“Certainly the Pope and the King together would have almost unbounded influence for good,” Ferraio reflected.
“Then Your Holiness does not think the Temporal Power to be worth fighting-for?” Sterling concluded.
Hadrian’s eyes no longer were half-shut. “No,” He answered. “Try, Venerable Fathers, to believe that the time has come for stripping. We have added and added; and yet we have not converted the world. Ask yourselves whether we really are as successful as we ought to be: or whether, on the whole, we really are not abject and lamentable failures. If we are the latter, then let us try the other road, the road of simplicity, of apostolic simplicity. At least let us try. It’s an idea; and for Our Own part We are glad to have a chance of realizing it, the idea of simplicity, going to the root of the matter.”
“Your Holiness is not afraid of going too far?” inquired Talacryn.
“William Blake says that truth lies in extremes. To the humdrum champion of the so-called golden mean, (which generally is a great deal more mean than golden), that maxim is nothing less than scandalous. All the same, it is as sound as a bell, Eminency, and nowhere does it ring more soundly than in the principle of the union of Church with State.”
As they were going in to dinner, Mundo whispered to Fiamma “Have we a saint or a madman for a Pope?”
“Two-thirds of the one and one-third of the other,” replied the radiant Archbishop of Bologna.
After one of the receptions of English pilgrims, Hadrian privately received an unusual visitor in the last antechamber. She was brought in by a gentleman, who remained outside one of the doors during the interview, while his fellow guarded the outside of the other. It was as secret an audience as ever has been deigned to a sovereign; and it was accorded to a woman of the lower-middle class, about sixty years old, who looked like an excessively worthy cook. She flopped on her knees when the Pontiff came to her: mentioned her joints when assisted to rise; and made bones about using the chair which He placed for her. Hadrian’s manner was absolutely divested of pontificality. No one would have taken him for anything but a plain Englishman, perhaps of a slightly superior type, and perhaps rather oddly attired. He spoke kindly and easily; and gradually brought His guest from a glaring twitching state of terror and obsequious joy to her honest ordinary self.
“Ee‑e‑h,” she burbled, “but I can never tell Your ’oly Majesty what I felt when I knew that You was going to let me come and see You. Oh thank You and God bless You, Sir. And I always knew You’d come to it. And, O ’oly Father, ain’t You very ’appy to think of all the good You’re doing? Just fancy that ever I should say that to Your ’igh ’oliness and me sitting on one of your own chairs. God bless You Mr. Rose, Sir, as if You was my own boy. Well now, I knew in a minute who it was that sent it me. Why ’oly Father? Why because Your ’oly ’ighness named that very amount years ago as what You’d give me if You was paid properly. Yes ’oly Father: I’ve done what You wished me. I got it cheaper than we thought because it’s been empty so long. Thirteen ’undred pound cash on the nail for the ’ouse: a ’undred for doing it up: four ’undred and two for furniture and things: and please ’oly Father I’ve brought the change.”
She lugged out a great bank-bag containing one hundred and ninety-eight English sovereigns.
“Oh but, you dear good soul, you shouldn’t have done that. It was all yours.”
“All mine, ’oly Father? But I tell You I got it cheaper than we thought.”
“Well then you see you’re a hundred and ninety-eight pounds to the good. You have the house and the furniture; and, if you can get the lodgers, you’re safe for life.”
“If I can get lodgers, ’oly Father? Why I’m filled up, and turning them away.”
“Good! Well, put that in the bank for the winter.”
“But then I shall have oceans of money I’ve made in the summer, ’oly Father.”
“Look here, Mrs. Dixon. Do you remember cooking two dinners one Christmas Day? One, we ate. The other, you carried under your apron to some carpenter who was out of work. Don’t you remember who caught you pretending that you weren’t spilling the gravy on your frock?”
“Oh, Mr. Rose, Sir, how You do recollect things!”
“Well now, you stinted yourself then, didn’t you?”
“Well perhaps a little.”
“Now don’t stint yourself any more; and give away as many dinners as you like. See?”
The tears were streaming from her glaring eyes and running down her kitchen-scorched cheeks. She certainly was looking frowsy.
“See? I should think I did. Mr. Rose Sir, if I say it to Your face, saint was what I always said of You. Dear! Dear! To think of me giving way like this. Well, well, You’re too good for this world, Your Majesty. Oh and I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a jar of pickled samphire like what You used to fancy. I’ve picked it and did it up myself with my own ’ands;—and I thought perhaps You wouldn’t mind ’aving this antimacassar which I’ve worked for You, ’oly Father. I knew all Your ’oly chairs’ld be red, because I’ve seen pictures of them; and I thought that the grey and the orange would brighten up a dark corner for You.”
Hadrian thanked her kindly; and took her little offerings as though He prized them more than His tiara; and made her infinitely happy.
“Well now I won’t detain Your Majesty, because I know there must be no end of grand people waiting about to see You, and me occupying Your time like this, ’oly Father. So I’ll just ask You to pray for me and give me a blessing; and
