XX

While the dwarves were diverting themselves as aforesaid, their rulers were in council together. And one day Sir Francis Bertram found no closed doors at the Vatican. He was granted an audience which was friendly and unofficial and secret: so secret in fact that no news of it “transpired.” It was treated as the return visit of an Englishman to an Englishman. He came in an electric brougham, quite unattended. No one noted that he brought a small dispatch-box with him: or that he did not carry it away with him: but some of the senior cardinals, who kindly came to discuss the latest effusions of the Daily Anagraph with Hadrian in the evening, found His Holiness brimful of gaiety. They remarked that the visit of the ambassador had done Him no end of good. His bearing was vivid, serene, and youthful: His conversation was witty, limpid, facile: no one would have taken Him for the person described in the newspapers. He read those which obligingly were handed to him: but showed no emotion whatever, although very eager expert eyes searched for some trace from which to lead theories and hypotheses. Nor did He utter any comment. He read: He laid down the paper; and resumed the conversation. Before Their Eminencies withdrew, He summoned the Sacred Consistory to meet at noon on the morrow; and that was the only noteworthy event of the evening.

Hadrian mounted the throne; and the vermilion college displayed itself before Him. A pigskin kit-bag, which a gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber had placed by the pontifical footstool before the doors were locked, did not escape the notice of the more observant. The Pontiff Himself was in singularly good form: and this was incomprehensible, for He carried in His hand a copy of the very newspaper which everyone had read and retched-over. That He should be so aggressively cheerful, so vividly dominant, with that in His hand, was considered hardly decorous. Even among those who firmly were determined to force themselves to believe in Him, that He should not bend His neck to the smiter now, did not tally at all with conceptions of propriety. With these sentiments, Their Eminencies composed themselves to listen.

After the formal opening of the session, a Consistorial Advocate (in garments of a violet colour and furred with ermine about the neck) was commanded to read aloud, from the Daily Anagraph, the account of the Pope’s visit in disguise to the house on Via Morino. He was to read it, first, in English, then, in Latin. It was not a long lection: for journalistic instinct had perceived that the facts stated would be more damnatory in their nakedness. With that inscrutable incomprehensible vivid gleam of hilarity irradiating His face, Hadrian checked the Consistorial Advocate from time to time, preventing him from drifting into the monotonous gabble, which is used for the formal reading of documents whose contents already are known informally; and, if His object was to cause each deadly detail of the charge against Himself to come out clearly, with all the contours definite and all the tints brilliantly varnished, it must be admitted that His method was pontifically successful.

“Ebbene dunque?” muttered Cardinal Ragna.

Hadrian darted a word at the Cardinal-Prefect-of-Propaganda: “Will Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred College, your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St. Michael Archangel?”

The naming of the festival of Michaelmas was like a touch on the latch of the Red Pope’s memory. His pure and gentle face lighted up: for he perceived the connotation; and that inspired him with a joy so delectable that he paused to pick his words, tasting them deliberately, lingering over them. “After siesta on the festival of St. Michael Archangel⁠—and that would be about 15½ hours of the clock, not later⁠—I came to Vatican and was received by Your Holiness. I was admitted to the secret chamber. I sat opposite to Your Holiness, by the window. I remember that, for a reason. I spoke to Your Holiness on the subject of removing England from the control of Propaganda. I said that I had pondered Your Holiness’s proposition. I said that it appeared to me, as it already had appeared to Your Holiness, that the necessity for treating England as a barbarous uncivilized savage country, in which the Faith is preached by missionaries, no longer existed. I added my own opinion, that to continue to treat England as a savage uncivilized barbarous country, now, amounted to perennial insult. I received Your Holiness’s thanks. I am giving only the heads of this conversation, which was prolonged until the seventeenth hour. Then, the pontifical pages brought in a tray containing fruit and triscuits and some English tea. I told Your Holiness that tea astringed my nerves, remarking on the difference between English nerves and Italian. I was permitted to make a few jokes. In the midst of these very diverting burlesques, I ate a little fruit⁠—perhaps a fig and a half⁠—and I drank a little wine of Cinthyanum. Afterwards, I proceeded to discuss another case with Your Holiness. That case was the removal, from the spiritual rule of Propaganda, of the other countries which are under the secular rule of the Excellent King of England. It was a complication; and the discussion of it occupied some hours. I said, in sum, that sufficient information as to the nature and character and national history of the natives of those countries, especially Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, officially had not been laid before me. I requested Your Holiness to afford me longer time for the collection of information and investigation of the subject. I permitted myself to note that, while we were talking, Your Holiness made and smoked nineteen cigarettes. I remember that, when at length I rose to pay my respects, Your Holiness drew me nearer to the window by which we had been sitting; and deigned to indicate the image of St. Michael Archangel which poises itself on the summit of the Mola. The metal of which the said image is formed appeared to be burnished, owing to radiance from the lights of the City. I said that it resembled an angelic apparition in the obscure sky of night. I remember that Your Holiness said ‘May the Prince, of the angels who do service in heaven, succour and defend us on earth.’ I responded ‘Amen.’ Your Holiness added some words in the Greek tongue, which You deigned to explain as signifying ‘O god of the golden helm, look upon, look upon the City which thou once didst hold well-beloved.’ To that prayer, I also responded ‘Amen.’ And I was permitted to retire at the same moment when the pages were bringing in Your Holiness’s supper, which was at 20½ hours of the clock.”

Cardinal Gentilotto sat down; and the eyes of the Sacred College twinkled like talc. The Pope, Who had receded to His more usual distant reticent gravity, gave them a silent moment for appreciation; and then darted a verisimilar word to Cardinal della Volta.

“Will Your Eminency have the goodness to describe, to the Sacred College, your acts of the afternoon and evening of the festival of St. Michael Archangel.”

The ex-majordomo of the apostolic palace hemmed;⁠—and prayed for permission to send for his diary. Then he bravely proceeded. “M‑ym‑ym‑ym: Twenty-ninth September. At 15 o’clock, I drove by the Fort of Monte Mario to the Milvian Bridge: and walked a little in the fields. The sky was cloudy. Afterwards I drove by Via Flaminia and Pincio to Countess Demochede’s villino; and sent away my carriage. I obtained news of the German Emperor. Her Excellency’s daughter the Princess Neri was there. Tea and very agreeable conversation. The Princess expatiated on the virtues of pedestrianism. She and her beautiful mother derided me when I said that I was about to walk to Vatican. I went to Palazzo Attendolo to inquire for Don Umberto. He had bought a new horse, a strawberry-roan, and was gone to Cinthyanum to try him. That young man always is buying horses⁠—m‑ym‑ym. Returned to Vatican at 19 o’clock. Said Mattins and Lauds. Wrote to⁠—m‑ym‑ym⁠—wrote four letters, Holiness. Supper, capretto ai ferri and zuppa inglese. Gave my news of the German Emperor to our Most Holy Lord. Read Chap. IX, 1, of Matthew Arnold’s Literature and Dogma with Δ. Semphill. Conversed with that deacon about it till bedtime. He says that it is not a book to fear. In my opinion it is a wonderful book but shocking, and likely to cause misunderstanding except among the English: but it is not damnable, though many will think so. Sancte Francisce, ora pro me.”

He was about to sit-down; and the College was about to open twenty-three mouths: but Hadrian with the left hand signed him to approach the throne, and with the right simultaneously beckoned a master-of-ceremonies in a red habit and a violet cloak.

Cardinal Berstein interpolated with a recondite sneer, “The phenomenon of bi-location, as exemplified in the case of St. Philip Neri, is well-known. But this is not the case of a saint.”

Hadrian wiped the floor with the sneerer. “Nor was the case of Samian Pythagoras, divine, golden-thighed, (if Your Eminency ever heard of him), the case of a saint. Yet, inasmuch as Pythagoras was heard to lecture at Metapontion and Tayromenion on the same day and at the same hour, he would appear to have been an exemplification of the phenomenon of bi-location. However, this is neither the case of a saint, as you so acutely have observed: nor a case of bi-location, as you so hilariously would pretend.” He flung the retort at the cardinal with such force that Berstein sought his seat with not innocuous concussion.

“Lord Cardinals, the voice of the snake and the voice of the goose are one and the same. They both hiss:” the Pope added before moving again.

A feeling that His Holiness was dynamic, picric, dangerous, pervaded the assembly. Each most eminent lord wondered who would be the next victim of that quiet shrill velvet claw which tore the brain. The Pontiff bent His head to the master-of-ceremonies, signifying that he should remove the mitre. Also He unclasped the morse of His cope; and addressed Cardinal della Volta.

“Can Your Eminency remember what habit you wore during the afternoon and evening of the twenty-ninth of September?”

“Yes, Holy Father, I wore the plain habit which we commonly wear.”

“Like this?” Hadrian stooped and opened the kit-bag; and drew from it a black cassock with red buttons, a red sash, and a black cloth cloak, and a black three-cornered beaver-hat with thin red cord and tassels.

“But yes: precisely like that.”

“Would Your Eminency do Us the extreme favour of putting on these garments now?”

Della Volta smiled: but he made the change, and stood on the throne-steps pulling out the folds, stretching his arms in the new sleeves. The Pope took another and a similar suit from the kit-bag; and changed His Own white for black. Then He descended to the cardinal’s side; and faced the college. They were as like each other as two blots of ink. And the college roared. Of course, everyone instantly remembered Courtleigh’s allegation that della Volta was the Pope’s Double: but no one until now had seen the two side by side and garbed alike. And the college roared⁠—roared chiefly with delight at dismissal of tragedy by comedy.

The Pope and the Cardinal resumed their proper habits; and Hadrian again enthroned Himself. His aspect had become very cold, very hard. He spoke a few words in the dry incisive tone which slapped like sleet, from the far distance of His misanthropic soul snatched away to that remote place shared with wounded beasts who creep to die alone. He began swiftly; and intensified the value of His words by the gradual monotonous deceleration which marked their close. “Lord Cardinals,” He said, “know that, if We desire to intrigue, Our experience of the extreme stupidity of intriguers has taught Us to avoid their pitifully trite folly. Know also that intrigues, disguises, tricks, artifices, stratagems, and deceptions, are repugnant to Us. And finally know this, that We never will derogate Our pontifical paraphernalia or authority to another.” After a moment, He changed His manner; and in a formal tone announced that the Congress of Windsor had invited the intervention of the Roman Pontiff as Supreme Arbitrator. It was the appeal of Caesar to Peter. He made known the contents of the dispatch, which Sir Francis Bertram had brought; and read the names of sovereign and presidential signatories. And, without waiting for comment, He uttered the ceremonial form which closed the Consistory; and was borne away.

Acclamations followed Him. Vermilion tumbled over ermine in an effort to get at Him. What a number of things everybody urgently desired to know! What was He going to do? Would He not take this magnificent opportunity of reclaiming Peter’s Patrimony? He could not be denied it now. That was Ragna’s notion. The two Vagellaii agreed with it: Italy could be compensated by the cession of Italia Irredenta, said Serafino. Little minds expatiated on an infinity of little things. Then, some began about the calumnies. What was He going to do about them? Oh, for certain He had disproved the charge made against Hadrian the Seventh; and most likely he could disprove the others. “Could He?” Berstein cynically guffawed. Well, was He going to publish this disproval? “Who knows?” asked Fiamma. The English and American cardinals energetically asseverated that, for their part, they neither were going to consult His Holiness on the subject, nor to consider themselves bound to secrecy in regard to the refutation which they had heard and witnessed. It was Carvale who hurriedly collected and expressed the opinions of his colleagues. “What d’ye mean?” neighed the long faced Capuchin. “I’ll tell you what we mean” said Semphill. “With the help of my friends here, we’ll have an authentic copy of the acts of this consistory sent to every newspaper on earth.” “And, you can bet, right now!” Van Kristen cried. The Cardinal-Archdeacon and nine Italians vociferated approval of the scheme. Talacryn trumpeted with the others, gambolling gaily along. Then he put down an elephantine foot⁠—he was not quite sure that it was advisable: down at the back of his heart he felt the old distrust of Hadrian⁠—he did not want to be involved by seeming to support⁠—His Holiness was a most difficult man to get rid of, if one wanted to get rid of Him, whatever. But, still, the Cardinal of Caerleon trampled along with the others. Their Eminencies surged upstairs, chattering like a tygendis of magpies; and flowed along galleries, screeching like a muster of peacocks, until they reached the approach to the pontifical antechambers. The approach was closed, guarded by skewbald harlequins of Swiss with halberds. Before it stood the two gentlemen-of-the-apostolic-chamber, who formally responded to inquiry, “Our Most Holy Lord is in secret.”

They had to make what they could of that. Those with sense went about their business without ado. Some, however, lingered to resent rebuff: or in the hope of obtaining quasi-accidental admission by bribery. Ragna panted up to four thousand lire in Sir John’s ear; and departed cursing. The door was barred by “Our Most Holy Lord is in secret.”

In secret Hadrian was kneeling upright in His chapel. “God, I am very worldly. I have enjoyed the triumph.” That was the confession which He made, not precisely with sorrow but, with a consuming contempt for Himself. He had done such an ordinary deed: He despised Himself for doing it. He remained in contemplation of His disgusting humanity for some time.

By degrees, His mind detached itself from that; and attached itself to the next subject which He had prepared. He went into His workshop: covered the chairs around His armchair with sheets of MS. notes: drew the writing-board on His knees: laid out blank paper: rolled and lighted a cigarette; and began to read and amend His notes. From time to time, He sat back in His chair, gazing out of the window at nothing, working at problems in His brain. Now and then, He scribbled a note, a word, a phrase, a sentence.

At length He began to cover sheet after sheet. He wrote for hours and hours together, day after day: burning most of what He wrote, amending more, rewriting much. Anon, an acrid torpor astringed and benumbed His right arm from elbow to fingertip, announcing the advent of scrivener’s palsy. It was evening, about two hours after the Angelus. He put-down His pen; and summoned the first gentleman-of-the-secret-chamber. Sir John sat in front of Him: rolled-up the sleeve; and gave the arm and hand a gentle friction. Hadrian silently watched his busy hands. They were beautiful hands, very white, very slim, very soft⁠—yes, singularly soft and soothing. Yet they were strong hands, firm and lissome. They did not tire with that continued searching movement, moulding and defining tired muscles and aching sinews, working the fatigue and ache gradually downward to dismissal at the fingertips. Also the bent head was a good head, small and round, covered with close-cropped hair, black-purple, hyacinthine. And the healthy pallor of the face, the delicately cloven chin, the extremely fine grey eyes, the vigorous form, the exquisitely chaste and intelligent aspect⁠—fancy expecting such an one to roll pills and fill capsules forever in a chymist’s shop! No: he was better as he was.

“John,” the Pope inquired, “how do you get on with Macleod?”

“Oh, very well. I think I like him very much.”

“Is he comfortable?”

“Oh I think so. He seems so at any rate.”

“Has he got anything to say for himself?”

“Oh yes:⁠—now. He was a bit frightened at first: but he’s got over that now.”

“To whom does he talk most freely?”

“Oh to me. Not but what he has plenty to say to Iulo too. But he’ll tell me anything.”

“What do you mean by ‘anything’?”

“Oh everything about himself.”

“John, look-up into these eyes a moment.” The shy grey eyes readily soared into the shy brown eyes.

“How much has he told you about himself?”

“Oh everything: that’s all.”

“Everything?”

A fine flush tinged the fresh ivory face with coral: but the grey eyes did not waver. “Oh yes, everything.”

“Can he sing?”

“Oh no, not a note⁠—thank Heaven.”

Hadrian withdrew His gaze. “And you think you like him very much?”

“Oh yes⁠—I don’t think: I know. I’m so awfully sorry for him.”

“And pity is akin to⁠—”

“Oh but it’s not pity and it’s not love. It’s something else altogether. It makes me in such a rage. I don’t think I can make You understand, that’s all.”

“Try.”

“Oh well⁠—do You remember Max Alvary?”

“The singer-man? Yes. Why?”

“Oh, don’t You know what I said when I saw him in ‘Siegfried.’ You see, first I saw the splendour of his beauty; and then, when it came to the ‘Idyll,’ I got into a rage and I said ‘and that voice too.’ ”

“What did you mean?”

“Oh it seemed so abominably unrighteous⁠—all that beauty, and all that voice as well. That he should have two gifts;⁠—and that others⁠—I, for instance⁠—should have not one!”

“What has this to do with Macleod?”

“Oh, a lot, in a topsyturvy kind of way. Look what a fine chap he is to look at⁠—just like that lovely Figure on Your cross. And he’s clever too. Well, You’d think him fortunate enough, wouldn’t You? Then comes Fate and spoils him⁠—spoils him completely. That’s what makes me furious. To have to class him with Mustafa. I wonder he doesn’t kill himself.”

“Go gently with that wrist, please. Have you told him that?”

“Oh no, I should hope not. Sorry. I want to do everything in the world to keep him from knowing what I think⁠—to keep him from hitting on that line of thought by accident, by himself, even. It would drive the poor chap mad: that’s all.”

“John you’re a brick. Now listen to this. Thoughts you know, are things. If you think such thoughts, they’ll be in the air about you; and it’s as likely as not that Macleod’s senses will perceive them. So you’d better extirpate them hic et nunc⁠—if you like him and want to help him.”

“Oh do You think so? Well, I will then: because I really do want to help him.”

“Good. And now what’s to be done with him?”

“Oh but why should anything be done with him? He’s very happy here.”

“Thanks to your goodness, John. Silence! But first of all We must give him a reason for being here: and then We must remember that ‘here we have no continuing city.’ Now listen attentively. When you have finished that hand, you will go to the Secretary of State, and tell His Eminency to issue a patent to Mr. Macleod as third gentleman of the chamber⁠—emolument half yours⁠—no knighthood. Will that do?”

“Oh finely!”

“Good. Well now let’s go back a bit. Suppose Macleod wasn’t here. Where, in your opinion, would he be best?”

“Oh I hardly know what to say to that.”

“You know your Meredith? Well then, favour Us with the outline of your ideas. Pour them out pell-mell, intelligibly or not, no matter. We undertake to catch hold of something.”

“Oh well, I think he’d do well in a garden. He’s quite learned about flowers; and, if You ever saw him handle one, You’d wonder however a chap with a chest and arms like a blacksmith, as his are, could be so tender. There’s a lot more force and there’s a lot more gentleness in him than You’d think. Same with trees. He looks at them as we look at other chaps⁠—just as though he could speak to them and make them understand him if he wanted to. He’d do well at anything out of doors, farming perhaps. I did think at first of the sea⁠—”

“Because of his wonderful eyes?”

“Oh yes I suppose that was the reason. Did ever You see such a blue, a blue that makes you want to strip and dive⁠—just the eyes for a sailor, aren’t they? That’s simply my romance though. But I haven’t talked to him much about the sea. Do You know what I should like to do? I should like to go a long sea-voyage with him in one of those old sailing-ships, and take the Pliny and the Sophokles which You gave me, and a lexicon, and a dictionary, and read them with him, right away from⁠—of course I don’t mean what You think I mean.”

“No: of course you don’t. And then, when you come back from your long sea-voyage in a sailing ship, you think that Macleod could be useful and happy on a flower-farm, with orchards, and all that sort of rot, while you could sit in the shade of medlar-trees and rosebushes, and look after him so that no one should insult him, and read books, (write them too perhaps,) and dream dreams, (and certainly write those,) and live happily in a dear old-fashioned farmhouse ever after⁠—”

“Oh You’re laughing at me now!”

“Not at all.” The bright brown eyes became grave. “John, what are you going to do with yourself when Hadrian is dead?”

“Oh but You’re not going to die⁠—”

“How do you know? Answer the question.”

“Oh I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want to think about it: that’s all.”

“Nonsense. Think about it; and be done with it. John, when We are dead, if you have a place like that, and means to work it, means to move about and use yourself⁠—will you use yourself? And will you take Macleod and be a brother⁠—not a real but the Ideal Brother to him?”

“Oh of course I would: but⁠—”

“Will you promise?”

“Oh yes, I promise You most faithfully. But I hope to God I’ll never have the chance⁠—”

“Well, no one knows when you will have the chance: but you shall have it. Bring the pen here, and the writing-board.” Hadrian pulled down His sleeve, and stroked the cat for a minute or two, thoughtfully looking-out of the window. Then He wrote, putting what He wrote into an envelope which He gave to the shaking sprig of virtue who stood before Him. “You will take this to Plowden, after you have been to Ragna. You will obtain his formal acknowledgment. See that it is made out in your name; and keep it secretly till the time comes for using it. On Our death you will present it; and Plowden will pay you five thousand pounds, and take your receipt for it. With that sum, you will buy, and stock, such a place as We have described. As long as you and Macleod live, Plowden will pay you a regular income, so that you never can come to want, and always can have something to give away. Every quarter-day he will pay a hundred pounds to you, and fifty to Macleod; and you can make as much more as you like out of your farm. That, remember, is yours; and you may do what you please with it. When you both die, the capital which provides your incomes will return to the pontifical treasury: so if you want to marry, and beget a family, and leave something more than real property⁠—the farm⁠—behind you, you must earn it. We give you a chance, and perfect freedom. Do you follow?”

“Oh I never shall forget a single word. Holy Father, I can’t take it. What have I done to deserve it? What could I ever do to deserve it?”

“Boy, you have done this to deserve it. You have wished to bear or to share another’s burden. You shall have your wish; and you shall have a little reward here and a very great reward⁠—There⁠—if you carry out your wish. That’s what you have done and what you can do. You are good, and you are trusted. And that’s all. Now go away at once because We have a lot of writing yet to do.”

“John,” cried Hadrian, just before the door closed. “By the by, you had better tell Macleod of his appointment; and see about his uniforms at once: but keep the other matter to yourself till⁠—you know when. Oh⁠—and please make him understand that We shall call him ‘James.’ That Gaelic ‘Hamish’ is a little too much. And he had better be Mr. James to the others.”

Outside the closed door, Sir John struck his own hands together. “And the maddening thing is that there is nothing in the whole world that I can do for Him. If I were to give Him a little present, like a baccy-pouch, ten to one it wouldn’t be precisely to His taste⁠—anyhow it ’ld only be like giving Him a calf of His Own cow. Oh damn! It’s like a wax match offering a light to the sun.” He suddenly faced to the door again; and his words came in the form of a solemn pledge. “Lord, I promise.” He remained entranced for several moments: and anon went on his way with steadfast brow.