Hadrian the Seventh

more properly. Here and there, some sour sorry incapable stood spitting in praise of secret societies. Here and there some godless worldling scoffed in an undertone. But Hadrian went-on, walking at that deceptive pace of His, which seemed so leisurely and was so swift. His movements resembled the running of a perfectly-geared machine: they had the smooth and forceful grace of the athlete whose muscles are supple and strong: even the occasional impulse had no jerkiness. It was the manner with which He disguised His natural timidity. He sometimes glanced from side to side. Once He smiled at a barelegged rascalt of brown boys who kneeled by one of Bernini’s angels on the parapet of the bridge. He adored children, although He was so desperately afraid of them. Going up the hill by the Church of Sts. John and Paul, a little girl dabbed an indescribable rag on her head: rushed into the road, dashing primroses; and remained transfixed by her own audacity. He led her by the hand to her mother; and blessed them both. All His life long He had yearned to be giving. Now, under any circumstances, He always had something to give, ten words and a gesture; and people seemed so thankful for it. He was glad.

In the porch of the Mother and Mistress of All Churches in the City and the World, He sat on the low throne while canons made shift to intone, “He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dunghill; that He may set Him with the Princes, even with the princes of His people.” They gave Him gold and silver keys. They attended Him to the throne of precious marbles in the centre of the apse. They intoned Te Deum. Ascending to the lodge of benediction, He blessed the mobile vulgar in the Square of St. John; and anon returned in the way by which He came, Bishop of Rome in act and deed, and Supreme Pontiff.

V

Being physically tired with the exertion of withstanding the concentrated gaze of Rome, He rested all the afternoon. The palace was a scene of commotion. Cardinals and their familiars cackled and cooed and squeaked and growled in corners: or arranged for return to their distant sees. Workmen cleared-away the structure of the Conclave. Hadrian made an attempt to get-into the gardens with a book: but, obsequious black velvet chamberlains with their heads in frills like saucers made themselves so extremely necessary, and Auditors of the Ruota scudded along bye-paths with such obvious secrecy and bounded out of box-hedges before Him by carefully calculated accident so very frequently, that at last He took refuge in the pontifical apartment. He rang the gong and sent for Caerleon.

“We have a more or less distinct remembrance of a place on the Lake of Albano, called Castel something.”

“Castel Gandolfo, Holiness.”

“Yes. And it used to be a pontifical villa?”

“It is a pontifical villa now: but since 1870 an order of religious women have used part of it as a convent.”

“Which part?”

“They, I believe, keep the pontifical suite in statu quo, hoping for the day when the Holy Father shall come to His Own again.”

“Good. Now will you at once telegraph to those nuns that the Pope is coming to His Own tomorrow for the inside of a week. And please arrange everything on a plain and private scale. That is the first thing.”

“Perhaps I’d better do that at once whatever.”

“Yes, but don’t be long.”

When the bishop returned, Hadrian invited him to take a tour of observation round the rooms. They were accentedly antipathetic, too red, too ormolu, too floridly renascent, too distractingly rococo. He could not work in them. Yes, work⁠—nothing was going to interfere with that. How, in the name of heaven, could anyone work under these painted ceilings, among all these violently ineffectual curves? Now that He was able, He must have what He wanted. He was going to move on to the top-floor, where people could not stamp on His head, and where there was a better view from the windows. He would have clean bare spaces and simplicity without frippery. Then His mind could move. By the clothespresses, He damned red velvet. That should go. The feeling of it made Him squirm. The sight of it on His person reminded Him of the barking of malodorous dogs and the braying of assertive donkeys. White was all right, if it fitted properly. He would stick to white, soft flannelly white, not this shiny cloth: with a decent surplice (which did not resemble the garments of David’s servants after the attentions of the children of Ammon)⁠—a surplice and the pallium, and the pontifical red stole in public: but no lace⁠—that should be left to ladies. How delicious to have plenty of white clothes to wear! How delicious to wear white in the sun! Well, He was going to work to earn all these amenities. And now, talking of work, something would have to be done to the rooms upstairs: and certain things would have to be settled regarding the domestic arrangements. To what official ought directions to be given?

“The Majordomo is the head of the household; and the Master of the Chamber has immediate charge of Your Holiness’s person.”

“That set man? Look now, he shall continue to be Master of the Chamber. We will not repeat the mistake of Pius IX, or interfere with any of their offices. But he must not come near Us. We should feel bound to assist his decrepitude; and Our idea is to be so free from secular cares that We can concentrate undivided attention upon Our Apostolature. There is the root of the matter. That man is a stranger: his age makes it certain that he has got into a groove: he is full of prior experiences and opinions which he cannot, and ought not to be expected to, change for a newcomer. But, if he remains