Hadrian the Seventh

which Hadrian had given. Immense and splendid palaces were planned for them and began to rise on the Esquiline and Celian Hills; and the gracious forms of the old gods were to stand beneath arcades of marble, white and pure as lilies without, mosaic of bright gold within, amid the groves upon Janiculum. Honest men came by their own. There were no unemployed. Consequently, no hearts were soured while hands were used; and anarchy began to fade away into the obscurity of bad old rubbish rejected. The “Epistle to the Italians” too! They were in the mood to listen to anything and everything from that dear little piece of omniscient omnipotent omnipresent aloofness whom they called “Papa Inglese.” To the strong and simple Italian temper, His words carried conviction by reason of their own essential simplicity and strength.

“He speaks like one’s own conscience!” said Caio and Tizio and also Sempronio.

“Hearken and obey Him, then,” invected Maria and Elena and also Margherita.

XVIII

Italy was not first in the heart of Hadrian. She was third. He served Her, because He saw Her instant need. The second of His loved lands did not know Herself to be in need of Him: hence, He offered Her no more than courtesy. He did not want America to tell Him not to monkey with the buzz-saw. And England was first. And what could He do for England? The thought, that He might do something, alone sustained Him now. Life among the millions of articulately-speaking men had become an ever-present horror to Him. He frequently wondered what prevented Him from hurling Himself from the windows on to the stones of Rome. He actually sent for a case of safety-razors, and banished knives from the pontifical apartments. “O for the wings, for the wings of a dove: then far away, far away, would I fly.” There was a boy named Roebuck who sang that, in New College Chapel in Commemoration week five and twenty years before. The golden voice, the incomparable young voice came back to Him in Golden Rome where He was longing to be at rest.

A scarlet arm held back the blue-linen curtain of the door, and Cardinal Leighton entered. “I think we missed this, Holy Father,” he said, and offered a more-than-a-month-old copy of the Catholic Hour.

Hadrian in a moment dragged Himself erect physically and psychically: He took the paper and read:

“We have received a long letter from ‘D. J.’ taking us to task for exposing George Arthur Rose in a way which he calls ‘savagely cruel.’ He says,

“ ‘I thank God that I cannot appreciate the humour which speaks gaily of a man enduring eighteen months of semi-starvation, and at the same time struggling hard to earn a livelihood by his pen⁠—for the honesty of his strugglings I can vouch. Whatever his past may have been⁠—and I believe that your article is in the main erroneous⁠—surely it is better to leave it as past. As a convert, he had to endure for the faith that is in him. Once before in his chequered career, at a moment when he had a means of living by his own hands within his grasp, a gratuitous newspaper attack snatched from him the support which he had made himself to lean on. At the present time he is leading an existence which is bitter enough to himself and quite harmless (not to say beneficial) to others; and I feel compelled to tell you that I look upon your onslaught as both criminal and disgraceful.’

“Another correspondent writes, ‘I was much grieved at your article called “Strange Career” etc. in your issue of Nov. 18th because I am a great admirer of some books which George Arthur Rose published before he was made Pope. Those books did more to convert me to Catholicism than any others and I am very sorry to read the account that you have printed of their author.’

“Yet another correspondent writes, ‘It may be well to inform your readers that the Austin White who wrote the very offensive letters headed “Rhypokondylose Religion” in the Jecorian Courier some few years back is the George Arthur Rose alias the Pope of Rome about whom your readers were so amply enlightened in the columns of your issue of 18th November.’

“In reply to ‘D. J.’ we may say that we hold in our hand a letter which Rose addressed to an excellent priest in 1898. It concludes ‘I regret for your sake the exposure which inevitably must take place when her brother-in-law, the bishop, becomes cognizant of the undue influence which you use in order to embezzle these sums from Lady Mostingham. I beg you to make amends and to withdraw from such degrading transactions before it is too late.’ If our correspondent ‘D. J.’ still thinks it was not advisable for us to savagely and cruelly denounce the author of that last letter, we can only say we differ from him.”

Hadrian read the screed with indignant scorn. It was the beastly English of the vulgar thing, more than the vile sentiments expressed, which put Him into such a violent rictus of contempt. He looked out of the window at nothing for a moment, to conceal His disgust. Finding that Cardinal Leighton waited, He controlled Himself; and turned round with a gaze of frigid inquiry.

“Yes?” He said.

“ ‘Would to Heaven that You would grant me a trifling favour,’ ” His Eminency quoted in Greek.

It was a most artful and invariably successful dodge to approach the Pontiff in His favourite tongue. He recognized the quotation; and capped it with the succeeding verse.

“ ‘Tell me as quickly as you can; and I at once shall know.’ ”

“May I ask a question? Did You write that letter, Holy Father?”

“Which? The last? Yes.”

“What did you know?”

“Everything.”

“May I say that the amount of knowledge of men which You seem always to possess is quite extraordinary:” said the cardinal, blinking.

“No it is not. ‘To those who indeed suffer, Righteousness bringeth knowledge.’ ”