“Behold most Holy Father, how that the glory of this world passeth away.”
His features showed no emotion. He well knew all about that. He was accepting, even insisting on, the observance of all rites to consolidate Him in the Supreme Pontificature: not that He cared for them, but that He might be free to act. It was not the glory of the world which He craved: but the combat, the combat—because one rests so much more sweetly after strife.
Slowly, and with all the unspeakable solemnity accumulated during centuries, the mass was sung. The Apostle elevated the Host to the four quarters of the globe. Cardinals ruffled like huge flamingoes round Him. He always was white and still. At the end, the Cardinal-Archpriest of St. Peter’s brought Him a damask purse containing twenty-five gold coins, honorarium for a mass well-sung. He bestowed it on della Volta and Sega, who had intoned the Gospel in Greek and Latin; and they passed it to their trainbearers. Down the nave, He went again toward the great porch. Out of the crowd a voice cried “Christus regnat.” As He sat enthroned amid the surging peoples, Macca crowned Him, saying,
“Receive this tiara adorned with three crowns, and know Thyself to be the Ruler of the World, the Father of Princes and Kings, the earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ our Saviour.”
Hadrian understood the formula in no metaphorical, but in the plain and literal, sense of the words. He neither minimised nor magnified their significance. He had an opportunity which was entirely grateful to Him. He was Ruler, Father, Vicar. And He was altogether unafraid. He stood up, and blessed the City and the World.
In the Xystine Chapel, they relieved Him of the pontifical regalia, and the voluminous far-flowing petticoat of white taffetas, which is so sumptuous to the eye of the beholden and so ridiculously cumbersome to the legs of the wearer; and He ate some apples while Orezzo, on behalf of the Sacred College, recited time-honoured compliments.
“Lord Cardinals,” said Hadrian, “We thank you for your service: and We invite those of you who are able and willing to attend Us, now, when We go to take possession of Our episcopal see.”
He moved towards the door. The short train of His cassock trailed behind Him, and the Bishop of Caerleon stooped to it.
Ragna had something to howl.
“Holiness, this is suicide for You and murder for us. The City is full of Jews and Freemasons; and we shall most assuredly be stabbed, or shot, or shattered to pieces with bombs, or drenched with vitriol—”
“The Church wants a martyr badly. Your Eminency is invited, not commanded.”
Berstein muttered to Vivole, in a scandalized tone, that the Pope was courting popularity. Pepato, with a note of admiration, commented on the mad English. Word of the invitation rushed on ahead. Of the crowd of officials, many began to arrange themselves in a certain order: others had pressing calls elsewhere. Masters-of-ceremonies, wracking their brains for long forgotten details, flew hither and thither with instructions and pushes. Poor old Grani sat down in a recess; and wept to think that there was no time to get out the white gennets annually presented by the King of Spain. Hadrian came on slowly, chatting with Caerleon, giving people a chance of making up their minds. When He emerged from the colonnade in the Square of St. Peter’s, the Syndic of Rome fell into the ranks just before the Pope; and a royal escort of the Praetorian Guard surrounded Him. Hadrian stopped; and beckoned Prince Pilastro.
“Sir Syndic, are We free?” He mewed.
“But free, Holy Father.”
“Let your soldiers precede and not surround Us; and let no one come within ten paces of Us. We go by Via Giulia and Monte Celio.”
The squadron moved to the head of the line. The Pope took His train from the Bishop: threw it over His left arm: and came-on alone. Acting as though the ideal were real, He made it real. If Jews and Freemasons would slay Him, well and good: it was part of the day’s work, no doubt. He was by no means anxious to be martyred; and He sincerely hoped that, if it should come to Him, it would not be very painful or distorting. But, as it was His Own affair, a piece of the part He was fulfilling, He displayed Himself alone. Ten paces before Him went Prince Pilastro, looking back from time to time. Ten paces behind Him came the bishop, ruddy and strong in white and purple, wondering. The vermilion nine followed in a compact phalanx, very venerable and grand; and, after a great deal of bustle and noise, seventeen other cardinals added their magnificence. A motley of patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, prelates, and pontifical guards closed the rear.
A tremendous shout greeted Hadrian’s first appearance in the square. It was quite incoherent: for the real significance of the pageant was not immediately realized. No Pope had set His foot in Rome since 1870: but here undoubtedly was the Pope, with a gentle inflexible face—a lonely white figure Whose left hand lay on the little cross on His breast, Whose right hand gravely scattered the same sign. This crowd was not the even human parallels which authority is wont to describe on streets when the Great go by. It was a concurrence from sideways coalescing with loafers and ordinary passersby, suddenly dipping its knees, gazing, panting, and emitting howls of delirious onomatopes. Cabs and carts swept to the side of the road; and the drivers kneeled on the boxes. Here and there, some dowdy alien said “What mockery” and patronizingly explained that the Salvation Army did these things much
