“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.
XXIV
It was the festival of St. George, Protector of the Ninefold Kingdom. Hadrian noted with pleasure that it was what the Italians call one of His “fortunate days.” His head was clear, His limbs were supple, His body lithe: He felt young, exuberant, potent. His soul seemed balanced, elevated. His whole poise was one of gentle incisive simplicity. He had that upright rather dominant gait, by no means arrogant, which marks the happy able man. The Sacred College came early in the morning, directly after His mass, to congratulate Him on the anniversary of His pontificature; and Ragna took occasion to whisper that the Northern Emperor left Palazzo Caffarelli for the Quirinale at dawn. Everyone knew what that meant.
When, later, Hadrian descended in state to the Sala Regia, He was on the alert. The introducer-of-sovereigns announced—the Ninefold King—the President of the United States of America—the Northern Emperor—the Japanese Emperor—and a posse of subsidiary kings, princes, and sovereign-dukes, who came with the world’s congratulations. The pontifical paraphernalia lay on the high red throne: but Hadrian stood at its foot to receive His guests. His garb was white, absolutely simple and fresh;
