendants of those Byzantines who were pushed northward by the incursion of Turks in the fifteenth century.”

“Why?”

(Click) “First from physiognomy:” (Click) “second from the structure of their languages.”

“Wonderful! And you have noted points of similarity?”

“I will go further than that, Holiness. I ought to say that my attention was attracted to this subject by my Lord the King, who, you know, deigned to marry a Montenegrin Princess. His Majesty used to speak much at one time on this point to me and also to the Minister of Public Instruction⁠—”

“That is Signor Cabelli?”

“Surely. We examined the matter for His Majesty; and our investigations all seemed to point to the fact that the Turks, in coming from Asia, swept across the Byzantine Empire in a westerly and northerly direction. Then, examining the outlets and the fringes, we found Byzantine characteristics all along the northern boundary of Turkey, that is to say not in Bulgaria which is Slav, but in Albania, Herzegovina, Bosnia, and Montenegro; and, more, we found them along the Adriatic coast of Italy. Your Holiness will see that these places are of a contiguity which would render them likely refuges for the Christians who fled before, or were expelled by, the Muslim.”

“Yes.”

“There is one thing more. We found traces of an earlier migration than the Byzantine. We believe that in Eastern Italy from Taranto to Ortona, and also in Southern Albania, may be seen the lineal descendants of the Athenians of Perikles’ day.”

“But Greece, Excellency?”

“Holiness, the Greeks of today are degenerate from the dirty-knuckled Laconians crossed with the Ottoman Infidel, their conquistators.”

“That is splendid, Signore. And it marches with an opinion which We formed some dozen years ago, at least in regard to your Italian Greeks. We have seen those with Our Own eyes. In Apulia, for instance, the Elgin Marbles have their living counterfeits: the charcoal-burners and the fishermen look as though they had stepped out of the Frieze of the Parthenon. Once We heard a fisherman summon his boy by the word ‘Páddy’⁠—to give it an English form. An Italian would have cried ‘Putto.’ But ‘Páddy,’⁠—what vocative is that but Παιδε, pronounced as Alkibiades would have pronounced it? Oh, We see your point. And is your Lord the King still interested in the subject?”

“I believe that His Majesty is intensely interested. I hope I may venture to repeat the corroboration which Your Holiness has given me. I am sure that His Majesty⁠—”

“By all means. Of course you merely will repeat the conversation. You will not intrude Us before the King’s Majesty in Our apostolic character: but merely⁠—”

“Your Holiness’s wish shall be respected.”

“But to resume:⁠—We agree to identify those states south of the Danube with the Byzantines in general; and Montenegro and South Albania with the Greeks in particular. What about North Albania?”

(Click) “That is Turkish.”

“All Albania is Turkish.”

“But South Albania is Christian. And all Albania, Christian and Muslim, reverences Madonna⁠—Panagia, Παναγια, ‘Lady of All,’ they call her.”

“How very extraordinary! Well now let us take their present situation. Suppose, Signore Panciera, that we reverse our positions. Instead of hearing your opinion, We will state Ours; and you shall comment on it. Is that fair? Is that agreeable?”

“Most fair: most agreeable. I always learn from Englishmen and I shall learn from Your Holiness.”

“Good. We believe that Montenegro is happy and contented under the paternal rule of Prince Nicholas.”

(Click-click-click) “That is so, Holiness.”

“We hear that Albania is shaping well under Prince Ghin Kastriotis.”

(Click: a walk to the window and back; and more clicks) “Since the murder of Abdul Hamid, and the erection of Albania into a principality, progress has been astounding. The beautiful country, (click) the splendid people, are a prize to any ruler. Sultan Ismail is the only cloud in the sky. He does not approve of the loss of that slice of his empire. But Albania will take care of herself.”

“Serbia, and her yearning for the restoration of the Serbian Empire?”

“Impossible. A nation which murders two kings in four years cannot be an Empire.”

“Quite impossible. Bulgaria, a country of heretics of the most notorious and dreadful kind, atrocious brigands to a man, ruled (or rather not ruled) by a foreigner who is a contemptible cur.”

“Your Holiness would propose⁠—”

“The deposition of Prince Ferdinand⁠—an easy task now that Russia has her hands full⁠—and the annexation of Bulgaria and Serbia by Montenegro under the protection of Italy.”

(Click-click-click) “There, Holiness, we come to the ground of high politics.” (Click-click-click-click) “One must walk very warily.”

“Yes,” Hadrian mewed: “until Italy and Germany have made up their minds.”

The ambassador bowed.

“Please leave the bagatelle-balls, Excellency; and accept Our thanks for your very agreeable conversation,” said the Pope.

In giving an account of this interview to the king, the ambassador concluded “and, Sire, His Holiness spoke like an Englishman.”

“Oh did He,” said Victor Emanuel. “In what way?”

“Majesty, he was profound and limpid, He was large and particular, He was bold and careful.”

“Basta! Go again as often as you please; and let me hear more of this Englishman.”

“With the favour of Your Majesty.”