when I was openly living as a tonsured clerk, about a couple of years before my first pseudonym even was thought of. Take, for another example, those priests,
Fr. Aleck of Beal, and the Order of Divine Love, who are alleged to have ‘charitably maintained’ me. By the way, they never did that. They always were paid for my entertainment, in hard coin, and their own price—always. And the Fathers of Divine Love refused me shelter for one night in 1892 at the very time when they are said to have ‘charitably maintained’ me. They did suggest a common lodging-house at fourpence, though; and I flung back the suggestion in their faces and walked the streets all night. But all these people knew all about me and my pseudonyms. In fact, the very priest who suggested the common lodging-house, was the man on whose advice I adopted my first pseudonym. It was invented by an old lady who chose to call herself my grandmother: she was that priest’s patron and penitent. It was approved by him and adopted by me. And there you have the blind and naked truth on that point. It now is pretended that ‘King Clement’ was a Jesuitical machiavellian device of mine, implying royalty, dominions, wealth, and interminable nonsense. I think that the pretension is due to malice and imbecility. It is malignant now: but I firmly believe that it began by being imbecile. I confess that the name, taken together with my domineering manner, my pedantic diction, my austere and (shall I say) exclusive habit, was liable to misconstruction by the low coarse half-educated uncultured boors among whom I lived. It’s an example of the ‘Eidola Fori,’ the strange power of words and phrases over the mind. I think it really was believed, in some vague way, that I was an exiled sovereign or some rot of that sort. I believe that I perceived it; and laughed to myself about it. But I did my best to disabuse the fools of their foolery. That made things worse. Liars themselves, they could not conceive of a man speaking truth to his own detriment. My disclaimer was taken for a lie; and they honoured me the more for it; and chuckled at the thought of their own perspicacity:—that is to say, when what I said was intelligible to them. You see I used to be a great talker. I have had many experiences; and I used freely to talk of them. It amused and instructed; and I like to amuse and to instruct. You will understand that my voice and my manner of speech did not resemble the voice and the manner of speech of the ruffians with whom I worked and lived. Live as poorly as I would, dress as shabbily as I would, the moment I opened my mouth I was discovered to be different to those people. They perceived it; and I never could disguise my speech. Also, I’m quite sure that they could not understand my speech—follow my argument. I used words which were strange to them to express ideas unimagined by them, while their half-developed minds were more than half occupied, not in listening to me but, in contemplating me, and in trying to form their particular idea of me by the aid of the
Vulgi sensus imperiti, the imperfection of undisciplined senses, at their disposal. I called that Imbecility. Perhaps Ignorance is the apter term. The Malice is to be found among people who ought to know better: people to whom I have told the exact truth about myself, exact at the time of telling: people, who being possessed by a desire to think evil, think evil: people who read between, instead of on, the lines: people, prone to folly, whom I have not helped to avoid their predilection. I tried to be simple and plain, to sulk (if you like) in my own corner by myself. It was no good. Anyhow, I told no tales of realms or wealth as mine. I made no false pretences. I myself was grossly deceived: barbarously man-woman-and-priest-handled. I was foolish to try to explain myself. I was foolish to try to work with, to live with, to equal myself in every respect with, verminous persons within the meaning of the act. I ought to have died. But I did not die. That is all. It is not half. Now you know. Make what you please of it.”
“Tell me,” Gentilotto instantly said: “Why did you never go to the Trappists?”
“Because I went to something worse, to something infinitely terribly more ghastly. Trappists live in beautiful silent solitude; they have clean water, beds, regular meals, and peace. I went to live in intellectual silence and solitude in an ugly obscene mob, where clean water was a difficulty, food and a bed an uncertainty, and where I had the inevitable certainty of ceaseless and furious conflict.”
He hurled the words like javelins, and drew back in his chair. The old bitter feeling of disgust with himself inspired him. He feared lest perhaps he might have seemed to be pleading for sympathy. So he angrily watched to detect any signs of a wish to insult him with sympathy. But he really had gone far, far beyond the realm of human sympathy. There was not a man on the earth who would have dared to risk rebuff, to persist against rebuff, to soar to him with that blessed salve of human sympathy—for which—underneath his armour—and behind his warlike mien—he yearned. Pity perhaps, horror perhaps, dislike perhaps, might have met him. But he only had emphasized his own fastidious aloofness. He had cleared-off the mire: but he had disclosed the cold of marble, not the warmth of human flesh.
The cardinals remained silent for a minute. Then Ragna said “ ‘An enemy hath done this!’ Who is it?”
George blazed with vigorous candid delight. “That is the first genuine word which I have had from the heart of Your Eminency!”—He returned to
