Hadrian the Seventh

The Scrutinies dreadfully had annoyed their dignity, the pure and gentle dignity of Gentilotto, the radiant opulent dignity of Fiamma. To have escaped from the sweaty turmoil of competition satisfied them. Ferraio joined them in their perambulation: joined his ideas and sympathies to theirs. Mundo paid a visit to Courtleigh, and heard his confession: the Cardinal of Pimlico had no use for the conclavial confessor, who was a Jesuit. Nefski, pallid and wan, tried a little walk by the aid of the arm of della Volta: and afterwards, those two said mattins and lauds together. Saviolli sat-out the evening in Grace’s cell, chatting about the Monroe Doctrine. Courtleigh sat alone in his cell: his hands were on the arms of his chair: his gaze was fixed on the flame of the candle. His thoughts whirled: eddyed: and were still. He fell asleep. His brother, who was his chaplain, peered through the violet curtains, inquiring his needs. He needed nothing⁠—perhaps he would do a little writing before saying his night-prayers. Monsignor John placed a dispatch-box on the table, a couple of new candles on the prickets; and retired. Anon, His Eminency opened the box with a miniature gold key hinged to the underside of the bezel of his cameo ring; and meditatively turned over and over his archiepiscopal correspondence. One packet of letters seemed to fascinate him. He held it in his hands for a long time, fixedly regarding it. He untied the vermilion ribbon; and began to read. He had read these letters before, just before he entered the Conclave. He would read them again now: reading helps thought: it is as a strong arm supporting feeble steps: it is as the pinions upon which thought can fly: or it is inspiration. Cardinal Courtleigh read a dozen pages or so. Then he sat with his chin in his hand, gazing again at the candle-flame. His thoughts were flying. They were quite personal, quite unconnected with his present situation or his present office. Orezzo, Ragna, and Serafino-Vagellaio, engaged the Compromissaries in conversations wherever they met them, in doorways, on promenades: quite often they called to make perfectly certain that they lacked no conveniences in their cells.

Morning and evening conferences were occupied by long discussions on the merits of the three remaining candidates, and of the other five-and-forty cardinals. The predilections of the Powers were passed in review. The ambassador of the Emperor had notified that Austria would look favourably upon Rugscha. But to think of that old man⁠—born in 1818⁠—nearly ninety years old⁠—oh, quite impossible. The Siege of Peter needed no more senility, but rather juvence. Old men were so obstinate, much more obstinate than headstrong youth. The ambassador of the Catholic King had urged the claims of the Archbishop of Compostella. True, that one was not so old⁠—but, threescore years and ten⁠—is it not the Psalmist’s limit?

And did any of Their Eminencies desire to assist at another Conclave, (say) within the next five years? Their Eminencies had had enough of Conclaves to last them for the span of their mortal lives. The French ambassador had made no recommendation, seeing that the Commune had recalled him, torn him out of the train at Modane on the French frontier and sliced him in pieces. Portugal had plumped for Mundo, who declared himself unwilling to accept, and as Compromissary incapable of accepting, the paparchy.

Italy⁠—m‑ym‑ym‑ym‑ym⁠—well, Italy? A geographical expression: no more. Now then the others. The German Emperor? His Majesty had nominated Courtleigh. Now why? The Cardinal of Pimlico, smiling, really did not know. He was much obliged, he was sure. Perhaps the young man thought that, by nominating one of his own uncle’s subjects (and a very unworthy one) he would induce his said uncle to return the compliment and nominate a German. And would the uncle so oblige? Courtleigh thought not. The aforesaid uncle was quite as self-willed as, and infinitely more tactful than, and the last person in the world to let his leg be pulled by, his imperial nephew. Well then what was the King of England’s attitude? Courtleigh did not know: but he believed⁠—indeed he had had it from Mr. Chamberlain⁠—Yes, and the Lord Chamberlain said?⁠—Not the Lord Chamberlain:⁠—Mister Chamberlain⁠—the Prime Minister⁠—had said that His Majesty was not by way of meddling with matters which did not concern him. The Compromissaries pronounced the King of England’s conduct to be most observable. And the Cardinal of Pimlico added that in any case he (as a Compromissary) was ineligible: while the Cardinal of Baltimore calculated that America also would stand out of this deal.

A definite decision evaded capture. Satisfaction seemed to be such a very long way up in the air. Not one of the nine was sensible of an overwhelming irresistible impulse to select any particular individual as Pope. That is such an invidious undertaking: the spirit faints at its immensity. But the Compromissaries subconsciously were drawing near and nearer to each other, and away from the rest, who, in their turn cohered in curiosity. The fourth conference was an unusually futile one. Mundo frankly and abruptly stated his conviction that the Lord God was not intending Himself to take a Vicegerent out of the Sacred College: whereat Their Eminencies laughed; and adjourned, conversing of other and secular affairs.

Courtleigh went out on della Volta’s arm. “Eminency,” he said, “I have known you now for nearly twenty years: and, whenever I see you, I always fancy that I have met you somewhere in other circumstances. You have never been in London? I thought not. And I suppose you haven’t what they call a Double? I don’t mean that your type is common. Far from it. But, at times, I seem⁠—You remind me of⁠—And yet I do not know of whom⁠—”

And another night enshrouded the palace on the Vatican Hill.

As Cardinal Courtleigh was trying to shave himself next morning, the phantom of his friend della Volta invaded his mental vision: suddenly, resemblance and remembrance clashed together striking a spark. By the light