XXIII

When the door was shut, Hadrian remained quite motionless on the throne; and set Himself to review what He had said. He wondered whether He for once had got-down to and laid-bare the root of the matter: whether He for once had made His argument clear and convincing.⁠—Good God! Who even could hope to be convincing?⁠—He flung the thing away from Him; and forever closed that volume of the book of His life.

He rose; and went straight into the bedroom. Here He stripped, and stood erect, knees and feet close: gripped a pair of ten-pound dumbbells; and swung them with the alternating gesture of a right and left overhand bowler, rhythmically swaying from the hips. He counted up to a hundred; and went to another movement: a full round overhead sweep of both arms together, expanding the long-breathing lungs, quickening the pulses, brightening the eyes. His skin became moist and warm. He washed His face and hands in oatmeal-water with no soap; and went into the bathroom, turning on the high tap and letting the cold soft water rain-down upon Him until He was numbed. He quickly dried Himself; and put on completely clean clothes, rolling up those which He had discarded and thrusting them into a linen bag. Then, He emerged all flushed and white and fresh; and summoned Sir Iulo to the secret chamber.

“And so you are thinking of marriage, carino;” Hadrian said, putting the young man into a chair and bestowing fumificables.

Sir Iulo went almost as scarlet as his uniform: his eyes and teeth gleamed. Hadrian handed to him a sheet of paper containing six stanzas of passionate expression in rhyme, under the heading “Vorrei che tu ascoltassi la mia voce.”

“Don’t leave your sonnets about. And don’t be so terrified, you silly boy. Well: is it true?”

The lover’s face twitched rather. “I l‑o‑v‑e her,” he said with an enormous vocal expansion of the middle word. “But I will not to abandon You, Santità:” he added with fixed eyes.

“Who is she? Is she good? Has she any money?”

“She is the little daughter of the dentist. But good? But, yes. But no money:” was the categorical reply.

“Does she love you?”

“Oh, but how she loves me!”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since Christmas, Santità, when the father of that has scaled the my tooths.”

“Have you spoken to ‘the father of that’ about ‘that’?”

“Oh, but not yet, Santità. Nothing of less, he knows. I gave him to know without the word.”

“And he didn’t drive you out of the house?”

“But no: for behold me not the assassin of that dentist.”

Hadrian laughed. “Can you describe her?”

“Oh that I might to describe her to one who is so dear, so wise⁠—”

“Describe her.”

“Is named Evnica. Is example of goodness, of intellectuality. For example: yesterday with the favour of the Most Holy I make a visit. I am entering the saloon in the manner of cat, softly, softly. Behold in a book reads the Signorina Evnica⁠—not book of novels, not journal of Don Chisciotte. No. I look over her shoulder, reading titles. Behold, book of piety entitled Office to the Proximate⁠—”

“Office to the Proximate? What book of piety is that?”

Sir Iulo repeated the title in Italian.

“Ah yes, The Duty Towards Our Neighbour. Yes: a very good sign in a girl. Go on.”

Sir Iulo fixed his bright green eyes upon a mental image; and described each point as he observed it, using his gorgeously florid Tuscan idiom. “Has a face to make burn Jove, and to return to ram, eagle or bull; and to make scorn to medals old and new. Blond she has the hair like thread of gold. The cheeks appear like a rose damasked. The mouth and the eyes are worth a treasure. Has looks angelic, divine: but in the effects and all the motions, human; and the her excellencies not have end. She has what they call a good and fine hand: is white like snow of mountains. Is literate; and makes to talk Tuscan; and in life not a flaw can be found. There is not who better to a swan understands me. Does great things, enough facts, little eats: not drinks never in the middle of eating and not at afternoon-tea (merenda). More, I say. She is in her proper acts so learned, that all I have in the world, or small or great, I should have given to her pleasure at a stroke. The more beautiful to my day I never saw: none more servitial: none more prudent: nor acts in a girl more courteous and gay. Has Petrarch and Dante in her hand; and, at time and place if I command, she vomits a little sonnet lightly. Girl of all perfect qualities; and holds me in pledge there if mine⁠—”

“Well now: suppose that you marry her, will you be good to her?”

“Oh, that she shall be the my life and the my delight, dressed in velvet, guarded as a queen, for fear that if she goes about too much should not be robbed by some little hypocrite: that she shall live on collops and bread of baker⁠—”

“How amusing you are! Well: marry that paragon, and be good and happy. You must have an apartment in the City for her, you know;⁠—and, about your duties here:⁠—you can come when you like. You are not dismissed: but John and James will suffice. Understand, boy, you are wanted, wanted here, always.”

“I am here always, Santità.”

“No. Go-away and marry. ‘The most certain softeners of a man’s moral skin, and sweeteners of his blood, are domestic intercourse and a happy marriage and brotherly intercourse with the poor.’ Always remember that. By the by, what are you going to live on?”

“If I am always a Gentleman of Hadrian, I am having a plenty of money.”

“Ah, but you always will not be a Gentleman of Hadrian, because Hadrian will not be always; and, when He is not, His successor will say ‘Via! Via!’ to you.”

“And then I shall do some things?”

“Ah, but what things?”

“Who knows? But I shall do things.”

Hadrian went to the safe in the bedroom: then to the writing-table, and wrote. He came back with some papers in His hand.

“Attend! Take this note to Plowden by the Post-office. He will give you a thousand sterling. That is a marriage-gift to you, so that you may get an apartment in the City and marry that little daughter of the dentist. Don’t be silly. Listen. What do you know about photography?”

“About photography? But I know to use that kodak, the gift della Sua osservantissima e venerabilissima Santità.”

“And you do it very well. You are one of the few men now alive who perceive the right moment for pressing the button. Understand?”

“I see with eyes.”

“But there is something beside seeing with eyes. There is a mind which ponders and selects.”

“Too much of honour.”

“No. No honour at all: a stated fact. Well now: think of negatives. They are dense in places: clear in places; and, in other places, more or less dense. Understand? Under the negative you put a certain paper; and expose it to light. Light goes through the clear places and stains the paper black: it partly goes through the more or less dense places; and stains the paper grey in various gradations of tint. It fails to go through the dense places and leaves the paper white. There is your photograph, a little black a little white and many different greys. Understand?”

“Yes, Santità.”

“Your photograph is an image of the form, the contours, the modelling, the morbidezza, of the object before your lens. It lacks one thing. It has not colour. The process has tralated colour into monochrome. Do you see that?”

“Yes, Santità.”

“Now white means a blend of all colours; and black means the absence of all colours. Then grey should mean some colours, of this quality or that, of this quantity or that, according to the clarity or the density of the grey. Understand?”

“Yes, Santità.”

“Your negative is black and white and many greys.”

“Yes, Santità.”

“Then understand that all colours lie hidden in the black and white and greys of the negative. In the black, lie all colours: it produces the positive white. In the white lie no colours: it produces the positive black. In the various greys, lie various colours⁠—why are you jumping about? Keep still and listen, wriggling lizard that you are! What do you want to do?”

“To liberate those poor colours.”

“So does everybody. At least, everybody wants to photograph in colours: so they paint on the backs of the films; and they play the fool with triply-coloured negatives. Only one man in the world knows that the colour already is there⁠—already is there, my boy⁠—stored in the black white grey negative; and that the black white grey ordinary negative will give up its imprisoned colours to him who has the key.⁠—Well now: take the second envelope. The key’s there; and it’s yours. (Don’t stare like that!) There are three other things as well, which may be useful. (Don’t say a word!) Read all those papers until you understand them. They’re quite simple. Then practise. When you can do the trick, you will want a little help to do it greatly, to make it useful. (Get off the floor!) Then take the third envelope to Plowden⁠—it’s mentioned in the first⁠—and he will give you two thousand sterling. (Don’t touch that foot!) That will be enough if you are industrious. Now you are trusted, Iulo mio. Be good always; and be kind to everybody. No don’t move. We are going into the gardens with Flavio. You stay here till you feel better.⁠—Ptlee-bl ptlee-bl ptlee-bl,” Hadrian mewed to His delighted and excited and persequent cat.