“God bless you, little boy;” said the Apostle.
“Oh, He can speak my English words!” the youngster shouted with delight. “Yolanda, come and kiss these rings, and hear Him say ‘God bless you, little boy’ again—no—girl I mean, Missy dear;” with a side-look at the governess.
The princess came forward like a lady; and paid her respects. Her brother intently watched.
“God bless you, Princess,” said the Apostle.
“Oh but listen,” the Prince of Naples shrieked, jumping up and down; “He knows all the words ezattually, just like my own father. He said to me ‘boy,’ and to Yolanda ‘princess.’ Now go you too, Mafalda, and I will listen again.”
The tiny maid went. “God bless you, little Princess;” the Apostle said.
“That is right,” the boy cried: “he said ‘little princess’ because—” There he stopped a moment. Then, “White Father, why for have You—no—why did not You say ‘prince’ to me? I am Prince Filiberto, aged five, Quirinale, Rome. Do You know that, White Father?”
“Yes, Prince. But you are a boy.”
“Well, I think so. Also I am a sailor, like Uncle Luigi. Cannot You see that, White Father? Do You know what thing is a sailor?” He stood by the chair, leaning against Hadrian’s knee, deliciously rosily maritime in white flannel.
“Oh yes: We know many sailors:” the Pope responded.
“Are they English?” The question possessed importance. His Royal Highness evidently was by way of verifying certain information.
“Most of them are English.”
“My father says that all good sailors are English, or like English.”
“And are you a good sailor?” The Pope switched the argument away from the Majesty of Italy, for reasons.
“But yes, I am very good this morning. But I always am a sailor—even when I am—not quite good;” the candid baby said with a little hesitation.
“Do you like being ‘not quite good’?”
“Oh but yes—I should say, sometimes. I think I like it then: but not now. No—I do not like being ‘not quite good.’ ” He settled the matter like that; and nobly lifted himself upon it.
“Won’t you try to be a good sailor?” (Hadrian hated Himself for preaching. But such a chance! To make a white mark on the heir to a throne!)
“But of course I always try—except—” and there seemed to be the difficulty. The child drooped a little.
“You always do try to be a good sailor—and to give no trouble—”
“Give no trouble? What not to father?” the prince inquired, as though the very notion clashed with his preconceived idea of the uses of fathers.
“No: not to your father.”
“Nor to Missy?” The round face became a little longer.
“No: never to ladies on any account.”
“To whom then may I give trouble, if I may not give it to father nor to Missy?” He felt that he had put a poser.
“Don’t give it.”
“What not to anybody?” This was a matter, a dreadful matter, which anyhow must be pursued to the bitter end.
“Not to anybody.”
The child’s great brave eyes considered the Apostle attentively: then they wandered to his sisters, to the governess, to the nurses; and came back again. Hadrian returned his gaze, very gently, quite inflexibly. The boy must learn his lesson now. Prince Filiberto pondered the novel doctrine from all his little points of view; and at last he grasped the consequence like a man.
“Ah well, then I suppose I had better keep it myself. I am sorry that I gave it to you, Missy, yesterday.”
Hadrian experienced the strangest-possible rigour of the throat. Another moment and something in Him would have spoiled all. He rose: blessed His visitors; and passed swiftly away through the trees to the left.
“Missy, I am liking that white father. When shall I see Him again?” came after Him in the incomparable voice of innocence.
He quickly went up the winding path, along the private passage, up the stairs to the terrace. He dragged a chair out there and sat down. “God!” He exclaimed aloud, with tremendous expiration, to the wide expanse of water and earth and sky which yawned before Him. Tears welled in His eyes: and the constriction of His throat was relaxed. He took His handkerchief from His sleeve. Thank heaven He was alone! And He became calm and analytical and infinitely happy. Verses of Melagros of Gadara streamed through his mind:
Our Lady of desire brought me to thee, Theokles,
me to thee;
and delicate-sandalled Love hath stripped and strewed me
at thy feet:a lightning-flash of his sweet beauty!
flames from his eyes he darteth!
Hath Love revealed a Child who fighteth with thunderbolts?the splendour of twin fires did scorch me through and through:
one flame indeed was from the sun, and one was love
from a child’s eyes.
His ecstasy was admiration of the lovely little person and the noble little soul. The clean and vivid candour, the delicate proportion, the pure tint, aroused in Him a desire to own. The frank self-hood, the unerring truth, the courageous tranquillity of self-renunciation, aroused in Him a sense of emulation. He, the Supreme Pontiff, was prostrate before the seraphic majesty of the Child. And, as though a curtain had been lifted, He had a peep into the human heart. Now, He thought that He could see and understand one cause, perhaps the chief cause, of human society—the ability to say “This is mine, mine: for I did it.” He began to understand that the human mind must have external as well as internal operation—and much beside. As for Himself, He was making experiment of the first personal emotion of undiluted enjoyment of human society which He could remember. “Then I can love, after all;” He reflected. Though He mixed freely and absolutely independently with all men, yet, in the tender inner soul of Him, He shrank more shudderingly than ever from the contact. Every single act of urbanity, of courtesy, was a violent effort to Him. His feeling for His fellow-creatures was repugnance pure and
