Hadrian the Seventh

reply. It was courteous and concise, distant and independent, simply an allocution on the distinction necessary to be drawn between Demagogues and Demos, the worthiness of the latter, the doubtfulness of the former. At the end there was a silence. Chamberlains discreetly made it known to the Fellowshippers that homage might be rendered by any who desired to render it; and gave instructions as to the customary manner. Twelve of the demagogues preferred a noncommittal pose, having fear of the snorts of the Salpinx; and, of these, two found it convenient to glare uncompromisingly, letting it be seen that they regarded their host as the Man of Sin. But eight approached the throne. Five of them bowed, as over the counter: one kneeled on one knee and read his maker’s name in his hat: Sant held his own elbows and looked along his nose; and Mrs. Crowe laid her lips on the cross gold-embroidered on the Pontiff’s crimson shoe. That was all. These people were bewildered, almost inebriated by the magnificence of the scene, by the more than regal ceremonial, by the immense psychical distance which divided them from the clean white exquisitely simple figure under the lofty canopy, by the quiet fastidious voice purring unknown words from an unimagined world, by the delphic splendour of Apostolic Benediction waved from the sedia gestatoria retiring in a pageant of flabellifers. On leaving the Vatican, they were thoroughly dazed: they knew not whether their diplomacy had been successful or unsuccessful. Jerry Sant had an indistinct notion that he might expect to be summoned after nightfall; and surreptitiously introduced to some pontifical hole or corner in order to be bribed. Mrs. Crowe exulted in a new emotion. She actually had touched Him: and she thrilled: and she was sure that this was only a beginning.

When Hadrian was about to descend alone into St. Peter’s to say His night prayers, He observed one of His gentlemen practising a new and curious gymnastic in the first antechamber. Sir Iulo was in solitude; and he did not hear the feline footfall which came near. He had a longish knife in his right hand, held behind his back. Then, with his teeth clenched, and his eyes firmly fixed on an imaginary pair of eyes in front of him, and every sinew of him at its tensest, he suddenly whipped hand and knife face-high to the front hilt-upward, down to arms’ length and forward-up again point-upward, all with frightful force and rapidity. Hadrian watched him during five performances. Then Sir Iulo became aware of the Presence; and relaxed into upright stillness, grinning and glittering.

“What is this game?” the Pope enquired.

“Not game: but for the protection of You.”

“Protection? Protection from what?”

“From those most horrible peoples who have been today here pursuing some vendettaccia.”

“Do you mean those Liblabs?”

“But yes, those Libberlabberersser: especially a Libberlabber who has read, and a she-Libberlabber who goes with him. It is I who have seen of them both the eye. From which I vibrate a knife most commodious for the bellies of those. His Holiness can rest secure.”

“Do you mean that you are going to rip them up?”

“But yes, in the manner which I have learned of the chef from Naples. Now I watch them. When I shall have seen them make a movement, behold the tripes of them sliced precipitatissimamente!”

“Iulo. No. Understand? No.”

“There is not of dishonour! First like this, I demonstrate the knife⁠—they view the mode of their deaths. There is in it nothing of sly⁠—Next, I give them the death which they have merit. That is not the deed of a dishonourable.”

“You are commanded not to give death⁠—not to think of giving death. It is prohibited. O Viniti, quo vadis? Understand? Bury the knife in the garden. Sotterratelo nel giardino, Vinizio mio. Capisce? Break it first. Then bury it in the garden⁠—If you wish to be protector of Hadrian, learn to fight with fists⁠—pugni. Understand? Tell John to buy a punching-bag⁠—punching-bag⁠—and practise on that.”

“Bai a punnertchingerbagger,” repeated the devout murderer-in-posse with disappointment, as the Pope left him limp.

A sign drew Cardinal Van Kristen to walk by Hadrian’s side on the return from San Pietro and Vincula on Lammas Day. From time to time, his shy grand eyes turned to the Pope as they rhythmically paced along. From time to time, a blessing fluttered from the Apostle’s hand to some stranger by the roadside.

“Holiness,” at length he said, “do you remember the saint You used to worship on this day at Maryvale?”

Hadrian detached Himself from a reverie. “Little Saint Hugh? Fancy your remembering that!” And He again dived into silence.

“One would hardly fail to remember anything You said or did in those days, Holy Father.”

The Pope said nothing. He was thinking of something else.

“I put the picture you painted of Little Saint Hugh up in our refectory at Dynam House.”

No answer came. The cardinal’s long eyelashes lifted a little as he looked at his companion. He was not sure that his attempt at conversation was welcome.

“Your Holiness does not care to be reminded perhaps. I did not mean to intrude. Sorry.”

Hadrian put out a hand. “No, Percy, you don’t intrude. We were wondering how long this King is going to be.”

“Which King?”

“Italy.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Things are at a standstill.”

“For example?”

“Everything⁠—at least in Italy⁠—as long as something better than sulky peace is lacking. We want friendship, collaboration. See whether you can follow this. The personal influence of His Majesty is enormous. Although his acts are quite constitutional, yet, such is his magnetic force of character that he actually rules. No matter which party is in power, the King’s Majesty rules. Practically he is an autocrat; and he, so far, has not made a single mistake, nor done a single unjust or even ungenerous deed. Now We also have some power, some personal influence. These people seem to like Us. They’re charmingly polite. They run about after Us. We do not doubt but that they