“Do you always live on bread and water?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think the food beastly. I have been into the kitchen; and I have seen—things. I am afraid to eat anything except boiled eggs. They cannot deposit—sputum inside the shells of boiled eggs. But the servants complained of the extra trouble in boiling eggs especially for me. The bread is not made in the college. In order not to be singular, I eat and drink what I can eat and drink of that which is set before me; and I am deemed more singular than ever.”
“Have you said this to the rector?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like bread and water?”
“I think them both exceedingly nasty.”
“Does it affect your health?”
“Not in the least. It makes my head ache. But I am as strong as a panther.”
“Why ‘panther’?”
“I really don’t know. It seemed to be the just word.”
“And you believe that you are able to go on?”
“I intend to go on.”
“You know that this college is not the place for you?”
“I suppose not: but my diocesan sent me here; and I intend to serve my sentence.”
“Dear son, what is your ambition?”
“Priesthood.”
“With a small patrimony, you would be on a more satisfactory footing here; and afterward you need not take the mission oath. The mere fact of the possession of a patrimony would purchase courtesy and consideration for you during your college-life: and would give you an opportunity of cultivating your individuality independently when you reach the priesthood.”
“Oh, yes. But I am a church-student.”
“So were We.”
“And Your Sanctity persevered?”
“Yes.”
“So will I.”
“What is your name?”
“William Jameson.”
Hadrian took a sheet of paper and wrote the apostolic benediction to William Jameson. “You will like to have this? Persevere, dear son; and pray for Us as for your brother-in-the-Lord. And—do you know Cardinal Sterling? Well: come to Vatican whenever you please and make his acquaintance. He will expect you. Goodbye. God bless you.”
The Pope went down to the bald old amiability, who was correct and mild enough in expressing a profound sense of the honour. Hadrian spoke to him of himself; and found that a public-school, university, and Anglican parsonage, had dulled what capability of emotion he ever had had, or had taught him the rare art of self-concealment. He was a capital specimen of the ordinary man, stinted, limited: one whose instinct prevented him from asserting an individuality. But he was a gentleman; and a Christian of a kind, actuated by the best intentions, paralysed by the worst conventions.
“We wish to speak to you of Jameson:” at length the Apostle said.
“Ah, poor fellow!”
“Now why do you say that, Mr. Guthrie?”
“Well, Holiness, I’m afraid he’s in a most uncomfortable position. I’m sure this is not the place for him. You see he doesn’t get on with the men.”
“Does he quarrel with them?”
“Oh, dear me no! But he avoids them.”
“Perhaps he has his reasons.”
“Well, I’m afraid he has. But then it doesn’t do to show them. I often tell him so—try to chaff him into a more come-at-able frame of mind, you know, Holy Father.”
“That hardly would be the way.”
“No I’m afraid it wasn’t. He’s so very sensitive, you see. Why he actually got quite angry with me.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, he said that he really did think I ought to have known better.”
“And what did you say then?”
“Oh I called him a—but I couldn’t possibly tell You what I called him, Holy Father.”
“Why not?”
“Well really it was too dreadful. I’ve been regretting it ever since.”
“What did you call him?”
“Oh it’s quite impossible that I should repeat it to You, Holy Father. I should never be able to hold up my head again.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Guthrie. We desire to know it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what You’ll think of me, Holy Father: but the fact is I went so far as to call him a—no, really I cannot—well—I’m sure I can’t think what possessed me to use such an opprobrious term but I was excessively annoyed You see at the moment and the word slipped out before I was quite conscious of what I was saying—”
“What did you call him?”
“Well really if You must have it, Holy Father, I called him a Goose!”
“Oh. … And what did he do to you?”
“Burst into a roar of laughter and shut his door in my face.”
“Did you feel pained?”
“Well perhaps just a little at the time: but not when I came to think it over. You see I really can’t help feeling sorry for him.”
“Why?”
“Well because really he must be very unhappy, You know, Holy Father.”
“In your opinion, Mr. Guthrie, he himself is the cause of his own unhappiness?”
“Quite so, Holy Father. You see he doesn’t seem to be able to rub along with the other men. He can’t come down to their level so to speak. He keeps himself too much to himself: won’t or can’t conciliate the least little bit. Of course they all think it’s pride on his part; and they pay him out with practical jokes of a rather doubtful kind I’m afraid. He’s good and kind and clever and all that sort of thing: but he hasn’t the slightest idea of making himself popular as a church-student should be among church-students. You see, he’s what I may call (if I may be quite frank about him) such a Beastly Fool. The rector doesn’t like it I’m sure.”
“Then perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the fault is not so much in the man as in his environment?”
“That’s what I’ve always said, Holy Father. His present environment is quite unsuitable for a man of that kind. He must find it extremely unpleasant.”
“Mr. Guthrie, won’t you try to make it more pleasant for him? Bear with him: defend him: don’t seem to form a party with him against the others: but don’t give the others the idea that you approve of their attitude to him. Will you do as much as that?”
“I’m sure I’ll do anything in my power, Holy Father.”
“That at least is in
