“Sentimental? Yes. The Ruler, who rules sentiment out of his calculations, ignores one of the most potent forces in human affairs. Too sentimental? No. And what else was Your Eminency about to say—a trifle too sentimental and—”
“One would have said perhaps a trifle too arbitrary.”
“Dear man—” the Pope gleefully began.
But Ragna interrupted “Nothing of the kind. That particular ‘Epistle’ was replete with pontifical dignity: it was the finest thing—”
Hadrian stopped him “We were about to remind Cardinal Sterling that when the Ruler of the World geographically rules the world, He is accustomed to do His ruling with a ruler. Our predecessor Alexander VI used a ruler on a celebrated occasion on the Atlantic Ocean.”
Everybody burst out laughing: laughed for a few moments; and returned to a serious demeanour. There was a question, an important question, which sat upon all tongues, wing-preened, ready to fly. But His Holiness already had refused to discuss it. Those, who had tried to persuade, so seriously had been hurt by His icy reticence or by His blunt aloofness, that no one now was temerarious enough to attempt the reopening of so unsavoury and so personal a matter, except upon explicit invitation. Knowing what he did of men, Hadrian had expected hesitation: but, seeing that His purpose was likely to fail of completion; and, being determined that it should not fail, He slowly and significantly drew-off the pontifical ring from His first finger, and put it in His pocket. “Gentlemen,” He said with quite a change of manner, “some of you would like to put George Arthur Rose to the question?”
They would indeed. They would whatever. They would like it so much that they all spoke in unison. The sum of their words amounted to a request that George Arthur Rose would give them some sort of statement concerning newspaper calumnies, some sort of statement by way of support to their contention that he had been grossly wronged and mispresented.
It was George the Digladiator who responded. He seemed to step down into the arena, naked, lithe, agile, with bright open eyes, and ready to fight for life. “Very well,” he said—“I will give that statement to you: but understand that I will not defend myself in the newspapers. If I were a layman, I should have whipped in a writ for libel, and have given my damages to Nazareth House. I should have preferred to trust my reputation rather to an English judge and jury, than to the nameless editors of Erse or Radical newspapers. Fancy having one’s letters edited by the Catholic Hour, for example: fancy having one’s letters, which are one’s defence, nefariously garbled by a nameless creature who is one’s prosecutor, and one’s judge, and one’s jury, all in one! However, not being a layman, I cannot go to law; and I will not condescend to have dealings with those newspapers. Understand also, that I tell you what I am about to tell you, not because I have been provoked, abused, calumniated, traduced, assailed with insinuation, innuendo, mispresentation, lies: not because my life has been held up to ridicule, and to most inferior contempt: not because the most preposterous stories to my detriment have been invented, hawked about, believed. No. Please understand that I am not going to speak in my own defence, even to you. I personally and of predilection, can be indifferent to opinions. But officially I must correct error. So I will give you some information. You may take it, or leave it: believe it or disbelieve it. You shall have as photographic a picture as I can give you of my life, and of the majestic immobility by which you clergy tire out—assassinate a man’s body—perhaps his soul. You are free to use it or abuse it. When I shall have finished speaking, I never will return to this subject.”
“Of course we shall believe what you say,” Semphill rather nervously intercalated. “I’m sure we believe it unsaid. We take it as said, you know. But if you could see your way to give us details, say on half a dozen points, that would be quite enough.”
“The Daily Anagraph has not apologized for its latest slander,” Carvale put in.
“Why should it?” George inquired.
“Well, I sent an authenticated account of what happened in the last consistory. The other papers printed it; and I should have thought the least the Daily Anagraph could have done would be—”
“Carvale, you’re making a mistake. The Daily Anagraph has no personal grudge against me: although the last editor had, because I once innocently asked him whether historical accuracy came within the scope of a Radical periodical. That was years ago, at the time of the second Dreyfus case. I know that he was furious; because Bertram Blighter, the novel-man, told me that that editor in revenge was going to put me on the newspaper blacklist, whatever that may be. No, it is not a personal matter, a matter in which an apology is customary. It’s simply an example of the ethics of commercial journalism. The man wanted to increase the sale of his paper. I happened by chance to be before the world just then. And he took the liberty of increasing his circulation at my expense. Actually that is all. You can’t (at least I don’t), expect an editor, who is capable of doing such a thing, to apologize for doing it. The case of the other papers is verisimilar: except of course the Catholic Hour. That simply exists on sycophanty by sycophants for sycophantophagists, as Semphill knows.”
“Yes I know,” said Semphill. “And I don’t allow the thing to enter my house.”
“But the others—in their case it’s not lurid malignance, but legal malfeasance. Did you say that they apologized?”
“No. None of those, which printed the calumnies, apologized. They just kept silence. But all the respectable papers, which had not calumniated you, printed my
