XVIII

Italy was not first in the heart of Hadrian. She was third. He served Her, because He saw Her instant need. The second of His loved lands did not know Herself to be in need of Him: hence, He offered Her no more than courtesy. He did not want America to tell Him not to monkey with the buzz-saw. And England was first. And what could He do for England? The thought, that He might do something, alone sustained Him now. Life among the millions of articulately-speaking men had become an ever-present horror to Him. He frequently wondered what prevented Him from hurling Himself from the windows on to the stones of Rome. He actually sent for a case of safety-razors, and banished knives from the pontifical apartments. “O for the wings, for the wings of a dove: then far away, far away, would I fly.” There was a boy named Roebuck who sang that, in New College Chapel in Commemoration week five and twenty years before. The golden voice, the incomparable young voice came back to Him in Golden Rome where He was longing to be at rest.

A scarlet arm held back the blue-linen curtain of the door, and Cardinal Leighton entered. “I think we missed this, Holy Father,” he said, and offered a more-than-a-month-old copy of the Catholic Hour.

Hadrian in a moment dragged Himself erect physically and psychically: He took the paper and read:

“We have received a long letter from ‘D. J.’ taking us to task for exposing George Arthur Rose in a way which he calls ‘savagely cruel.’ He says,

“ ‘I thank God that I cannot appreciate the humour which speaks gaily of a man enduring eighteen months of semi-starvation, and at the same time struggling hard to earn a livelihood by his pen⁠—for the honesty of his strugglings I can vouch. Whatever his past may have been⁠—and I believe that your article is in the main erroneous⁠—surely it is better to leave it as past. As a convert, he had to endure for the faith that is in him. Once before in his chequered career, at a moment when he had a means of living by his own hands within his grasp, a gratuitous newspaper attack snatched from him the support which he had made himself to lean on. At the present time he is leading an existence which is bitter enough to himself and quite harmless (not to say beneficial) to others; and I feel compelled to tell you that I look upon your onslaught as both criminal and disgraceful.’

“Another correspondent writes, ‘I was much grieved at your article called “Strange Career” etc. in your issue of Nov. 18th because I am a great admirer of some books which George Arthur Rose published before he was made Pope. Those books did more to convert me to Catholicism than any others and I am very sorry to read the account that you have printed of their author.’

“Yet another correspondent writes, ‘It may be well to inform your readers that the Austin White who wrote the very offensive letters headed “Rhypokondylose Religion” in the Jecorian Courier some few years back is the George Arthur Rose alias the Pope of Rome about whom your readers were so amply enlightened in the columns of your issue of 18th November.’

“In reply to ‘D. J.’ we may say that we hold in our hand a letter which Rose addressed to an excellent priest in 1898. It concludes ‘I regret for your sake the exposure which inevitably must take place when her brother-in-law, the bishop, becomes cognizant of the undue influence which you use in order to embezzle these sums from Lady Mostingham. I beg you to make amends and to withdraw from such degrading transactions before it is too late.’ If our correspondent ‘D. J.’ still thinks it was not advisable for us to savagely and cruelly denounce the author of that last letter, we can only say we differ from him.”

Hadrian read the screed with indignant scorn. It was the beastly English of the vulgar thing, more than the vile sentiments expressed, which put Him into such a violent rictus of contempt. He looked out of the window at nothing for a moment, to conceal His disgust. Finding that Cardinal Leighton waited, He controlled Himself; and turned round with a gaze of frigid inquiry.

“Yes?” He said.

“ ‘Would to Heaven that You would grant me a trifling favour,’ ” His Eminency quoted in Greek.

It was a most artful and invariably successful dodge to approach the Pontiff in His favourite tongue. He recognized the quotation; and capped it with the succeeding verse.

“ ‘Tell me as quickly as you can; and I at once shall know.’ ”

“May I ask a question? Did You write that letter, Holy Father?”

“Which? The last? Yes.”

“What did you know?”

“Everything.”

“May I say that the amount of knowledge of men which You seem always to possess is quite extraordinary:” said the cardinal, blinking.

“No it is not. ‘To those who indeed suffer, Righteousness bringeth knowledge.’ ” the Pontiff quoted from Aischylos again. “ ‘The greater the detachment from the world, over worldly things the greater power is gained,’ some true poet sings. We never were ‘a man among men.’ We had five senses and We used them. And all the men whom We ever met habitually and voluntarily came and told Us their secrets. We never sought them. They were laid bare before Us. And Our senses perceived them. That is all.”

The pontifical voice was hard and cruel: the face was harder and more cruel and also more terrible. The very Presence was like a candent flame. Good honest innocent Leighton looked at Him as at something inhuman: but he persevered.

“Holiness, I want to go on. Do You know who wrote the other letters?”

“Oh yes. D. J. was another ‘excellent priest.’ He was in philosophy when We were in theology at Maryvale. Why you know him too, Leighton⁠—he took his B.A. with Ambrose.”

“What, ‘Gionde’? Yes, of course I knew him.”

“That’s the man. We have not heard from him for years: but he evidently thought it right to defend Us. Poor chap! A snub rewards him. The Catholic Hour ‘differs from him.’⁠ ⁠… A tipsy publican wrote the second; and the third was written by a Jesuit jackal, in return for the custom of, and most likely at the dictation of, the very detestable scoundrel to whom We wrote the last.”

“What became of him? The bad priest I mean?”

“He ruined himself, as We predicted. He persisted in his career of crime till his bishop found him out. Then he was broken, and disappeared⁠—Maison de santé or something of that sort for a time. He’s in one of the colonies now; and he might have been⁠—Lord Cardinal, We have said too much. It is not Our Will and pleasure to move in this matter.”

“But the advantage I derive from hearing Your Holiness⁠—if it is not impertinent⁠—Holiness, I venture to assure you of my eternal fidelity⁠—” Leighton stammered with emotion.

Hadrian showed him no face: turned to the window which displayed the panorama of Intangible Rome; and presently was alone.

“God! God!” He exclaimed, shaking the paper with terrific violence. “Do you see this brutal cynical unrighteousness⁠—prejudged⁠—condemned⁠—the mere suggestion of defence derided and fleered-at⁠—in England, fair-minded England⁠—England the land of the free⁠—”

No: it was not England, but just a handful of the vicious vermin which infest her. England⁠—the word summoned Him to His apostolature again. What was the mind of England now? That question occupied Him. He wished that England would declare Her mind to Him through ambassadors, the mind of the statesmen of England. He had no official acquaintance with any one of them. He could not ask for England’s confidence: for, being English, He knew that asking slams the door. Humanly speaking, He had nothing to guide Him in the cosmic crisis of the present, the crisis in which He was certain to be consulted⁠—as a last resort⁠—but certain to be consulted. Of that, He was convinced. A short calculation displayed Jupiter passing through Aries, which signified immense benefit to England. Oh, very good. Then what should be His course of action? He got up and went round the room, looking at the maps and noting them, until it seemed that His mental horizon expanded and enlarged, and He had the whole of the orb of the earth within His vision. What should He say, or do, for England, when she was too shy, too proud, to give Him a sign as to what She wanted Him to say, or do? England, England!⁠—“Land of hope and glory⁠—how shall We extol thee Who are born of thee?⁠—wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set: God, Who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet!”

He would say and do that which was given to Him to say or do. As an Englishman, He had His intuitions. And He required no confidences. England, the shy, the proud, should be served by Her shy proud son, the Servant of the servants of God. The divine afflatus of patriotism inspired Him, brightening His eyes, erecting His head. He sat down again: took His writing-board on His knees; and wrote. Anon, He rang the bell and gave some orders. Also, He sent some written slips of ciphers to the operators in the Vatican marconigraph office.

On the twenty-second of January, the Supreme Pontiff descended to the basilica of St. Peter-by-the-Vatican; and sang mass for the repose of the soul of Queen Victoria, the Great, the Good. The same day, the English newspapers announced that His Holiness had sent a cardinal-ablegate to place the Golden Rose, the pontifical tribute to virtuose queens, on Her Majesty’s tomb in the mausoleum at Frogmore.