“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
