Hadrian read in the Times that Signor Panciera, Italian Ambassador at the Court of St. James’s, was leaving town for Rome for a few weeks. Cardinal Fiamma sought-out His Excellency; and brought him privately and unofficially to the Pope’s apartment. His Holiness was very happy to renew acquaintances with so genial and so solid and so trusty a man. (It was comparatively easy to love such an one.) The ambassador bowed; and wondered what was expected. The Pope put it patently. He was profoundly interested in affairs: He pried into no secrets: He did desire to collect facts and opinions from experts and secular statesmen: the six ambassadors left to the Vatican were sterile: if Signor Panciera could see his way to converse of current events, without betraying his sovereign’s confidence, but simply as between two men whose motives were pure and patriotic, he would confer a favour upon, (or, if he preferred it the other way, he would render a service to) the Pope. His Excellency bowed in reciprocation of the honour. Privately noting that His Holiness was concealing nothing, and (in fact) was unable to conceal, he thought that there would be no difficulty. This was not a matter of diplomacy or statecraft. The crystalline candour of the Pope made Him negligible as a statesman: as a mere man He was charming, perfectly transparent: He wanted, not state-secrets but, the opinion of a man-of-affairs upon affairs. Signor Panciera was quite delighted. The state of Europe as revealed in the newspapers was passed under review. His Excellency thought that Germany was looking east and west rather than elsewhere. What could be expected? Naturally she would look that way where were her two natural enemies. As for Austria—peuh!—a secondary matter. Austria would not be touched by Germany as long as danger threatened from France and Russia. Italy? Well, Italy now was independent. No longer bound to Germany and Austria, Italy’s attitude was that of the lion on guard (in the words of the immortal Dante).
“Naturally,” Hadrian interpolated, “Italy would watch events and direct her policy in accordance with her interest.”
“But securely,” the ambassador responded.
The Pontiff spoke of Spain. Signor Panciera chopped his right wrist with his left hand. Spain was finished. Portugal? Portugal was English. England? England was England. The Pope and the ambassador produced a smile apiece: the one meant triumphant pride of race: the other, boundless and intelligent admiration. Hadrian swooped eastwards: the Balkan States? His Excellency began to discriminate: that little group of separate sovereignties was very difficult. He seemed to hesitate, to pick his words:—of course the subject interested him very greatly. The Pope was quite singularly still. Now and again, as His massive dark guest passed Him in pacing, He plumped in a question. The Balkan States? Signor Panciera strode on toward the window, as though seeking the response there: came back: began a reply: returned to the window: came back again with a fresh half-dozen of unilluminating words. Hadrian went to one of his cupboards: took out two little brown bagatelle-balls; and placed them in the royal ambassador’s hands. “Your Excellency’s aid to conversation,” He purred with a recondite smile. “Don’t be discomposed. All men have some trick of this kind. Ours is to play with Our rings or to push up Our glasses. Your friend Fiamma plaits the fringe of his sash. The Cardinal-Dean strokes the mother-of-pearl disk which stands on his wig for the tonsure. The Secretary of State munches his new teeth. And you like to click a pair of bagatelle-balls, if We rightly remember. You were saying that that little group of separate sovereignties was very difficult. Because of their present autonomy?”
Click-click-click went the balls on the brown palm: and the ambassador tralated their clicking. “Yes Holiness, for that reason: but also, I think, because they are racially distinct from the nations with which they expect to be incorporated.”
“Russia, Germany, Austria, Turkey, for example?”
(Click) “I think we may neglect Russia.”
“Yes? In the case of Romania?”
“I think that Romanian sentiment has veered round toward Germany.”
“Well now, let us ignore opinions; and go to these racial differences of which you speak.”
“I am of opinion that the Romanian people find themselves in sympathy with the German peoples,” Signor Panciera persisted.
“Bulgaria then?”
Signor Panciera took two or three journeys to the window and back, vigorously clicking the balls. “Holiness, You do not ask for my opinion; and I only can give You the speculations of an amateur ethnologist.” (Click-click) “I have—” (Click) “I can tell You what my studies have taught me—no more.”
“But that is most interesting, Signore. We are all students. Some are anxious to learn: some are not: but both are better off than the man who knows that he has nothing more to
