Hadrian the Seventh

passion had caused her to make an irremediable mistake with him. She had not realized the feline temper which had caused him to repel advances as obvious as abrupt and as shameless as a dog’s. He had ceased to be aware of her existence. Then she had blundered further. Still ignorant of his peculiarity, she had treated him as the female animal treats the male of her desire. Finding him unapproachable by blandishments, she had turned to persecution. She would make him come to her and beg. Here, she also failed. In vain did she defame him to her followers: in vain did she libel him to the publishers from whom he earned his scanty subsistence: in vain did she force herself upon his few friends with stories of his evil deeds. He let those who listened to her leave him. He tolerated the ill-will or stupidity of Bar-abbas. He never said a word in his own defence. And he kept her severely and entirely at a distance, giving no sign that he even knew of her manoeuvres. It was galling to the last degree. Of course he was egregiously wrong. “Neither in woes nor in welcome prosperity, may I be associated with women: for, when they prevail, one cannot tolerate their audacity; and, when they are frightened, they are a still greater mischief to their house and their city.” His feeling to women was that of Eteokles in the Seven Against Thebes. It caused him to make the tremendous mistake of his life. A woman of this colour never can be neglected: she must be taken⁠—or smashed. That, he knew: but he would not take her, ever; and, a certain chivalrous delicacy, mingled with a certain mercifulness of heart, and a certain fastidious shrinking from a loathsome object, prevented him from prosecuting her with the rigour of the law. “Wrong must thou do, or wrong must suffer. Then, grant, O blind dumb gods, that we, rather the sufferers than the doers be,” expressed his attitude. It annoyed himself: it made her fierce and furibund: and it was absolutely futile.⁠—And now, he had leaped at a bound from impotent lonely penury to the terrible altitude of Peter’s Throne. He was famous, mighty, rich, and the idol of her adoration, despite the great gulf fixed between her insignificance and His Supremacy. Oh, what would she not give⁠—for a curse, for a blow from Him. The emotion thrilled and dazzled her. Not one hour during twelve years had she been without the thought of Him. It was a case of complete obcession.

Her daughter flowed into the room in a pink wrapper, finishing a florid cadenza. A touch on the teapot and a glance under the dish-cover revealed astringent and coagulate tepidity. She rang the bell.

“Mother, why aren’t you eating any breakfast?”

“I am eating it. I only just stopped a minute to read my letters.”

“A pretty long minute, I should think. Everything’s stone-cold. Why you’ve only got one letter! Who’s it from?”

“Mr. Sant. He wants me to go to Rome with him.”

“Oh mother, you can’t you know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything of the kind. In fact I think I will go. There’ll be a party of us.”

“Well, if it’s a party⁠—But what’s going to become of the house?”

“I’m sure Big Ann is capable of looking after the house, Amelia. If I can’t have a fortnight’s holiday now and then I might just as well go and drown myself. I’m sick to death of Oriel Street. I want to go about a bit. Yes, I will go. And the house must get on the best way it can. Anybody would think you were all a pack of machines that wouldn’t work if I’m not here to wind you up.”

“Oh, all right, mother, go and have a fling by all means if you like. But what about the cost? I’m sure I can’t help you as long as I only get these three-guinea engagements. And I simply can’t wear that eau-de-nil again. The bodice is quite gone under the arms.”

“You’re not asked to help. Mr. Sant pays all expenses. And, Amelia, if I can do what I’m going to try to do, you shall have as many new frocks as you can wear. We’re going to see the Pope.”

“Going to see the Pope?”

“Yes, you silly girl⁠—the Pope⁠—Rose!”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I say.”

“But you can’t.”

“Nonsense. Of course I can.”

“Well I mean of course you can see Him the same as other people do: but you’ll be in the crowd, and He⁠—I can’t understand you at all this morning. Let’s look at Sant’s letter⁠—How vilely the man writes! Like a⁠—You don’t mean to say you’ll join these people? M‑ym‑ym. Yes, I see the game.⁠—Yes.⁠—But d’you think you really could?⁠—Well: if you like the idea still, it’s worth trying anyhow.⁠—Silly little mother! Why I believe you’re in love with Rose even now. Ah, you’re blushing. Mother, you look a dear like that!”

“Amelia, don’t be stupid. Mind your own business.”

“Oh I’m not going to interfere. You needn’t be jealous of me. I’m sure I never saw anything particular in Him myself.”

They spoke as though they were alone. Alaric went quite unnoted. He folded his napkin and rose from the table.

“A⁠—and, mother,” he mooed, slowly, with a slight hesitation, in a virginal baritone voice, resonant and low; “if you go to Rome, don’t be nasty to Mr. Rose?”

Both the women whirled round toward him. They hardly could have been astounded if the kidneys had commented on their complexions.

“Alaric! how dare you sir!”

“A⁠—and I only say if you go to Rome I hope you won’t be nasty to Mr. Rose.”

“Did you ever hear such nonsense, Amelia? Why not, I should like to know?”

“A⁠—and he taught me to swim.”

“So he did me. At least he tried to. And what of that?” snapped the girl.

“A⁠—and I don’t think it’s fair. I liked him. A⁠—and father liked him.”

“Yes indeed, he’s just the sort of man your father would have liked, unfortunately.