Hadrian the Seventh

HADRIAN THE SEVENTH

A ROMANCE

BY

FR. ROLFE

LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1904

TO MOTHER

In Obedience to the Decree of Urban P.M. VIII, I declare that I have no Intention of attributing any other than a purely human Authority to the Miracles, Revelations, Favours, & particular Cases, recorded in this Book; & the same as regards the Titles of Saints & Blessed applied to Servants of God not yet canonized: except in those Cases which have been confirmed by the Holy Catholic Apostolic Roman See, of which I declare myself to be an obedient Son; & therefore I submit myself & all which I have written to her Judgment.

Fr. Rolfe.

xxij Jul., 1904.

HADRIAN THE SEVENTH

PROOIMION

In mind he was tired, worn out, by years of hope deferred, of loneliness, of unrewarded toil. In body he was almost prostrate by the pain of an arm on the tenth day of vaccination. Bodily pain stung him like a personal affront. "Some one will have to be made miserable for this," he once said during the throes of a toothache. He was no stranger to mental fatigue: but, when to that was added corporeal anguish, he came near collapse. His capacity for work was constricted: the mere sight of his writing materials filled him with disgust. But, because he had a horror of being discovered in a state of inaction, after breakfast he sat down as usual and tried to write. Dazed in a torrent of ideas, he painfully halted for words: stumbling in a maze of words, he frequently lost the thread of his argument: now and then, in sheer exhaustion, his pen remained immobile. He sat in a small low armchair which was covered with shabby brocade, dull-red and green. An old drawing-board, of the large size denominated Antiquarian, rested on his knees. The lower edge frayed the brocade on the arms of the chair. His little yellow cat Flavio lay asleep on the tilted board, nestling in the bend of his left elbow. That was the only living creature to whom he ever spoke with affection as well as with politeness. His left hand steadied his ms., the sheets of which were clipped together at the top by a metal clip. At the upper edge of the board a couple of Publishers' Dummies reposed, having the outward similitude of six-shilling novels: but he had filled their pages with his archaic handwriting. The first contained thoughts—not great thoughts, nor thoughts selected on any particular principle, but phrases and opinions such as Sophokles' denunciation,

Ὡ μιαρον ἡθοϛ και γυναικοϛ ὑστερον,

or Gabriele d'Annunzio's sentence

"Old legitimate monarchies are everywhere declining, and Demos stands ready to swallow them down its miry throat."

The second was his private dictionary which, (as an artificer in verbal expression,) he had compiled, taking Greek words from Liddell-and-Scott and Latin words from Andrews, enlarging his English vocabulary with such simple but pregnant formations as the adjective "hybrist" from ὑβριστηϛ, or the noun "gingilism" from gingilismus.

He was looking askance at his ms. In two hours, he had written no more than fourteen lines; and these were deformed by erasures of words and sentences, by substitutions and additions. He struck an upward line from left to right across the sheet: laid down his pen: lifted board, cat, books, and ms., from his knees; and laid them by. He could not work.

He poked the little fire burning in the corner of a fire-clayed grate. He was shivering: for, though March was going out like nine lions, he was very lightly clad in a blue linen suit such as is worn over all by engineers. He had an impish predilection for that garb since a cantankerous red-nosed prelate, anxious to sneer at unhaloed poverty, inanely had said that he looked like a Neapolitan. He brushed the accumulation of cigarette-ash from the front of his jacket and seized a pair of spring-dumb-bells: but at once returned them, warned by the pain of his left arm-pit. He took up the newspaper which he had brought with him after breakfast, and read again the news from Rome and the news of Russia. The former, he could see, was merely the kind of subterfuge which farthing journalists are wont to use when they are excluded from a view of facts. It said much, and signified nothing. "Our Special Correspondent" was being hoodwinked; and knew it: but did not like to confess it; and so indulged his imagination. Something was occurring in Rome: something mysterious was occurring in Rome. That could be deduced from the dispatch: but nothing more. The news of Russia was a tale of unparalleled ghastliness. It emanated from Berlin: no direct communication with Russia having taken place for a fortnight.

"How exquisitely horrible it is," he said to Flavio; "and I believe it's perfectly true. The Tzar,—well, that was to be expected. But the Tsaritza,—though, if ever a woman bore her fate in her face, she did, poor creature. Those dreadful haunted eyes of hers! That hard old young soft face! The innocent babies! How abominably cynically cruel! Yet there have been omens and portents of just such a tragedy as this any time these last few years. They must have known it was coming. Or is this another example of the onlookers seeing most of the game?" He fetched a book of newspaper cuttings, and turned the pages. "Here you are, Flavio," he said to the sleeping cat; "and here—and here. If these are not forewarnings—well!"

He sat down again, and studied certain paragraphs attentively.

EDUCATION BY THE KNOUT.

Petersburg.—All Russia is in a state of unrest and seething with discontent. The very air is alive with the rumours of tumults on the one hand and of coups d'état on the other. The strangest stories are being bandied about as to what is taking place at Kiev, Sula, and all parts of the Empire, in fact, but especially in Moscow. There, it seems, while students and members of the higher classes are being thrown into prison by the hundred—not a few of them being packed off to Siberia—the workers are being treated with quite extraordinary consideration. They are even allowed to say their say and hold public meetings without let or hindrance, a thing unheard of in Russia. In Petersburg itself an ominous state of things prevails, and the city is completely in the hands of the police and the military. The streets are thronged with gensdarmes; even private houses are packed with soldiers; and never a week passes without some disorder arising or some public demonstration being made. In February a terrible scene occurred in the house of Nicholas II., a sort of People's Palace. In the course of a theatrical performance there some students threw down from the gallery into the body of the hall leaflets in which they demanded redress of their grievances. The place was crowded with law-abiding people for the most part; nevertheless the gensdarmerie who are always within hail, rushed in and simply trampled under foot all who came in their way. One great fellow was seen to deliberately stamp on the face of a poor lad who had fallen, cracking it like a nut. How many were injured is unknown and probably will remain so. On Sunday the state of things was even worse. During the previous week the students had sent to the leading journals, and even to the police, a formal announcement that they intended to hold a demonstration in the Newsky Prospect to demand in constitutional fashion the redress of their grievances. It was taken for granted that measures would be taken to prevent the meeting, and the Newsky was crowded for the occasion with the usual loungers and pleasure-seekers. But so far as everyone was aware the police seemed to have done nothing in the matter, and it was known only to a few that the courtyards of the great houses of the neighbourhood were filled with gensdarmes and soldiers. Up to twelve o'clock all went well; then quite suddenly not only students but working men began to stream into the Newsky from every side-street; and within a very few minutes the place was one vast crowd. In the square before the Kasan Cathedral alone there were 3,000 at least. Suddenly seditious cries were raised, red flags were waved, stones were thrown, and in the midst of it all the gensdarmes began a mad gallop through the crowd. It was a ghastly sight, for they slashed right and left with their swords, even at the bystanders bent only on escaping. Many were wounded, some were killed—how many no two accounts agree—and in the course of the following week hundreds of arrests were made. Since then other demonstrations of the same kind have been held, and will continue to be held, let the cost be what it may, the students declare, until a clean sweep has been made of the police regime under which Russia is groaning.

THE GATHERING OF THE STORM.

M. Baltaicheff's murder has drawn the world's attention to the present state of things in Russia—which is much worse than most people imagine. The present movement is not confined to the students alone, though it is that class which makes most noise. The revolutionary fever has gained a hold of the lower classes—Brains and Brawn as we said yesterday have combined, and the combination is formidable. More significant, however, than anything else, if it be true, is the statement of the Neue Freie Presse that during the demonstrations in the Kasan Square in Petersburg a detachment of infantry was called upon to fire upon the crowd, the men thrice refused to obey, were marched back to barracks, no enquiry being subsequently held, and that similar incidents have occurred elsewhere. With universal service the Army is only the people in uniform. Any popular feeling must sooner or later touch the Army, and if the soldiers cannot be depended upon to shoot, the game of absolutism is up. The great cataclysm may be nearer at hand than is generally supposed.

SIGNS OF SMOULDERING REVOLT.

Petersburg.—In two of the districts of the Poltava Government workmans' riots have occurred in consequence of the systematic repression of "Little Russia" by "Greater Russia." The journal Pridjeprowski Krai gave the first intimation of the state of affairs, and was promptly suspended for eight months.

Petersburg.—The murder of the Procurator of the Holy Synod is regarded in a measure as the symptom of the general situation in Russia. It is reported that the chateau of the Duke of Mecklenburgh in S.E. Russia has been pillaged and destroyed by rioters.

Berlin.—On the arrival of the express train from Berlin at Wirballen on the Russian frontier to-day, a passenger was arrested, and Nihilist documents were discovered in his trunks. This is the third Nihilist arrest within the fortnight. The Berlin police have received information from Petersburg of numerous revolutionists having recently left France. They are now maintaining from Berlin a vigorous agitation against the Tsar's Government. From London, too, the whereabouts of several suspects have been reported. In most cases the Berlin authorities are powerless to effect arrests, but they always supply full information to Russia, so that suspicious characters are always detained in passing the frontier.

ANARCHY ADVANCING.

The Kreuzzeitung, which is unusually well-informed in Russian affairs, expresses the opinion that one of the immediate consequences of the triumph of Japan will be a general rising of the Russian peasants against their landlords, and of the army against the aristocracy. The same paper declares that revolutionary agents of Social Democratic tendencies have long been systematically poisoning the minds of the people.

He turned back to THE GATHERING OF THE STORM, and read the ominous paragraph again. "Warning enough, in all conscience," he said: "first, the Public Prosecutor assassinated at Odessa, then the Chief of Secret Police of Petersburg, then the Procurator of the Holy Synod; and now a hekatombe, sovereign, royalty, aristocracy, government, bureaucracy, all annihilated, and Anarchy in excelsis. France will take fire at any minute now, that's absolutely certain. Oh, how horrible! But we're all Christians, Flavio; and this is only one of the many funny ways in which we love one another."

He rose and went to the window. The yellow cat deliberately stretched himself, yawned, and followed; and proceeded to carry out a wonderful scheme of feints and ambuscades in regard to a ping-pong ball which was kept for his proper diversion. The man looked on almost lovingly. Flavio at length captured the ball, took it between his fore-paws, and posed with all the majesty of a lion of Trafalgar Square. Anon he uttered a little low gurgle of endearment, fixing the great eloquent mystery of amber and black velvet eyes, tardy, grave, upon his human friend. No notice was vouchsafed. Flavio got up; and gently rubbed his head against the nearest hand.

"My boy!" the man murmured; and he lifted the little cat on to his shoulder. He went downstairs. He could not work; and he was going to take an easy; and he wanted a novel, he said to his landlady. He feared that he had read all the books in the house. Yes, and those in the drawing-room too. After a quarter of an hour, application to a neighbour produced three miserable derelicts, a nameless sixpenny shudder, a Braddon, and an Edna Lyall. Not to seem ungracious, he took them upstairs; and pitched them into a corner, to be returned upon occasion. That salient trait of his character, the desire not to be ungracious, the readiness to be unselfish and self-sacrificing, had done him incalculable injury. This world is infested by innumerable packs of half-licked cubs and quarter-cultivated mediocrities who seem to have nothing better to do than to buzz about harassing and interfering with their betters. Out of courtesy, out of kindness, he was used to give way; but all the same he tenaciously knew and clung to his original purpose. He knew that delay was his enemy: yet he invariably would stand aside and let himself be delayed. And now towards the end of his youth, he was poor, lonely, a misanthropic altruist.

He returned to his armchair, breathing a long sigh of irritation and exhaustion: broke up three cigarette dottels for a (tobacco famine was afflicting him), rolled them in a fresh paper, and applied a match. Flavio, with an indulgent protestant mew, bounded from his knee to a bedroom chair; and coiled himself up to sleep.

The armchair was placed directly in front of the fireplace, the ordinary garret-coloured iron fireplace and mantel of a suburban lodging-house attic. To the grey wall above the mantel a large sheet of brown packing-paper was tacked. On this background were pinned photographs of the Hermes of Herculaneum, the terra-cotta Sebastian of South Kensington, Donatello's liparose David and the vivid David of Verrocchio, the wax model of Cellini's Perseys, an unknown Rugger XV. prized for a single example of the rare feline-human type, and the O.U.D.S. Sebastian of Twelfth Night of 1900. Tucked into the edges of these were Italian picture post-cards presenting Andrea del Sarto's young St. John, Alessandro Filipepi's Primavera, a page from an old Salon catalogue showing Friant's Wrestlers, another from an old Harper's Magazine shewing Boucher's Runners, a cheap and lovely chromo of an olive-skinned black-haired cornflower-crowned Pancratius in white on a gold ground, the visiting-cards of five literary agents, and a post-card tersely inscribed Verro precipitevolissimevolmente. The mantel-shelf contained stone bottles of ink, pipes, a miniature in a closed morocco case, a cast of Cardinal Andrea della Valle's seal from Oxford, two pairs of silver spectacles in shagreen cases, four tiny ingots of pure copper, a sponge gum bottle, and an open book with painted covers showing Eros at the knees of Psyche and a mysterious group of divers in the clear of the moon. The door was at a yard to the left of the fireplace, at a right-angle. Uncared-for clothes, black serge and blue linen, hung upon it. A small wooden wash-stand stood between the door and the armchair, convenient to the writer's hand. A straw-board covered the hole in its top; and supported ink-bottles, pens, pen-knife, scissors, a lamp, a biscuit-tin of cigarette-dottels, sixteen exquisite Greek intaglj. On the lower shelf stood a row of books-of-reference. Between the wash-stand and the fire was the chair whereon Flavio slumbered, (if one may use so indelicate a word of so delicate a cat). About four feet of wall extended on the right of the fireplace. Pinned there were a pencil design for a Diamastigosis, a black and white panel of young Sophokles as Choregos after Salamis done on the back of an Admiralty chart, a water colour of Tarquinio Santacroce and Alexander VI., a pair of foils and fencing masks, and a curious Greco-Italian seal shewing St. George as a wing-footed Perseys wearing what looked like the Garter Mantle and labelled φυλαξ ἁρχηϛ. Substitutes for shelves stood against the lower part of the wall. A rush-basket, closed and full of letters, set up on end, supported files of the American Saturday Review, the Author, the Outlook, the Salpinx, Reynards's, and the Pall Mall Gazette, and a feather broom for dusting books and papers or for correcting Flavio when obstreperous. Another rush-basket, placed lengthwise on a bedroom chair, held a row of books, ms. note-books, duodecimo classics of Plantin, Estienne, Maittaire, with English and American editions of the writer's own works. The third wall was pierced by two small windows, wide open to the full always. A chest of drawers protruded endways into the room. Its top was used as a standing desk. The drawers opened towards the fourth wall. Sheaves of letters in metal clips hung at the end. Between it and the armchair, more shelves were contrived of rush-baskets placed beneath and upon a small wooden table. Books-of-reference, lexicons, and a box of blank paper, congregated here convenient to the writer's hand. The little table drawer contained note-paper, envelopes, sealing-wax, and stamps. The whole was arranged so that, when once ensconced in the armchair before the fire with his writing-board on his knees, the digladiator could reach all his weapons by a simple extension of his arms. The attic was eleven feet square, low-pitched, and with half the ceiling slanting to the fourth foot from the floor on the fourth wall. Here was a camp-bed, a small mirror, and a towel-rail, three pairs of two- six- and ten-pound dumb-bells, a pair of boots on trees, a bottle of eucalyptus and a spray-producer.

His eyes, as they wandered round the room, met these things. He took a towel, and went downstairs to the bath-room to wash his hands. On returning he enticed Flavio with a bit of string. The cat was unwilling to play: gazed at him with innocent imperscrutable round eyes: elaborately yawned and requested permission to retire. The odour of the kitchen-dinner was perceptible. The door was opened; and shut.

He put the butt of his cigarette in an earthenware jar on his left for future use. The maid appeared with his lunch, a basinful of bread and milk. Following some subconscious train of thought, he stretched himself, took the little mirror from the wall and went to the window.

"It's one of your bad days, my friend," he commented, regarding his own image. "You look all your age, and twelve years more. Draw down those feathered brows, man. Never mind the upright furrow which makes you look stern. Draw them down; and open your eyes; and look alert. Do something to counteract the tender thin line of that mouth. You mustn't let yourself relax like this. It brings out your wrinkles, and shews the sparseness of your hair. If you had an inch more thigh, and say a couple of inches more shin, you might look people down a little more: but with that meek subservient aspect—how Luckock used to chaff about it!—no wonder everyone takes advantage of you. What's the good of having your fastidious mind clearly written on that fastidious mouth if you don't insist on behaving fastidiously. Cultivate the art of looking as though you were about to say No. You always can say Yes after No. But, if you begin with Yes, as you always do, you prevent yourself from ever saying No. That's why everyone can swindle you. You're far too anxious to give way. Buck up a bit, you ugly little thing! Ugly as you are, you're neither vulgar nor common-place. Straighten your back, and open your eyes wide, and pull yourself together."

He put the mirror in its place; and again cast a glance round the room, seeking something to read, something, anything, that was not too recent in his mind. He picked up at random one of the rejected novels. It was called Donovan. He remembered having seen (in an ex-tea-pedlar's magazine) a print of the writer thereof. He also remembered that he had found her self-conscious pose and labial conformation intensely antipathetic. His sense of beauty was a great deal more than acute. Let his predilection (which was for reticent expert virtue in the male and for innate delicate modesty in the female) once be satisfied, and the door to his favour lay open.

"However," he argued with himself, "she sells her books by tens of thousands while we don't sell ours by tens of hundreds. We'll have a look at her work, and see how she does it."

He ate his bread and milk; and seriously and deliberately set himself to dissect and analyse the book.

The manner of the portrayal of a youth, of an abnormal type of youth, the Sentient-Modest type, at once disgusted him by its inadequacy and superficiality. The male human animal is omnipresent: it is not difficult for an observant and careful writer to describe the γνωριμωτερον φυσει, things as they appear. But the author's sex had prevented her from knowing, and therefore, from describing the γνωριμωτερον ἡμιν, things as they are. It is doubtful whether Man ever mentally knew Woman. It is certain that Woman never knew Man: except in cases of occession—the author of The Gadfly for example. He found the image of Donovan fairly convincing: not so the real. Donovan, in his eponymous history, obviously was the creation of a good sweet-minded woman, who created him in her own image.

The student several times was at the point of closing the book from sheer annoyance. Only the knowledge that he had nothing else to do, and the desire to gain instruction, caused him to persevere. His temper only was logical in so far as it endowed him with the faculty of pursuance. He began many things: he followed them: oftentimes the influence of Luna on his environment obliged him to pause: but invariably he returned to them—even after long years he returned to them—; and then, slowly, surely, he concluded what he had begun. He had tenacity—the feline pertinacity of vigorous untainted English blood. Cigarette after cigarette he rolled, and smoked. He frequently turned back and read a chapter over again. Flavio mewed for admittance. He took him on his knee: and continued reading, stroking the little cat meanwhile, tickling his larynx till he purred content. So the dull March afternoon passed. At five, the maid brought a tray containing black coffee and dripping toast. At half-past six, he took a bath and attended to his appearance, execrating the pain of his swollen arm and the difficulty of keeping it out of the water. He dined at half-past seven on some soup, and haricot-beans with butter, and a baked apple. Meanwhile he counted the split infinitives in the day's Pall Mall Gazette. When he was adolescent, an Oxford tutor had said of him that he possessed a critical faculty of no mean order. At the time, he had not understood the saying perfectly: but he cultivated the faculty. He taught himself in a very bitter school, the arts of selection and discrimination, and the art of annihilating rubbish. To this perhaps was due his complete psychical detachment from other men. He trod upon so many worms. And few things are more exasperating than a man of whom it truly may be said "A chiel's amang ye takin' notes." After dinner, he returned to his attic with his cup and the coffee-pot: and resumed his task. In time, he forgot the pain of his arm: he even forgot the usual terrified anticipation of the late postman's knock, such was his faculty for concentration. He smoked cigarettes and sipped black coffee now and then, oblivious of Flavio who returned from a walk about eleven and promptly went to sleep on the foot of the bed. A little after midnight, he reached the end of the book: turned back and examined the last chapter again; and put it down.

"Yes," he said, "she's a dear good woman. Her book—well—her book is cheap, awkward, vulgar,—but it's good. It's unpalteringly ugly and simple and good. Evidently it's best to be good. It pays.... Anyhow it's bound to pay in the long run."

He pushed Flavio's chair to the wall near the door: by its side he placed the wash-stand from the left of his armchair. He disposed the armchair also against the wall, leaving a cleared space of garret-coloured drugget between the dead fire and the bed. This was his gymnasium.

"If a book like that pays," he reflected, "it must be that there's a lot of people who care for books about the Good. Why not do one of that sort instead of casting folk-lore and history before publishers who turn and rend you? The pity is that the Good should be so dreadfully dowdy. Evidently το καλονk and το ἁγαφον are just as distinct as they were in the days of the Broad-browed One. Sophisms again! Why can't you be honest and simple instead of subtile and complex? You're just like your own cat ambuscading a ping-pong ball as strategically and as scrupulously as though it were a mouse. For goodness' sake don't try to deceive yourself. It's all very well to pose before the world: but there's no one here to see you now. Strip, man, strip stark. You perfectly know that the Good always is admirable, whether it be dowdy or chic; and that what you call the Beautiful is no more than a matter of opinion, worth,—well, generally speaking, not worth six and eight-pence."

He threw all his clothes on the armchair: picked his trousers out of the heap and folded them lengthwise over the towel-rail: powdered his arm with borax and bound cotton-wool over it: looked at his dumb-bells while he brushed his hair: sprayed the room with eucalyptus; and got into bed. Extreme fatigue and pain rendered him almost hysterical. His thoughts expressed themselves in ejaculations when he had tied a handkerchief over his eyes, straightened his legs, and laid his right cheek on the pillow.

"Yes! It pays to be good—just simple goodness pays. I know, oh I know. I always knew it.

God, if ever You loved me, hear me, hear me. De profundis ad Te, ad Te clamavi. Don't I want to be good and clean and happy? What desire have I cherished since my boyhood save to serve in the number of Your mystics? What but that have I asked of You Who made me?

Not a chance do You give me—ever—ever——.

Listen! How can I serve You? How be happy, clean, or good, while You keep me so sequestered?

Oh I know of that psalm where it is written that You set apart for Yourself the godly. Am I godly? Ah no: nor even goodly. I'm Your prisoner writhing in my fetters, fettered, impotent, utterly unhappy.

Only he, who is good and clean, is happy. I am clean, God, but neither good nor happy. Not alone can a man be good or happy. Force, which generates no one thing, is not force. All intelligence must be active, potent. I'm intelligent. So, O God, You made me. Therefore I must be active. Of my nature I must act. For the chance to act, I languish. I am impotent and inactive always. He, who wishes to be good, strives to do good. Deeds must be done to others by the doer. Therefore I, in my loneliness, am futile. Friends? And which of them have You left me faithful these twelve years of my solitude, God? Not one. Andrews, faithless; and Aubrey, faithless; Brander, faithless; Lancaster, faithless; Strages, faithless and perfidious; Scuttle also; Fareham, Roole, and Nicholas, faithless; Tatham, faithless; that detestable and deceitful Blackcote who came fawning upon me crying 'Courage! You shall suffer no more as you have suffered!' and then robbed me of months and years of labour. Ah! and Lawrence, my little Lawrence, faithless.

Women? What do I know of women. Nothing.

Fiat justitia—well, there's Caerleon. But a bishop is very far above me; and his friendship is only condescension,—honest, genial, kind, but—condescension. Still, he wishes me well. I truly think it. But if only he would believe me, trust me, shew faith in me, and absolutely trust me,—I might do what the mouse did for the lion.

Strong? But why do I name my splendid master. Strong of nature and Strong of name and station, Strong of body and Strong of mind, immensely my superior altogether, knowing all my weakness and all my imperfection: who, to me, is as much like You as any man can be! It is only grand indulgence and urbanity on his part which make him know me; and, when the sun lacks splendour, only then will Megaloprepes need me, only then Kalos Kagathos perchance may need me.

Why, O God, have You made me strange, uncommon, such a mystery to my fellow-creatures, not a 'man among men' like other people?

Do I want to appear like other people? No, no, certainly not: but—Lord God, am I such a ruffian as to merit exile?

Oh of course I'm a sinner, vile and shameful. But, God, look at the wreck which You have let them make of me and my life. You have some purpose in it all. Oh you must have, if You are, God; and I know that You are. O God, I thank You.

But look,—haven't I tried and toiled and suffered? Yet You never allow me any satisfaction, any gain or reward for all my trouble. No: but You always let some shameless brigand rob me, snatching the fair fruit of my labours.

Yes: I know how I dream of certain pleasures, certain luxuries, cleanness, whiteness, freshness, and simplicity, and the life of quiet healthful vigorous and serene well-doing, all in secret, and all unostentatious, which, when once I achieve success, I will have. I know all about that. But You know also I that never should use success in that way, if You gave it to me. Now did I ever use success for myself and not for others? No: I couldn't endure the eternal silent wistful vision of Your Maiden-Mother.

You know why I want freedom, power, and money—just to make a few people happy, just to put things right a bit, just to make things easy, just to straighten out tangled lives whose tangles make me rage because I myself am helpless. Is that wrong? No—I swear my aim is single and unselfish. I don't want credit even. You well know that You made me all-denuded of the power of loving anybody, of the power of being loved by any. Self-contained, You have made me. I shall always be detached and apart from others.

Murmur? No. I never have murmured—nor will murmur.

Truly, though, I should like to love, to be loved: but, so long I have been alone and lonely, I suppose I must go on like that always till the end. They are frightened of me, even when they come to the very verge of loving. They are frightened because of certain labels which I frequently use to put on others: frightened lest I should fit them also some day with a label. Oh, often they have told me that they wouldn't like me to be against them.

I will stop that, O God, if You desire it. But, instead of it, what? I think You mean me not to waste the one talent You have given. Then, I beg of You, give me scope. I must act.

No: I am not doing well at present—not my best. Oh, I know it, and I loathe it. All my life is a pose. Somehow or other I have taken the pose, or stolid stupids force me into the pose, of strange recondite haughty genius, very subtile, very learned, inaccessible,—everything that's foolish. God, You know what a sham I am: how silly this is: how very little I know really. Don't I know it too? Don't I always tell them? Then they say that I'm modest—me—ha!—modest!

Here's the truth, by my One Hope of Salvation. I am frightened of all men, known and unknown; and of women I go in violent terror: though I always do say superb and hard things to the one, and all pretty gentle soft things to the other, while writing pitilessly of them both:—for I'm frightened of them, frightened; and I want to avoid them; and to keep them off me. Therefore I pose. And, therefore also, I provide an image which they can worship, like, or loathe, as it pleases, or displeases, or strikes awe—and they generally loathe it. All the time, while they manifest their feelings, I look on like a child at Punch and Judy.

Oh, it's wrong, very wrong, wrong altogether. But what can I do? God, tell me, clearly unmistakeably and distinctly tell me, tell me what I must do—and make me do it."

He got out of bed: took his rosary from his trousers' pocket; and returned. During the fifth meditation on the Finding of The Lord in the Temple, he fell asleep.

"Dr. Courtleigh and Dr. Talacryn?" he repeated as a query, in the tone of one to whom Beelzebub and the Archangel Periel have been announced at eleven o'clock on the morning of a working day.

"Yes," the maid replied. "Clergymen. One is that bishop who came before."

"The bishop who came before! And——What's the other like?"

"Oh, quite old and feeble—rather stoutish—but he's been a fine handsome man in his day. He wears a red necktie under his collar."

"Well—I—am!... Thanks. I'll be down in a minute."

George put his writing-board away and brushed the front of his blue linen jacket, mentally and corporeally pulling himself together.

"Flavio, I should just like to know the meaning of this. I rather wish that I had Iulo here to back me up. If they are meditating mischief, an athletic and quarrelsome youngster, with an eye like a basilisk and a mouth full of torrential English, would be an excellent trump to play. Mischief? What nonsense! Don't you give way to your nerves, man. Respectable epistatai do not habitually engage in mischief, as you are well aware. You have nothing to fear: so put on a mask—the superior one with a tinge of disdain in it—and brace yourself up to resist the devil; and go downstairs at once to see him flee."

The two visitors were in the dining-room, a confined drab and aniline room rather over-filled with indistinct but useful furniture. When George entered, they stood up—grave important men, of over forty and seventy years respectively, dark-haired and robust, white-haired and of picturesque and supercilious mien. George went straight to the younger prelate: kneeled; and kissed the episcopal ring.

"Your Eminency will understand that I do not wish to be disrespectful," he said to the senior, with as much quiet antipathy as could be crowded into one man's voice: "but the Bishop of Caerleon calls himself my friend; and I am at a loss to know to what I may attribute the honour of Your Eminency's presence, or the manner in which you will allow me to receive you."

"I hope, Mr. Rose, that you will accept my blessing as well as Dr. Talacryn's," the Cardinal-Archbishop replied in a voice where hauteur strangely struggled with timidity. He extended his hand. George instantly took it; and respectfully kneeled again, noting that this ring contained a cameo instead of the cardinalitial sapphire. Then he caused his guests to become seated. The atmosphere seemed to him laden with the invigorating aroma of possibilities.

"Zmnts[1] wishes to ask you a few questions," the young bishop began; "and he thought you would not take it amiss if I were present as your friend."

George shot a glance of would-be affectionate gratitude at the speaker; and turned, saying "I have been imagining Your Eminency in Rome—in the Conclave."

"I was there until a fortnight ago; and then,—well, you are said to be an expert in the annals of conclaves, Mr. Rose, so it will interest you to know that we stand adjourned."

"For the removal of the Conclave from Rome?"

"Oh dear no! There is no need for removal. The Piedmontese usurpers treat us with profound respect, I'm bound to say. No. We simply stand adjourned."

"But this is extremely interesting!" George exclaimed. "Surely it's unique? And may I ask,—no, I would not venture to inquire the cause: but, is this generally known? I have seen nothing of it in the papers; and I am not on speaking terms with any Roman Catholics except the——"

"No. It is not generally known; and it is not intended to make an official announcement, for reasons which you will understand, and which, I believe, you will respect."

"I am much honoured by Your Eminency's confidence," George purred.

"Certain affairs required my personal presence in England;" the cardinal continued. He was a feeble aged man, almost senile sometimes. He hesitated. He stumbled. But he maintained the progression of the conversation on its hands and knees, as it were, with "These are very pregnant times, Mr. Rose."

George went to the door: admitted his cat who was mewing outside; and resumed his seat. Flavio brushed by cardinalitial and episcopal gaiters turn by turn: bounded to his friend's knee: couched; and became still, save for twinkling ears. The prelates exchanged glances.

"But perhaps you will let me say no more on that subject, and come directly to the point I wished to consult you upon." The cardinal now seemed to have cleared the obstacles; and he archiepiscopally pranced along. "It has recently been brought very forcibly to my remembrance that you were at one time a candidate for Holy Orders, Mr. Rose. I am cognizant of all the unpleasantness which attended that portion of your career: but it is only lately that I have realised the fact that you yourself have never accepted, acquiesced in, the adverse verdict of your superiors."

"I never have accepted it. I never have acquiesced in it. I never will accept it. I never will acquiesce in it."

"Would you mind telling me your reasons?"

"I should have to say very disagreeable things, Eminency."

"Never mind. Tell me all the truth. Try to feel that you are confiding in your spiritual father, whose only desire is to do justice—I may even say to do justice at the eleventh hour."

"I am inclined indeed to believe that, because you yourself have condescended to come to me. I wish, in fact, to believe that. But—is it advisable to rake up old grievances? Is it desirable to scarify half-healed wounds? And, how did Your Eminency find me after all these years?" The feline temper of him produced dalliance.

"It certainly was a difficult matter at first. You had completely disappeared——"

"I object to that," George interrupted. He suddenly saw that this was the one chance of his life of saying the right thing to the right person; and he determined to fight every step of the way with this cardinal before death claimed him. "I object to that," he repeated. "I neither disappeared nor hid myself in any way. There was no question of concealment whatever. I found myself most perfidiously deserted; and I went on my way alone, neither altering my habits, nor changing my appearance——"

"There was no implication of that kind, Mr. Rose."

"I am very glad to hear Your Eminency say so. But such things are said. They are the formulæ which spite or indolence or foolishness uses of a man whom it has not seen for a month. Sometimes they are detrimental. To me they are offensive; and I am not in a mood to tolerate them."

The cardinal swallowed the cachet; and proceeded, "I first wrote to you at your publishers; and my letters were returned unopened, and marked Refused."

"That was in accordance with my own explicit directions. A few years ago, the opportunity was given me of drawing a sharp line across my life——"

"You mean——"

"I allude to a series of libels which were directed against me in the newspapers, especially in Catholic newspapers—dirty Keltic wood-pulp——"

"Precisely. But why was that an occasion for drawing what you call a sharp line across your life?"

"Eminency," said George, calming down and setting out to be concise and categorical, "scores of people who had known me all my life must have seen that those attacks were libellous, and false. You yourself must have seen that." He stretched out a hand and opened and shut it, as though claws protruded from velvet and retired. "Yet only a single one out of all those scores came forward to assure me of friendship in that dreadful moment. All the rest spewed their bile or licked their lips in unctuous silence. I was left to bear the brunt alone, except for that one; and he was not a Catholic. Except from him, I had no sympathy and no comfort whatever. I don't know any case in all my reading, to say nothing of my experience, where a man had a better or a clearer or a more convincing test of the trueness and the falseness of his friends. Not to do any man an injustice, and that no one might call me rash or precipitate in my decision, I waited two years—two whole years. The Bishop of Caerleon came to me in this period of isolation; and one other Catholic, a man of my own trade. Later, that one betrayed me again, so I will say no more of him. Women, of course, I neglect. And the rest unanimously held aloof. Then I published a book; and I told my publishers to refuse all letters which might be addressed to them for me. The sharp line was drawn. I wanted no more fair-weather friends, afraid to stand by me in storms. If, after those two awful years, I had received overtures from my former acquaintances, I really think I should have fulminated at them St. Matthew xxv. 41-43——"

"What is that?"

"'I was an hungred and ye gave me no meat' down to 'Depart from me, ye cursed, into æonial fire.' Yes, the sharp line was drawn across my life. I had one true friend, a protestant. As for the Faith, I found it comfortable. As for the Faithful, I found them intolerable. The Bishop of Caerleon at present is the exception which proves the rule, because he came to me in the teeth of calumny."

"You are hard, Mr. Rose, very hard."

"I am what you and your Catholics have made me."

"Poor child—poor child," the cardinal adjected.

"I request that Your Eminency will not speak to me in that tone. I disdain your pity at this date. The catastrophe is complete. I nourish no grudge, and seek no revenge, no, nor even justice. I am content to live my own life, avoiding all my brother-Catholics, or treating them with severe forbearance when circumstances throw them in my path. I don't squash cockroaches."

"The effect on your own soul?"

"The effect on my own soul is perfectly ghastly. I positively loathe and distrust all Catholics, known and unknown, with one exception. I have become a rudderless derelict. I have lost all faith in man, and I have lost the power of loving."

"How terrible!" the cardinal sighed. "And are there none of us for whom you have a kindly feeling? At times, I mean? You cannot always be in a state of white-hot rage, you know. There must be intervals when the tension of your anger is relaxed, perhaps from sheer fatigue: for anger is deliberate, the effect of exertion. And, in those intervals, have you never caught yourself thinking kindly of any of your former friends?"

"Yes, Eminency, there are very many, clerks and laics both, with whom, strange to say, when my anger is not dynamic, I sometimes wish to be reconciled. However, I myself never will approach them; and they afford me no opportunity. They do not come to me, as you have come." His voice softened a little; and his smile was an alluring illumination.

"But you would meet them with vituperation; and naturally they don't want to expose themselves to affronts?"

"Oh, of course if their sense of duty (to say nothing of decency) does not teach them to risk affronts——But I will not say before hand how I should meet them beyond this: it would depend on their demeanour to me. I should do as I am done by. For example," he turned to the ruddy bishop, "did I heave chairs or china-ware at Your Lordship?"

"Indeed you did not, although I thoroughly deserved both. Yrmnts,"[2] the young prelate continued, "I believe I understand Mr. Rose's frame of mind. He has been hit very hard; and he's badly bruised. He is a burnt child; and he dreads the fire. It's only natural. I'm firmly convinced that he has been more sinned against than sinning; and, though I'm sorry to see him practically keeping us at arms' length, I really don't know what else we can expect until we treat him as we ourselves would like to be treated."

"True, true," the cardinal conceded.

"But it's a pity all the same," the bishop concluded.

The cardinal audibly thought, "You have perhaps not many very kindly feelings towards me personally, Mr. Rose."

"I have no kindly feelings at all toward Your Eminency; and I believe you to be aware of my reasons. I trust that I never should be found wanting in reverence to your Sacred Purple: but apart from that—" indignant recollection stiffened and inflamed the speaker—"indeed I only am speaking civilly to you now because you are the successor of Augustine and Theodore and Dunstan and Anselm and Chichele and Chichester, and because my friend the Bishop of Caerleon has made you my guest for the nonce. My Lord Cardinal, I do not know what you want of me, nor why you have come to me: but let me tell you that you shall not entangle me again in my talk. You are going the Catholic way to work with me; and that is the wrong way. Frankness and open honesty is the only way to win me—if you want me."

"Well, well! You were going to give me your own view of your Vocation."

"Your Eminency first was about to tell me how you found me after your letters to my publishers had been returned."

"I applied to several Catholics who, formerly, had been your friends; and, when they could tell me nothing, I had a letter sent to all the bishops of my province directing inquisition to be made among the clergy. Your personality, if not your name, was certain to be known to at least one of these if you still remained Catholic, you know."

"If I still remained Catholic!" George growled with contemptuous ire.

"People in your position, Mr. Rose, have been known to commit apostasy."

"And it is precisely because people in my position habitually commit apostasy that I decline to do what is expected of me. No. I'll follow my cat's example of exclusive singularity. It would be too obliging and too silly to give you Catholics that weapon to use against me. No, no, Eminency, rest assured that I rather will be a nuisance and poor, as I am, than an apostate and rich, as I might be."

The cardinal raised his eyebrows. "I trust you have a worthier motive than that!"

"I mentioned that I was not in revolt against the Faith, but against the Faithful."

"And the Grace of God?"

"Oh, of course the Grace of God," George hastened in common courtesy conventionally to adjoin.

The fine dark brows came down again, and the cardinal continued, "As soon as I had issued the mandate to my suffragans, Dr. Talacryn at once furnished the desired information."

"I see," said George. Then, "Where would Your Eminency like me to begin?"

"Tell me your own tale in your own way, dear child."

George softly and swiftly stroked his little cat. He compelled himself to think intensely, to marshal salient facts on which he had brooded day and night unceasingly for years, and to try to eliminate traces of the acerbity, of the devouring fury, with which they still inspired him.

"Perhaps I'd better tell Mr. Rose, Yrmnts, that we've already gone very deeply into his case," the bishop said. "It will make it easier for him to speak when he knows that it is not information we're seeking, but his personal point of view."

"Indeed it will," said George; "and I sincerely thank Your Lordship. If you already know the facts, you will be able to check my narrative; and all I have to do is to state the said facts to the best of my knowledge and belief. I will begin with my career at Maryvale, where I was during a scholastic year of eight months as an ecclesiastical subject of the Bishop of Claughton, and where I received the Tonsure. At the end of those eight months, my diocesan wrote that he was unable to make any further plans for me, because there was not (I quote his words) an unanimous verdict of the superiors in favour of my Vocation. This was like a bolt from the blue: for the four superiors verbally had testified the exact contrary to me. Instantly I wrote, inviting them to explain the discrepancy. It was the Long Vacation. In reply, the President averred inability to understand my diocesan's statement: advised me to change my diocese; and volunteered an introduction to the Bishop of Lambeth, in which he declared that my talents and energy (I am quoting again) would make me a very valuable priest. The Vice-president declined to add anything to what he already had told me. A dark man, he was, who hid inability under a guise of austerity. The Professor of Dogmatic Theology said that he never had been asked for, and never had volunteered, an opinion. The Professor of Moral Theology, who was my confessor, said the same; and, further, he superintended my subsequent correspondence with my bishop. You will mark the intentions of that act of his. However, all came to nothing. The Bishop of Claughton refused to explain, to recede, to afford me satisfaction. The Bishop of Lambeth refused to look at me, because the Bishop of Claughton had rejected me. It was my first introduction to the inexorability of the Roman Machine, inexorable in iniquity as in righteousness."

"Did you form any opinion at this juncture?" the cardinal inquired, waving a white hand.

"I formed the opinion that someone carelessly had lied: that someone clumsily had blundered; and that all concerned were determined not to own themselves, or anyone else but me, to be in the wrong. A mistake had been made; and, by quibbles, by evasions, by threats, by every hole-and-corner means conceivable, the mistake was going to be perpetuated. Had the case been one of the ordinary type of ecclesiastical student, (the hebete and half-licked Keltic class I mean,) either I furiously should have apostatized, or I mildly should have acquiesced, and should have started-in as a pork-butcher or a cheesemonger. But those intellectually myopic authorities were unable to discriminate; and they quite gaily wrecked a life. Oh yes: I formed an opinion; and I very freely stated it."

"I mean did you form any opinion of your own concerning your Vocation?"

"No. My opinion concerning my Vocation, such as it was and is, had been formed when I was a boy of fifteen. I was very fervent about that time. I frankly admit that I played the fool from seventeen to twenty, sowed my wild oats if you like. But I never relinquished my Divine Gift. I just neglected it, and said 'Domani' like any Roman. And at twenty-four I became extremely earnest about it. Yes, my opinion was as now, unchanged, unchangeable."

"Continue," the cardinal said.

"A year after I left Maryvale, the Archbishop of Agneda was instigated by one of his priests, a Varsity man who knew me well, to invite me to volunteer for his archdiocese. I was only too glad. His Grace sent me to St. Andrew's College in Rome. The priest who recommended me, and Canon Dugdale, assured me that, in return for my services, my expenses would be borne by the archbishop. They never were. I was more than one hundred and twenty pounds out of pocket. After four months in College I was expelled suddenly and brutally. No reason ever has been given to me; and I never have been aware of a reason which could justify so atrocious an outrage. My archbishop maintained absolute silence. I did hear it said that I had no Vocation. That was the gossip of my fellow-students, immature cubs mostly, hybrid larrikins given to false quantities and nasal cacophonies. I took, and take, no account of such gossip. If my legitimate superiors had had grounds for their action, grounds which they durst expose to day-light; and, if they frankly had stated the same to me, I believe I should have given very little trouble. As it is, I am of course a thorn, or a pest, or a fire-brand, or a rodent and purulent ulcer—vous en faites votre choix. The case is a mystery to me, inexplicable, except by an hypothesis connected with the character of the rector of St. Andrew's College. I remember the Marquess of Mountstuart reading a leading article about him out of The Scotsman to me in 1886, and remarking that he was 'an awful little liar.' But perhaps the right reverend gentleman is known to Your Eminency?"

"Well known, Mr. Rose, well known. And now tell me of your subsequent proceedings."

"I made haste to offer my services to other bishops. When I found every door shut against me, I firmly deliberated never to recede from my grade of tonsured clerk under any circumstances whatever; and I determined to occupy my energies with some pursuit for which my nature fitted me, until the Divine Giver of my Vocation should deign to manifest it to others as well as to myself. I chose the trade of a painter. I was just beginning to make headway when the defalcations of a Catholic ruined me. All that I ever possessed was swallowed up. Even my tools of trade illegally were seized. I began life again with no more than the clothes on my back, a Book of Hours, and eight shillings in my pocket. I obtained, from a certain prelate, whose name I need not mention, a commission for a series of pictures to illustrate a scheme which he had conceived for the confounding of Anglicans. He saw specimens of my handicraft, was satisfied with my ability, provided me with materials for a beginning and a disused skittle-alley for a studio; and, a few weeks later, (I quote his secretary) he altered his mind and determined to put his money in the building of a cathedral. I think that I need not trouble Your Eminency with further details."

"Quite unnecessary," Mr. Rose.

"I don't know how I kept alive until I got my next commission. I only remember that I endured that frightful winter of 1894-5 in light summer clothes unchanged. But I did not die; and, by odds and ends of work, I managed to recover a great deal of my lost ground. Then a hare-brained and degenerate priest asked me to undertake another series of pictures. I worked two years for him: and he valued my productions at fifteen hundred pounds: in fact he sold them at that rate. Well, he never paid me. Again I lost all my apparatus, all my work; and was reduced to the last extreme of penury. Then I began to write, simply because of the imperious necessity of expressing myself. And I had much to say. Note please that I asked nothing better than to be a humble chantry-priest, saying Mass for the dead. It was denied me. I turned to express beautiful and holy ideals on canvas. Again I was prevented. I must and will have scope, an outlet for what the President of Maryvale called my 'talent and energy.' Literature is the only outlet which you Catholics have left me. Blame yourselves: not me. Oh yes, I have very much to say."

He paused. The cardinal evaded his glance; and intently gazed at the under-side of well-manicured pink-onyx finger-nails.

"And about your Vocation, Mr. Rose. What is your present opinion?"

George wrenched himself from retrospection. "My opinion, Eminency, as I already have had the honour of telling you, is the same as it always has been."

"That is to say?"

"That I have a Divine Vocation to the Priesthood."

"You persist?"

"Eminency, I am not one of your low Erse or pseudo Gaels, flippertigibbets of frothy flighty fervour, whom you can blow hither and thither with a sixpence for a fan. Thank The Lord I'm English, born under Cancer, tenacious, slow and sure. Naturally I persist."

Cardinalitial eyebrows re-ascended. "The man, to whom Divine Providence vouchsafes a Vocation, is bound to prosecute it."

"I am prosecuting it. I never for one moment have ceased from prosecuting it."

"But now you have attained a position as an author."

"Yes; in the teeth of you all; and no thanks to anyone but myself. However that is only the means to an end."

"In what way?"

"In this way. When I shall have earned enough to pay certain debts, which I incurred on the strength of my faith in the honour of a parcel of archiepiscopal and episcopal and clerical sharpers, and also a sum sufficient to produce a small and certain annuity, then I shall go straight to Rome and square the rector of St. Andrew's College."

"Sh-h!" the bishop sibilated. The cardinal threw up delicate hands.

"Yrmnts mustn't be offended by Mr. Rose's satirical way of putting it," the bishop hastily put in. "He's a regular phrase-maker. It's his trade, you know. But at the bottom of his good heart I'm sure he means nothing but what is right and proper. And, George, you're not the man to smite the fallen. Monsignor Cateran was deposed seven years ago and more."

"I beg Your Eminency's pardon if I have spoken inurbanely; and I thank Your Lordship for interpreting me so generously. I didn't know that Cateran had come to his Cannae. Really I'm sorry: but, I've been stabbed and stung so many years that, now I am able to retaliate, I am as touchy as a hornet with a brand-new sting. I can't help it. I seem to take an impish delight in making my brother-Catholics, especially clerks, smart and wince and squirm as I myself have squirmed and winced and smarted. I'm sorry. I simply meant to say that, when I have made myself free and independent, then I will try again to give you evidence of my Vocation."

"Have you approached your diocesan recently?" the cardinal inquired.

"His Grace died soon after my expulsion from St. Andrew's College. I approached his successor, who refused to hear me; and is dead. I never have approached the present archbishop, beyond giving him notice of my existence and persistence; for I certainly will not come before him with chains on my hands."

"Chains?"

"Debts."

"Have you any special reason for belonging to the archdiocese of Agneda?"

"There is a certain fascination in the idea of administering to a horde of unspeakable barbarians, 'the horrible and ultimate Britons, ferocious to strangers.' Otherwise I have no special reason. I had no choice. I happen to have been made an ecclesiastical subject of Agneda at the instance of Mr. George Semphill and at the invitation of the late Archbishop Smithson. That is all."

"Would you be inclined to offer your services to another bishop now?"

"Eminency, 'it is not I who have lost the Athenians: it is the Athenians who have lost me.' I would say that in Greek if I thought you would understand me. When the Athenians want me, they will not have much difficulty in finding me. But to tell you the truth, I find these bishop-johnnies excessively tiresome. As I said just now, when Agneda silently relieved himself of his obligations to me, I offered my services to half-a-dozen of them, more or less, plainly telling them my history and my circumstances. What a fool they must have thought me,—or what a brazen and dangerous scoundrel! Yes, I do believe they thought me that. I was astonishingly unsophisticate then. I didn't know a tithe of what I know now; and I solemnly assever that I believe those owl-like hierarchs to have been completely flabbergasted because I neither whimpered penitence, nor whined for mercy, but actually had the effrontery to tell them the blind and naked truth about myself. Truth nude and unadorned, is such a rare commodity among Catholics, as you know, and especially among the clergy; and I suppose, as long as we continue to draw the majority of our spiritual pastors from the hooligan class, from the scum of the gutter, that the man who tells the truth in his own despite always emphatically will be condemned as mad, or bad, or both."

"Really, Mr. Rose!" the cardinal interjected.

"Yes, Eminency: we teach little children that there are three kinds of lies; and that the Officiose Lie, which is told to excuse oneself or another—the meanest lie of the lot, I say—is only a Venial Sin. It's in the catechism. Well, naturally enough the miserable little wretches, who can't possibly grasp the subtilty of a distinguo, put undue importance on that abominable world 'only'; and they grow up as the most despicable of all liars. Ouf! I learned all this from a thin thing named Danielson, just after my return to the faith of my forefathers. He lied to me. In my innocence I took his word. Then I found him out; and preached on the enormity of his crime. 'Well, sir,' says he as bold as brass, 'it's only a Venial Sin!'"

"George, you're beside the point," the bishop said.

"His Eminency will indulge me. What was I saying? Oh,—that I had had enough of being rebuffed by bishops. I came to that conclusion when His Lordship of Chadsee blandly told me that I never would get a bishop to accept my services as long as I continued to tell the truth about my experiences. I stopped competing for rebuffs then. I do not propose to begin again until I am the possessor of a cheque-book."

The cardinal was gazing through the leaves of an india-rubber plant out of the window; his magnificent eyes were drained of all expression. When the nervose deliberately-hardened and pathetic voice of the speaker ceased, he brought the argument to a focus with these words, "George Arthur Rose, I summon you to offer yourself to me."

"I am not ready to offer myself to Your Eminency."

"Not ready?"

"I hoped that I had made it clear to you that, in regard to my Vocation, I am 'marking time,' until I shall have earned enough to pay my debts incurred on the strength of my faith in the honour of a parcel of archiepiscopal and episcopal and clerical sharpers, and also a sum sufficient to produce me a small and certain annuity——"

"You keep harping upon that string," the cardinal complained.

"It is the only string which you have left unbroken on my lute."

"I see you are a very sensitive subject, Mr. Rose. I think that long brooding over your wrongs has fixed in you some such pagan and erroneous idea as that which Juvenal expresses in the verse where he says that poverty makes a man ridiculous."

"Nothing of the kind," George retorted with all his claws out. "On the contrary, it is I—the creature of you, my Lord Cardinal, and your Catholics—who make Holy Poverty look ridiculous!"

"A clever paradox!" The cardinal let a tinge of his normal sneer affect his voice.

"Not even a paradox. A poor thing: but mine own," George flung in, glaring through his great-great-grandfather's silver spectacles which he used indoors.

"Well, well: the money-question need not trouble you," said the cardinal, turning again to the window. Indifference was his pose.

"But it does trouble me. It vitally troubles me. And your amazing summons troubles me as well—now. Why do you come to me after all these years?"

"Precisely, Mr. Rose, after all these years, as you say. It has been suggested to me, and I am bound to say that I agree with the suggestion, that we ought to take your singular persistency during all these years—how many years?"

"Say twenty."

"That we must take your singular persistency during twenty years as a proof of the genuineness of your Vocation."

George turned his face to the little yellow cat, who had climbed to and was nestling on his shoulder.

"And therefore," the cardinal continued, "I am here to-day to summon you to accept Holy Order with no delay beyond the canonical intervals."

"I will respond to that summons within two years."

"Within two years? Life is uncertain, Mr. Rose. We who are here to-day may be in our graves by then." I myself am an old man.

"I know. Your Eminency is an old man. I, by the grace of God, the virtue of my ancestors, and my own attention to my physique, am still a young man; and younger by far than my years. I have not been preserved in the vigour and freshness of youth by miracle after miracle during twenty years for nothing. And, when I shall have published three more books, I will respond to your summons. Not till then."

"I told you that the money-question need not hinder you."

"Yes, Eminency; and my late diocesan said the same thing several years ago."

"You are suspicious, Mr. Rose."

"I have reason to be suspicacious, Eminency."

The cardinal threw up his hands. The gesture wedded irritation to despair. "You doubt me?" he all but gasped.

"I trusted Your Eminency in 1894; and——"

The bishop intervened: for cardinalitial human nature burst out in vermilion flames.

"George," he said, "I am witness of Zmnts's words."

"What's the good of that? Suppose that I take His Eminency's word! Suppose that in a couple of months he alters his mind, determines to mistake the large for the great and to perpetrate another pea-soup-and-streaky-bacon-coloured caricature of an electric-light-station! What then would be my remedy? Where would be my contract again? And could I hale a prince of the church before a secular tribunal? Would I? Could I subpœna Your Lordship to testify against your Metropolitan and Provincial? Would I? Would you? My Lord Cardinal, I must speak, and you must hear me, as man to man. You are offering me Holy Orders on good grounds, on right and legitimate grounds, on grounds which I knew would be conceded sooner or later. I thank God for conceding them now.... You also are offering something in the shape of money." In his agitation, he suddenly rose, to Flavio's supreme discomfiture; and began to roll a cigarette from dottels in a tray on the mantel-piece.

"If I correctly interpret you, you are offering to me, who will be no man's pensioner, who will accept no man's gifts, a gift, a pension——"

"No," the cardinal very mildly interjected: "but restitution."

"Oh!" George ejaculated, suddenly sitting down, and staring like the martyr who, while yet the pagan pincers were at work upon his tenderest internals, beheld the angel-bearers of his amaranthine coronal.

"Amends and restitution," the cardinal repeated.

"What am I to say?" George addressed his cat and the bishop.

"You are simply to say in what form you will accept this act of justice from us," the cardinal responded, taking the question to himself.

"Oh, I must have time to think. You must afford me time to think."

"No, George," said the bishop: "take no time at all. Speak your mind now. Do make an effort to believe that we are sincerely in earnest; and that in this matter we are in your hands. I may say that, Yrmnts?" he inquired.

"Certainly: we place ourselves in Mr. Rose's hands—unreservedly—ha!" the cardinal affirmed, and gasped with the exertion.

George concentrated his faculties; and recited, rather than spoke, demurely and deliberately and dynamically. "I must have a written expression of regret for the wrongs which have been done to me both by Your Eminency and by others who have followed your advice, command, or example."

"It is here," the cardinal said, taking a folded paper from the fascicule of his breviary. "We knew that you would want that. I may point out that I have written in my own name, and also as the mouthpiece of the Catholic body."

George took the paper and carefully read it two or three times, with some flickering of his thin fastidious lips. It certainly was very handsome. Then he said, "I thank Your Eminency and my brother-Catholics," and put the document in the fire, where in a moment it was burned to ash.

"Man alive!" cried the bishop.

"I do not care to preserve a record of my superiors' humiliation," said George, again in his didactic recitative.

"I see that Mr. Rose knows how to behave nobly, as you said, Frank," the cardinal commented.

"Only now and then, Eminency. One cannot be always posing. But I long ago had arranged to do that, if you ever should give me the opportunity. And now," he paused—and continued, "you concede my facts?"

"We may not deny them, Mr. Rose."

"Then, now that I in my turn have placed myself in your hands" (again he was reciting), "I must have a sum of money"—(that paradoxical "must" was quite in his best manner)—"I must have a sum of money equal to the value of all the work which I have done since 1892, and of which I have been—for which I have not been paid. I must have five thousand pounds."

"And the amount of your debts, and a solatium for the sufferings——"

"You no more can solace me for my sufferings than you can revest me with ability to love my neighbour. The paltry amount of my debts concerns me and my creditors, and no one else. If I had been paid for my work I should have had no debts. When I am paid, I shall pay."

"The five thousand pounds are yours, Mr. Rose."

"But who is being robbed——"

"My dear child!" from the cardinal; and "George!" from the bishop.

"Robbed, Eminency. Don't we all know the Catholic manner of robbing Peter to pay Paul? I repeat, who is being robbed that I may be paid? For I refuse to touch a farthing diverted from religious funds, or extracted from the innocuous devout."

"You need not be alarmed on that score. Your history is well-known to many of us, as you know: latterly it has deeply concerned some of us, as perhaps you do not know. And one who used to call himself your friend, who—ha—promised never to let you sink—and let you sink,—one who acquiesced when others wronged you, has now been moved to place ten thousand pounds at my disposal, in retribution, as a sort of sin-offering. I intend to use it for your rehabilitation, Mr. Rose,—well then for your enfranchisement. Now that we understand each other, I shall open an account—have you a banking account though?—very good: I will open an account in your name at Coutts's on my way back to Pimlico."

"I must know the name of that penitent sinner: for quite a score have said as much as Your Eminency has quoted."

"Edward Lancaster."

"I might have guessed it. Well, he never will miss it—it's just a drop of his ocean—I think I can do as much with it as he can.—Eminency, give him my love and say that I will take five thousand pounds: not more. The rest—oh, I know: I hand it to Your Eminency to give to converted clergymen who are harassed with wives, or to a sensible secular home for working boys, or to the Bishop of Caerleon for his dreadful diocese. Yes, divide it between them."

The prelates stood up to go. George kneeled; and received benedictions.

"We shall see you at Archbishop's House, Mr. Rose," said the cardinal on the doorstep.

"If Your Eminency will telegraph to Agneda at once, you will be able to get my dimissorials to your archdiocese by to-morrow morning's post. I will be at Archbishop's House at half-past seven to confess to the Bishop of Caerleon. Your Eminency says Mass at eight, and will admit me to Holy Communion. At half-past eight the post will be in; and you will give me the four minor orders. Then—well, then, Eminency" (with a dear smile.) "You see I am not anxious for delay now. And, meanwhile, I will go and have a Turkish Bath, and buy a Roman collar, and think myself back into my new—no—my old life."

"What does Yrmnts make of him?" the bishop inquired as the shabby brougham moved away.

"God knows! God only knows!" the cardinal responded. "I hope—— Well we've done what we set out to do: haven't we? What a most extraordinary, what a most incomprehensible creature to be sure! I don't of course like his paganism, nor his flippancy, nor his slang, nor his readiness to dictate; and he is certainly sadly lacking in humility. He treated both of us with scant respect, you must admit, Frank. What was it he called us—ha—'bishop-johnnies'—now you can't defend that. And 'owl-like hierarchs' too!"

"Indeed no. I believe he hasn't a scrap of reverence for any of us. After all I don't exactly see that we can expect it. But it may come in time."

"Do you really think so?" said the cardinal; and the four eyes in the carriage turned together, met, and struck the spark of a recondite and mutual smile.

"For my part," the younger prelate continued, "I'm going to try to make amends for the immense wrong I did him by neglecting him. I can't get over the feeling of distrust I have of him yet. But I confess I'm strangely drawn to him. It is such a treat to come across a man who's not above treating a bishop as his equal."

"Did it strike you that he was acting a part?"

"Indeed yes: I think he was acting a part nearly all the time. But I'm sure he wasn't conscious of it. He's as transparent and guileless as a child, whatever."

"It seemed to me that he had all these pungent little speeches cut and dried. He said them like a lesson."

"Well, poor fellow, he's thought of nothing else for years; and I find, Yrmnts, that mental concentration, carried to anything like that extreme, gives a sort of power of prevision. I really believe that he had foreseen something, and was quite prepared for us."

"Strange," said the cardinal, whose supercilious oblique regard indicated dearth of interest in ideas that were out of his depth.

"He behaved very well about the money though?"

"Very well indeed. But, what a fool! Well, Frank, we can only pray that he may turn out well. I think he will. I really think he will. I hope and trust that we shall find the material of sanctity there. An unpleasant kind of sanctity perhaps. He will be difficult. That singular character, and the force which all those self-concentrated years have given him:—oh, he'll never submit to management, depend upon it. Frank, I've seen just that type of face among academic anarchists. It will be our business to watch him, for he will go his own way; and his way will have to be our way. It won't be the wrong way: but—oh yes, he will be very difficult. Well:—God only knows! Will you be on the look-out for a telegraph office, Frank, while I get through my Little Hours? Perhaps we had better——"

The cardinal opened his breviary at Sext; and made the sign of the cross.

George returned to the dining-room; and sat down in the cane folding-chair which the cardinal had vacated. He lighted the cigarette rolled during conversation. Flavio had taken possession of the seat lately occupied by the bishop, a deep-cushioned wickerwork armchair; and was very majestically posed, haunches broad and high and yellow as a cocoon, the beautiful brush displayed at length, fore-paws daintily tucked inward under the paler breast, the grand head guardant.

A shameless female began to shriek scales and roulades in an opposite house. George made plans for blasting her with a mammoth gramaphone which should bray nothing but trumpet-choruses out of his open windows. He smoked his cigarette to the butt, eyeing the cat. Then he said,

"Boy, where are we?"

Flavio winked and turned away his head, as who should say

"Obviously here."

George accepted the hint. He went upstairs, and changed into black serge: borrowed a few sovereigns from his landlord: ate his lunch of bread and milk; and took the L. and N.W. Rail to Highbury. Walking away from the station amid the blatant and vivacious inurbanity of Islington Upper Street, he kept his mental processes inactive—the higher mental processes of induction and deduction, the faculties of criticism and judgment. His method was Aristotelean, in that he drew his universals from a consideration of numerous particulars. He had plenty of material for thought; and he stored it till the time for thinking came. Now, he was out of doors for the sake of physical exercise. Also, he was getting the morning's events into perspective. At present his mind resembled warm wax on a tablet, wherein externals inscribed but transient impressions—an obese magenta Jewess with new boots which had a white line round their idiotic high heels—a baby with neglected nostrils festooned over the side of a mail-cart—a neat boy's leg, long and singularly well-turned, extended in the act of mounting a bicycle—an Anglican sister-of-mercy displaying side-spring prunellos and one eye in a haberdasher's violent window—a venerable shy drudge of a piano-tuner whose left arm was dragged down by the weight of the unmistakable little bag of tools—the weary anxious excruciating asking look in the eyes of all. He made his way south-westward, walking till he was tired for an hour and a half.

Anon, he was lying face downward in the calidarium of the bath, a slim white form, evenly muscular, boyishly fine and smooth. His forehead rested on his crossed arms, veiling his eyes. He came here, because here he was unknown: the place, with its attendants and frequenters, was quite strange to him: he would not be bored by the banalities of familiar tractators; and an encounter with any of his acquaintance was out of the question. From time to time he refreshed himself in the shower: but, while his procumbent body was at rest in the hot oxygenated air, he let his mind work easily and quickly. After two hours, he concluded his bath with a long cold plunge; and retired rosily tingling to the unctuarium to smoke. Here he made the following entries in his pocket-book:

"Have I been fair to them? Yes: but unmerciful. N.B. For an act to be really good and meritorious, it must be performed noluntarily and with self-compulsion.

What have I gained? A verbal promise of priesthood, and a verbal promise of five thousand pounds. M-ym-ym-ym-ym-ym-ym.

What has he gained? If he's honest, the evacuation of a purulent abscess, the allegiance of a man who wants to be faithful, and perhaps the merit of saving a soul. N.B. There was unwillingness and self-compulsion in him.

Why was he so timid?

A great part of what I said was gratuitously exasperating. Why did he stand it?

What does he know that I don't know?

What do I know that he doesn't know?

What salient things have I, in my usual manner, left unsaid?

Did I say more than enough?

Have I given myself away again?

Is he honest?

What was his real motive?

Oh why did he humiliate himself so?

Don't know. Don't know. Don't know.

Now what shall I do? Advance one pace. 'Do y^e nexte thynge.'"

As he was powdering his vaccinated arm with borax before dressing, he said to himself, "Go into Berners Street, and buy a gun-metal stock and two dozen Roman collars (with a seam down the middle if you can get them); and then go to Scott's and buy a flat hat. The black serge will have to do as it is. If they don't like a jacket, let them dislike it. And then go home and examine your conscience."

The bishop locked the parlour-door: took the crucifix from the mantel and stood it on the table: kissed the cross embroidered on the little violet stole which he had brought with him, and put it over his shoulders. He sat down rectangularly to the end of the table, his left cheek toward the crucifix, his back to the penitent. George kneeled on the floor by the side of the table, in face of the crucifix: made the sign of the cross; and began,

"Bless me, O father, for I have sinned."

"May The Lord be in thine heart and on thy lips, that thou with truth and with humility mayest confess thy sins, ✠ in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

"I confess to God Almighty, to Blessed Mary Ever-Virgin, to Blessed Michael Archangel, to Blessed John Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all Saints, and to thee, O Father, that I excessively have sinned in thought, in word, and in deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my very great fault. I last confessed five days ago: received absolution: performed my penance. Since then I broke the first commandment, once, by being superstitiously silly enough to come downstairs in socks because I accidentally put on my left shoe before my right: twice, by speaking scornfully of and to God's ministers. I broke the third commandment, once, by omitting to hear mass on Sunday: twice, by permitting my mind to be distracted by the brogue of the priest who said mass on Saturday. I broke the fourth commandment, once, by being pertly pertinacious to my superior: twice, by saying things to grieve him——"

"Was that wilful?"

"Partly. But I was annoyed by his manner to me."

"What had you to complain of in his manner?"

"Side. He had used me rather badly: he came to make amends: I took umbrage at what I considered to be the arrogance of his manner. I was wrong. I confess an ebullition of my own critical intolerant impatient temper, which I ought to have curbed."

"Is there anything more on your conscience, my son?"

"Lots. I confess that I have broken the sixth commandment, once, by continuing to read an epigram in the Anthology after I had found out that it was obscene. I have broken the eighth commandment, once, by telling a story defamatory of a royal personage now dead: I don't know whether it was true or false: it was a common story, which I had heard; and I ought not to have repeated it. I have broken the third commandment of the Church, once, by eating dripping-toast at tea on Friday: I was hungry: it was very nice: I made a good meal of it and couldn't eat any dinner: this was thoughtless at first, then wilful."

"Are you bound to fast this Lent?"

"Yes, Father.... Those are all the sins of which I am conscious since my last confession. I should like to make a general confession of the chief sins of my life as well. I am guilty of inattention and half-heartedness in my spiritual exercises. Sometimes I can concentrate upon them: sometimes I allow the most paltry things to distract me. My mind has a twist towards frivolity, towards perversity. I know the sane; and I love and admire it: but I don't control myself as I ought to do. I say my prayers at irregular hours. Sometimes I forget them altogether."

"How many times a week on an average?"

"Not so often as that: not more than once a month, I think. The same with my Office."

"What Office? You haven't that obligation?"

"Well no: not in a way. But several years ago, when I received the tonsure, I immediately began to say the Divine Office——"

"Did you make any vow?"

"No, Father: it was one of my private fads. I was awfully anxious to get on to the priesthood as quickly as possible; and, as soon as I was admitted to the clerical estate, I busied myself in acquiring ecclesiastical habits. I wrote the necessary parts of the Liturgy on large sheets of paper, and pinned them on my bedroom walls; and I used to learn them by heart while I was dressing. The Office was another thing. I said it fairly regularly for about three years. Sometimes a bit of nasty vulgar Latin, for which someone merited a swishing, shocked me; and I stopped in the middle of a lection—it generally was a lection:—but I never relinquished the practice for more than a day. Circumstances deprived me of my breviary: but I kept a little book-of-hours; and I went on, saying all but mattins and lauds. It wasn't satisfactory; and I had no Ordo; and, after a month or two I gave it up. Then I began to say the Little Office; and that is of obligation, because I have made my profession in the Third Order of St. Francis. I added to it the Office for the Dead to make up a decent quantity. But I have not been regular. The same with my duties. Generally, I go to confession and communion once a week: but sometimes I don't go on the proper days. Sometimes I miss mass on holidays for absurd reasons. Yes, often. I generally hear mass every day; and, when I fail, it always is on a holiday——"

"Explain, my son."

"I live between two churches: the one is half an hour away: the other, a quarter——"

"Have you been obliged to live where you do?"

"Yes: as far as one is obliged to do a detestable inconvenient thing. I did not choose the place. A false friend enticed me there, absconded with some papers of mine and obliged me to stay there, and rot there——"

"Continue, my son."

"When I am well disposed, I go to the distant church. When I am lazy, I don't go at all—this only refers to holidays:—because at the near one I should have to encounter the scowls of a purse-proud family who knew me when I was well-off, and who glare at me now as though I committed some impertinence in using a church which they have decorated with a chromolithograph. Also I detest kneeling in a pew like a protestant, with somebody's breath oozing down the back of my collar. I can hear Mass with devotion as well as with æsthetic pleasure in a church which has dark corners and no pews. I've never seen one in this country where I can be unconscious of the hideous persons and outrageous costumes of the congregation, the appalling substitute for ecclesiastical music, the tawdry insolence of the place, the pretentious demeanour of the ministers. Things like these distract me; and sometimes keep me away altogether. I like to worship my Maker, alone, from a distance, unseen of all save Him. You see, among the laity, I am as a fish out of water: because I am a clerk, whose place is not without but within the cancelli. However, I confess that I habitually more or less am guilty of neglect of duty, on grounds which I know to be fantastic and sensuous and indefensible. I confess that I have used irreverent expletives, such as O my God and Damn. Not very often.... I confess that I am imperfectly resigned to the Will of God. I very often think that I do not know and cannot know what is God's Will. I generally follow my instincts: not, of course, when I know them to be sinful. I generally resist those. But, in planning my life, in trial, when I really want to know God's Will, I have no test which I can apply to the operations of my intellect. I am not alluding to dogma. I implicitly take that from the Church. I mean life's little quandaries. Years ago, I used to consult my confessor. I never got an apt or an illuminating or even an intelligent response. Time was short: there were a lot of people waiting outside the confessional: or His Reverence had been interrupted in the middle of his Office. An inapplicable platitude was pitched at me; and of course I went away in a rage. Later, I grew to think that a man ought not to shirk his personal responsibility: that he ought to be prepared to decide for himself and face the consequence. I gave up consulting the clergy, except upon technical points. I do my best, by myself; and I pray God to be merciful to my mistakes. I earnestly desire to do His Will in all things: but I often fail. For example, I can't stand pain. It makes me savage, literally. I don't bear chastisement submissively. I confess all my failures. I was lacking in filial respect towards my parents. I have been irreverent and disobedient to my superiors. I have argued with them, instead of meekly submitting my will to theirs. I have given them nicknames, labels that stick, that annoy them by revealing mental and corporeal characteristics of which they are not proud. For example, I said that the violet legs of my college-rector were formed like little Jacobean communion-rails; and I nicknamed a certain domestic prelate the Greek for Muddy-Mind, βορβοροθυμοϛ. I haven't done these things out of really vicious wanton cruelty: but out of pride in my own powers of penetration and perception, or out of culpable frivolity. I confess that I have been wanting in love, patience, sincerity, justice, towards my neighbour. Selfishness, self-will, and a fatuous desire to be distinct from other people, have caused these breaches of God's law. That desire nearly always is unconscious or subconscious: seldom deliberate. I am unkind with my bitter tongue and pen: for example, I made a jibe of the scrofula of a publisher. I am impatient with mental or natural weakness: for example I brought tears into a schoolboy's eyes by my remarks when he recorded Edward III.'s words to Philippa in reference to the six burgesses of Calais as 'Dam, I can deny you nothing, but I wish you had been otherwhere.' I am insincere, sinfully not criminally. I mean that I delight in bewildering others by posing as a monument of complex erudition, when I really am a very silly simpleton. I am unjust, in my readiness to judge on insufficient evidence: by my habit of believing all I hear,—that's a tremendously salient fault of mine:—and by telling or repeating detrimental stories. I confess the sin of detraction. I have told improper stories: not of the ordinary revolting kind, but those which are exquisite or witty or recondite. The koprolalian kind, those which are common in colleges and among the clergy, I have had the injustice to label Roman Catholic Stories. If it were necessary to designate them with particularity, the classic epithet Milesian would serve: but it is never necessary. I have not often offended in this way: but now and then, according to the company in which I have happened to be. I confess that I have sinned against myself—for example, I have not avoided ease and luxury. I have only been too glad to enjoy them when they came in my way. I have been fastidious in my person, my tastes, my dress, affecting delicate habits, likes, and dislikes. I hate getting up early in the morning; and do it with a bad grace. I am dainty in my diet. I never have conquered my natural antipathy to flesh-meat, especially to entrails such as sweet-breads and kidneys. I abhor fish-meat on account of its abominable stench. Formerly, I never would sit at a table where fish-meat was served. I can do that now, with an effort of will: but I could not eat fish without physical nausea. I never will eat it. Once I made a man sick by the filthy comparison which I used in regard to some oysters which he was about to eat.... I have not avoided dangerous occasions of sin: I have not been prompt to resist temptation. For example, my desire to improve my knowledge leads me to minute appreciation and analysis of everything which interests me. In regard to the fine arts, I study the nude, human anatomy, generally with no emotion beyond passionate admiration for beauty. I never have been able to find beauty shameful: ugliness, yes. In regard to literature, I have read prohibited books and magazines—the Nineteenth Century, and books ancient and modern which are of a certain kind. My motive always has been to inform myself. I perfectly have known into what areas of temptation I was straying. As a rule, no effect has been produced on me, save the feeling of disgust at writers who write grossly for the sake of writing grossly, like Stratōn, or Pontano. I confess that two or three times in my life I have delighted in impure thoughts inspired by some lines in Cicero's Oration for M. Coelius: and, perhaps half a dozen times by a verse of John Addington Symonds in the Artist. I confess that I have dallied with these thoughts for an instant before dismissing them. There is one thing which I never have mentioned in confession to my satisfaction. I mean that I have mentioned it in vague terms only. I have not felt quite sure about it. I know that I cannot think of it and of the stainless purity of the Mother-Maid at the same time. Hence I conclude that I am guilty——"

"Relieve your mind, my son."

"About fourteen years ago, I dined with a woman whose husband was a great friend of mine. Her two children dined with us—a girl of fifteen, a boy of thirteen. Her husband was away on business for a few months. Soon after dinner, she sent the children to bed. A few minutes later she went to say good-night to them: she was an excellent mother. I remained in the drawing-room. When she returned, I was standing to take my departure. As she entered, she closed the door and switched off the electric light. I instinctively struck a match. She laughed, apologising for being absent-minded. I said the usual polite idioms and went away. A fortnight later, I dined there again by invitation. All went on as before: but this time, when she came back from saying good-night to the children she was wearing a violet flannel dressing-gown. I said nothing at all; and instantly left her. Afterwards, I gave her the cut direct in the street. I never have spoken to her since. Her husband was a good man, a martyr, and I immensely admired him. He died a few years later. I have no feeling for her except detestation. She was wickedly ugly. Vague thoughts ensued from these incidents; thoughts not connected with her but with some sensuous idea, some phasma of my imagination. They never were more than thoughts. I think that I must have delighted in them, because they returned to me perhaps twelve or fourteen times in as many years. I confess these sins of thought. Also, I think that I ought to confess myself lacking in alacrity after the first switching off of the electric light; and that I never ought to have remained alone with that woman again. I was ridiculously dense: for, only after the second event, did I see what the first had portended. I confess that I have not kept my senses in proper custody. I place no restraint whatever upon sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch, except in so far as my natural sympathies or antipathies direct me. I cultivate them and refine them and sharpen them: but never mortify them. I hardly ever practise self-denial. Even when I do, I catch myself extracting elements of æsthetic enjoyment from it. For example, I was present at the amputation of a leg. Under anæsthetics, directly the saw touched the marrow of the thigh bone, the other leg began to kick. I was next to it; and the surgeon told me to hold it still. It was ghastly: but I did. And then I actually caught myself admiring the exquisite silky texture of human skin.... Father, I am my Master's most unfaithful servant. I am a very sorry Christian. I confess all these sins, all the sins which I cannot remember, all the sins of my life. I implore pardon of God; and from thee, O Father, penance and absolution. Therefore I beseech blessed Mary Ever-Virgin, blessed Michael Archangel, Blessed John Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all Saints, and thee, O Father, to pray for me to The Lord our God."

"My son, do you love God?"

From silence, tardily the response emerged, "I don't know. I really don't know. He is Δημιουῥγοϛ, Maker of the World to me. He is Το Ἁγαθον to me, Truth and Righteousness and Beauty. He is Πανταναξ, Lord of All to me. He is First. He is Last. He is Perfect. He is Supreme. I believe in God, the Father Almighty; I believe in God the Son, Redeemer of the World; I believe in God the Holy Ghost, the Lord, the Lifegiver; One God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity. I absolutely believe in Him. There isn't in my mind the slightest shade of a question about Him. I unconditionally trust Him. I am not afraid of Him, because I can't think of Him as anything but righteous and merciful. To think otherwise would be both absurd and unfair to myself. And I'm quite sure that I'm ready and willing and delighted to make any kind of sacrifice for Him. I don't know why. So far, I clearly see. Then, in my mind, there comes a great gap,—filled with fog."

"Do you love your neighbour?"

"No, I frankly detest him, and her. Let me explain. Most people are repulsive to me, because they are ugly in person: more, because they are ugly in manner: many, because they are ugly in mind. Not that I never met people different to these. I have. People have occurred to me with whom I should like to be in sympathy. But I have been unable to get near enough to them. I seem to be a thing apart. I can't understand my neighbour. What satisfies him does not satisfy me. Once I induced a young lover to let me read his love-letters. He brought them every day for a week. His love had appeared to be a perfect idyll, pure and lovely as a flower. Well—I never read such rot in my life: simply categories of features and infantile gibberish done in the style of a housemaid's novelette. It made me sick. This kind of thing annoys me, terrifies me. You see, I want to understand my neighbour in order to love him. But I don't think I know what love is. But I want to—badly."

"Do you love yourself?"

"Father, do you mean the essence of me, or the form?"

"Yourself?"

"Well, of course I look after my body, and cultivate my mind: I'm afraid I don't pay enough attention to my soul. I certainly don't admire my person. That's all wrong. I can pick out a hundred deviations from the canon of proportion in it. Lysippos would have had a fit. And the tint is not quite pure. I make the best of it: but I don't think it matters much. As for my mind, I suppose I'm clever in a way, compared with other people: but I'm not half as clever as I'm supposed to be, or as I should like to be. In fact I'm rather more of a stupid ignoramus than otherwise. Naturally I stick up for myself, when I care to, against others: but, to myself, I despise myself. Oh I'm not interesting. On the whole, I think that I despise myself, body, mind, and soul. If I thought that they would be any good to anyone else, I'd throw them away to-morrow—if I could do it neatly and tidily and completely and with no one there to make remarks. They're no particular pleasure to me——"

"My son, tell me what would give you pleasure."

"Nothing. Father, I'm tired. Really nothing—except to flee away and be at rest."

"My son, that is actually the longing of your soul for God whatever. Cultivate that longing, oh cultivate it with all your powers. It will lead you to love Him; and then your longing will be satisfied, for God is love, as St. John tells us. Thank Him with all your heart for this great gift of longing: besiege Him day and night for an increase of it. At the same time, remember the words of Christ our Saviour, how He said, If ye love Me, keep My Commandments. Remember that He definitely commands you to love your neighbour, This is My Commandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you. Mortify those keen senses of that vile body, which by God's grace you are already moved to despise. In the words of St. Paul, keep it under and bring it into subjection. And do try to love your neighbour. Lay yourself out to be his servant: for Love is Service. Serve the servants of God; and you will learn to love God; and His servants for His sake. You have tasted the pleasures of the world, and they are as ashes in your mouth. You say that there is nothing to give you pleasure. That is a good sign. Cultivate that detachment from the world which is but for a moment and then passeth away. In the tremendous dignity to which you are about to be called—the dignity of the priesthood—be ever mindful of the vanity of worldly things. As a priest, you will be subject to fiercer temptations than those which assault you now. Brace up the great natural strength of your will to resist them. Continue to despise yourself. Begin to love your neighbour. Continue—yes, continue—unconsciously, but soon consciously, to love God. My son, the key to all your difficulties, present and to come, is Love.... For your penance you will say—well, the penance for minor orders is rather long—for your penance you will say the Divine Praises with the celebrant after mass. Now renew your sorrow for all your past sins, and say after me, O my God—because by my sins I have deserved hell—and have lost my claim to heaven—I am truly sorry that I have offended Thee—and I firmly resolve—by Thy Grace—to avoid sin for the time to come.—O my God—because Thou art infinitely Good—and Most Worthy of all love—I grieve from my heart for having sinned against Thee—and I purpose—by Thy Grace—never more to offend Thee for the time to come.... ego te absolvo ✠ in Nomine Patris et Filj et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Go in peace and pray for me."

When, a couple of hours later, George actually found himself door-keeper, reader, exorcist, and acolyth, he noted also with some exasperation that he was in his usual nasty morning temper. He sat down to breakfast with the cardinal and the bishop in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. They had said a few civil kind-like words to him after the ceremonies: ad multos annos and a sixpenny rosary emanated from his new ordinary: but, in the refectory, they left him to himself while they ate their eggs-and-bacon discussing the news of the day. He chose a cup of coffee, and soaked some fingers of toast in it. His idea was to bring himself into harmony with his novel environment. Environment meant so much to him. Now, he no longer was an irresponsible vagrant atom, floating in the void at his own will, or driven into the wilderness by some irresistible human cyclone: but an officer of a potent corporation, subject to rule, a man under authority. His pose was to be as simple and innocuous as possible, alertly to wait for orders; and, at the present moment, to win a merit from a contemplation of the honour which was his in being received as a guest at the cardinalitial table. He turned his head to the left, wondering whether mere accident had placed him at His Eminency's right hand where the light from the window fell full upon him. He studied the singularly distinct features of his diocesan, who was reading from the Times of the outbreak of revolution in France, where General Andrè's army-reforms of 1902, the blatant scandalous venality of Combes and Pelletan, and the influence of that frightful society of school-boys called Les Frères de la Côte, had thrown the military power into the hands of Jaurès and his anarchists, revived the Commune, and broken off diplomatic relations with the Powers. Dreadful! His Eminency feared that he would be obliged to return to Rome by the sea-route, unless, perhaps, he could go comfortably through Germany. Oh, very dreadful!

George listened, regretting that he had not the paper and a cigarette all to himself: but the coffee was not bad; and the ponderous irritation of his matutinal headache was disappearing. He took another cup. He remembered how he had laughed at an Occ. Note in the Pall Mall Gazette some few months before, to the effect that the old tradition of antipathy between the two peoples separated by the Channel was as dead as Georgian England and the era of the Bien-Aimé, and suggesting that the two leading democracies of the world—(England a democracy indeed!)—ought to live on terms of good understanding and neighbourliness, or some such tomfoolery. How could two walk together unless they were agreed? And on what single permanent and vital essential were England and France agreed? George could think of none, any more than Nelson could. Commerce? Yes, perhaps some fools thought so, forgetful that commerce fluctuates from day to day, and that it is the spawning-bed of individual and international rivalry. No. He had no confidence in France. She openly had been accumulating combustibility these five years; and here was the conflagration. This seemed to be a thoroughly French revolution, sudden, sanguinary, flamboyant, engendered by self-esteem on instability, and produced with élan and theatrical effect. Brisk and prompt to war, soft and not in the least able to resist calamity, fickle in catching at schemes, and always striving after novelties—French characteristics remained unaltered twenty centuries after Julius Cæsar made a note of them for all time.

George detected himself in the very act of affixing a label to a nation. He brought down his will with a thud on his critical faculty. The bishop looked at the cardinal, suggesting that Mr. Rose was accustomed to smoke over his meals.

"Don't you find it bad for the digestion?" the cardinal inquired in the tone of an archbishop to an acolyth. An access of genial gentlehood, and something else, to which George at the moment was unable to put a name, suddenly infused his manner when he had spoken.

"I don't think I have a digestion. At least it never manifests itself to me."

"Happy man!" the cardinal exclaimed to no one in particular: adding, "Well perhaps we might go upstairs; and Mr. Rose can have his cigarette and listen to me at the same time."

The room to which they went was a private cabinet, a very vermilion and gold room, large, airy, princely. The cardinal took a long envelope from the bureau. "I think you will find that correct, Mr. Rose," he said. "You had better open it before we go any further."

The contents were a blank cheque-book, and a bank-book containing Messrs. Coutts's acknowledgment of the credit of ten thousand pounds to the current account of the Reverend George Arthur Rose.

Notwithstanding his natural hypersensibility, that peculiar individual did not become the plaything of his emotions until some time after the event which brought them into action. At the moment when blows or blessings fell upon him, he rarely was conscious of more than a crab is conscious of when its shell is struck or stroked. Later, when he deliberately set himself to analyse consequences, all his senses throbbed and tingled. But, at first, he was wont to act, on the impulse certainly:—but to act. Having acquainted himself with the contents of the envelope, he took out his beloved Waterman, saying "I'm sure Your Eminency will let me have the pleasure of writing my first cheque here."

He handed to the cardinal a draft for five thousand pounds, payable to bearer. It afterwards occurred to him that he could have taken no more cynical way of testing the reality of this fortune. He felt ashamed of himself, for he hated cynicism. The act itself merely was the act of a man awakening from a vivid dream and automatically doing what he had resolved, before falling asleep, to do. In effect, it was by way of being a pinch of a kind to himself. There was no doubt whatever but that it was a pinch of another kind to the cardinal. Followed alternately disclaimers, stolidity, embarrassment, humility, unction: the cheque went into the bureau, the cheque-book and the bank-book into the pocket of George's jacket.

And now, what was the extent of his theological studies? His general knowledge of course was unexceptional: but special—knowledge theology? Well, in Dogma he had done the treatises On Grace—"a very difficult treatise, Mr. Rose"—and On the Church—"a very important treatise, Mr. Rose;"—and in Moral Theology he had read Lehmkuhl, especially On the Eucharist and On Penance,—"nothing could be better, Mr. Rose." These had been the subjects of the professorial lectures at Maryvale. During the years which had elapsed since then, he had read them again and again, until he thought he had them at his fingers' ends. As for Cardinal Franzelin's De Ecclesia (that was the Maryvale text-book), he found it one of the most fascinating books in the world. In fact, it was a regular bedside book of his: and by this time he knew it by heart. Being a man of letters, of course he would like to enlarge it a little, to put a gloss upon it here and there, perhaps even to expand the thesis at certain points. St. Augustine's Encheiridion was another favourite book. And St. Anselm's Cur Deus Homo was another. His reading was extensive and curious: but, sad to say, desultory and unsystematic, because undirected. He had read the standard works as a matter of duty: but he had made a far more exhaustive study of obscure writers. The occult, white magic bien entendue, was intensely interesting, the book on Demoniality by Fr. Sinistrari of Ameno, for example. Perhaps it would be desirable for him to tabulate the sum of his studies, that His Eminency might decide whether to have him examined in those or to submit him to a fresh course.

"Quite unnecessary, Mr. Rose. And now touching the matter of ceremonial."

He had made a point of mastering Martinucci, practice as well as theory. It was astonishing what a lot could be done with a guide-book, a few household-implements, and imagination. He was aware that he had practised under difficulties: but a few rehearsals beneath the eye of an expert——

"And Canon Law?"

"Nothing at all."

"Well, well, just those few treatises in Dogmatic and Moral Theology in particular, and a large amount of random reading in general. Of course the Grace of God can supply all our deficiencies. I myself—— Things which are hidden from the wise and prudent oft-times are revealed unto—oh yes! Well, Mr. Rose, it is not a large, or, humanly speaking, an adequate equipment for—for the priesthood, certainly. But we must consider the years which you have waited. Yes. Well, perhaps we had better waste no more time now. Go home and pack your bag: and come and stay with me for a little till we can settle on your future. I shall give you the subdiaconate to-morrow morning; and you can arrange to say your first Mass on Sunday in the cathedral."

"My first Mass must be a black mass, Eminency."

The cardinalitial eyebrows would go up.

"It is a long-planned intention, Eminency: it is all I can do."

"I quite understand, Mr. Rose. You would wish to say your first mass quietly and alone. You shall say it in the private chapel. The Bishop of Caerleon would like to be your assistant; and—ha—I shall be very glad if you will allow me to serve you."

George looked from the cardinal to the bishop; and back again. After storm, this was calm and peace, with a vengeance.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This onomatopoiia presents the English Catholic pronunciation of "His Eminency."

[2] This onomatopoiia presents the English Catholic pronunciation of "Your Eminency."

CHAPTER I

What was causing the special correspondents in Rome to exude the subterfuges, with which (as a pis-aller) they are accustomed to gain their daily bread, was no such recondite matter after all.

Just as Jews are less commercial, and Jesuits less cunning, so journalists are less capable than they are supposed to be. As a matter of fact, they are quite unscientific persons, in that they go about their business in a fortuitous manner trusting to the human element called "smartness" for producing their effects. They have not yet realized the instability of all human elements. The superhuman is a sealed book to them. They mean oh so well: but they have no knowledge of first principles. They invariably commit the unpardonable error of confounding universals with particulars: because the influence of fragile or unworthy authority, custom, the imperfection of undisciplined senses, and concealment of ignorance by ostentation of seeming wisdom, are as stumbling-blocks which obstruct their path to Truth. Add to this a lack of sympathetic intuition and of an historical knowledge of their subject. They take no end of pains to acquire a fluid style of writing; and it may be admitted that, within their limitations, they can describe the superficies of almost anything which may be shoved under their noses. But, as for giving a scientific description (under such heads, for example, as the Material, Formal, Efficient, and Final Causes,) so that one can derive a satisfactory understanding of the thing described,—that is beyond their power. And, as for proceeding in a scientific manner, whether by means of the liberal or the so-called occult arts, to what on the whole is the essence of their business, viz. the collection of news, why Sir Notyet Apeer's young men, or Sir Uriah Tepeddle's criminal-investigators, or the "yearnest" exoletes who fill the Daily Anagraph with food for literary lionlets and Roman Catholic clergy and nonconforming philanthropists, have no such adequate ideal of their branch of literature. Their aim is to please editors or proprietors; and, so, to earn an as-near-as-may-be-legally honest living. No more.

Consequently, when (during March and April) a score or so of these good gentlemen found themselves in Rome, with the doors of the Conclave bricked-up in their faces, the windows boarded and canvas-covered, and even the chimneys (with one exception) capped, they knew no better than to curse quite quietly all to themselves, to say that nothing was happening because they could not see what was happening, and to write dicaculous descriptions of the crowd, and the seven puffs of smoke (which on seven separate occasions distracted the said crowd), in the square of St. Peter's.

For, if there be one place in all this orb of earth, where a secret is a Secret, that place is a Roman Conclave. It is due to the superlative incompetency of the spies. Ignorant of their subject, they cannot seize its saliencies: they cannot move a hair's breadth out of their conventional groove, notwithstanding that common sense should teach them the imperative necessity for applying unconventional methods to unconventional cases. When once we have emerged from the banal blinding stifling paralysing obfuscation of the nineteenth century, (and that should be in about ten years' time,) it will be obligatory for "Our Special Correspondent" to add two things to his professional apparatus. The first is the power of mind-projection, as well as that other power of will-projection which, already, up-to-date practical common-sense men-of-the-world like the Jesuits use to such advantage. The second is a round matter, of about two-pounds-ten-ounces' avoirdupois weight including its black-velvet wrapper, which costs forty-two pounds-sterling at the mineralogists' in Regent Street.

CHAPTER II

Well: this is what was happening in the Roman Conclave.

Cursors had shouted "Extra omnes": fifty-seven cardinals and three-hundred-and-eleven conclavists had been immured in three galleries of the Vatican. All the ceremonies ordained in 1274 at the Council of Lyons by the Bull of Gregory X. had been observed.

The Sacred College was divided into factions. There were five candidates for the paparchy:—Orezzo, Serafino-Vagellaio, cardinal-bishops: Ragna, Gentilotto, Fiamma, cardinal-presbyters. Then came groups representing divers nationalities. The French were Desbiens, Coucheur, Lanifère, Goëland, Perron, Mâteur, Légat, Labeur, cardinal-presbyters; and Vaghemestre, cardinal-deacon. The Germans were Rugscha, Zarvasy, Popk, Niazk, cardinal-presbyters. The Spaniards were Nascha, Sañasca, Harrera, cardinal-presbyters. The Erse were O'Dromgoole, O'Tuohy, cardinal-presbyters. The Italians were Moccolo, Agnello, Vincenzo-Vagellaio, cardinal-bishops: Sarda, Ferraio, Saviolli, Manco, Ferita, Creta, Anziano, Cassia, Portolano, Respiro, Riciso, Zafferano, Mantenuti, Gennaio, Bosso, Conella, del Drudo, di Petra, di Bonti, cardinal-presbyters: Macca, Sega, Pietratta, Pepato, della Volta, cardinal-deacons. The English and American cardinal-presbyters Courtleigh and Grace agreed to vote together: so did the Benedictine cardinal-presbyter Cacciatore, and the Capuchin and Jesuit cardinal-deacons Vivole and Berstein. The Portuguese cardinal-prior-presbyter Mundo, and the Bohemian cardinal-presbyter Nefski (who was carried in a litter) posed as independent voters. Cardinal-presbyter Capacitato was absent through the infirmities of age; and, as common report (to say nothing of common knowledge) credited him with the possession of the Evil Eye, Their Eminencies were thankful to think that the fingers, which they would need for inscribing their suffrages, need not be employed in making perpetual horns.

Once walled-up, and the conclavists having been satisfied about their comical constitutional privileges, the cardinals spent the evening in visiting one another in their cells, in discussing the prospects of the five candidates, in canvassing for and promising suffrages. The five themselves were divided into two parties which Ferraio, who was a bit of a wag, denominated in an abstruse jest the Snarlers and the Mewers. A Roman tradition alleges that the letter R (the litera canina) exercises an indefinable influence over an election, in that it occurs in the family names of alternate pontiffs. Others declared this tradition to be grounded upon no more sure warranty than old wives' fables (anicularum lucubrationes), Serafino-Vagellaio, Gentilotto, Fiamma, gave expression to that theory. Circumlocution aside, there was little to choose between the five. Luigi Orezzo was Cardinal-Bishop, Dean of the Sacred College, Chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church. Mariano Ragna was Secretary of State. Serafino-Vagellaio had been the favourite of a pontiff who had had all the world from which to choose. Hieronimo Gentilotto, nicknamed "The Red Pope" because he was Prefect of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, only had the Successor of the Fisherman as his superior. Domenico Fiamma, Archbishop of Bologna, was in the prime of vigorous life and famous for his brilliant intellect and noble mind.

A cardinal is prohibited from voting for himself. Orezzo promised his suffrage to Ragna: Ragna, his to Orezzo: Snarlers should snarl at each other. Serafino-Vagellaio also promised his suffrage to Ragna, having the idea that an official is worthy of observance. But Gentilotto supported Fiamma: and Fiamma, Gentilotto.

Morning saw mass and communion in the Pauline Chapel, and Their Eminencies proceeding to their thrones in the Xystine Chapel. A long silence came to pass. Fat wax tapers glimmered on the altar, on the screen, on the desk before each throne. So the cardinals waited, smoothing violet robes and the white uncovered rochets which indicated that supreme spiritual authority was devolved into their hands. No one was moved to speak. Election was not to be accomplished by the Way of Inspiration.

Masters-of-ceremonies placed, on the table before the altar, two silver basons containing little paper billets. The names of the fifty-seven cardinals were written each on a little snip of parchment. The snips, rolled up, were tucked in holes in fifty-seven lead balls. The balls were dropped into a huge violet burse, one by one, counted by the electors. The burse was well-shaken; and Vaghemestre drew out three. The first bore the name Moccolo: the second, Popk: the third Harrera. Thus were elected the Cardinal-Scrutators.

In turn, each cardinal provided himself with a blank billet from the silver basons: retired to his desk: and set about recording his suffrage. At the top of the billet, he wrote "I, Cardinal" and his name: folded it over: sealed it at each side. At the bottom he wrote his motto: folded it over: sealed it at each side. In the middle, he wrote "elect to the Supreme Pontificate the Most Reverend Lord my Lord Cardinal" and the name of the candidate to whom he gave his suffrage. Scratching of quills, splashing of scattered pounce, punctuated momentous silence. In obedience to the Bull of Gregory X., some made efforts to disguise their script. The results were hideous. Last, all folded their billets to about the breadth of an inch; and, in turn, each cardinal approached the altar, alone, holding his suffrage at arms' length between the index and middle fingers of his right hand: bent his knee: rising, swore "I attest, before Christ, Who is to be my judge, that I choose him whom I think fittest to be chosen if it be according to God's will." A great gold chalice covered by a paten stood on the altar. Each cardinal laid his suffrage on the paten: tipped it until the suffrage slid into the chalice: replaced the paten; and returned to his throne.

Cardinal-Scrutator Moccolo took the chalice by the foot: placed one hand on the paten: and shook, thoroughly to mix the suffrages. The Cardinal-Dean, the Cardinal-Prior-Priest, and the Cardinal-Archdeacon brought down the chalice to the table from which the billet-basons now had been removed. A ciborium stood there. The three Scrutators sat at one side of the table in face of the Sacred College. Harrera counted the suffrages, one by one, from the chalice into the ciborium. There were fifty-seven. A grateful sigh went up. A hitch would have invalidated the scrutiny, giving Their Eminencies the pains of voting and sealing and swearing over again. Moccolo drew out one suffrage: unfolded it without violating the sealed ends: discovered the name of the candidate to whom the vote was given; and passed it to Popk, who also looked at the name; and passed it to Harrera, who read the name aloud.

Each cardinal had on his desk a printed list of the Sacred College. The names ran down the middle of the sheets. To right and left were horizontal lines on which a tally of the votes was kept. As Harrera published the names, he filed each billet, piercing the word "elect" with a needle through which a skein of violet silk was threaded. When all were filed, he tied a knot in the silk; and laid the bunch of suffrages on the altar.

The Way of Scrutiny at first produced the usual result. The fifty-seven suffrages were so evenly distributed among the five candidates that no one was elected. Orezzo had eight, viz. Ragna, Moccolo, Agnello, Manco, Sarda, Macca, Pepato, di Petra. Ragna had thirteen, viz. Orezzo, Serafino-Vagellaio, Cacciatore, Vivole, Berstein, Nascha, Sañasca, Harrera, Ferita, Pietratta, Bosso, Sega, Conella. Serafino-Vagellaio had eleven, viz. his brother Vincenzo, Rugscha, Zarvasy, Popk, Niazk, Gennaio, Cassia, Anziano, Portolano, Creta, di Bonti. Gentilotto had twelve, viz. Fiamma, Desbiens, Coucheur, Lanifère, Goëland, Mâteur, Légat, Perron, Labeur, Vaghemestre, Zafferano, Mantenuti. Fiamma had thirteen, viz. Gentilotto, Courtleigh, Grace, O'Dromgoole, O'Tuohy, Saviolli, della Volta, del Drudo, Respiro, Riciso, Nefski, Ferraio, Mundo. The Way of Access shewed that all still were of the same opinion; and that each expected the others to change theirs. A bundle of straw in the stove, the files of pierced suffrages laid thereon, and fire applied, produced the puff of smoke from the chimney in the Square of St. Peter's which announced that the Lord God had sent no Pope to Rome that morning.

The cardinals went to dine in their separate cells. After siesta and before prayers those who could walk took exercise in the galleries: others read the Daily Office with their chaplains. There was conversation, canvassing. In the evening, they sang Veni Creator and went to work again. Orezzo gained Anziano and Portolano, raising his total to ten. The nine French and the two Erse, with Ferita, Bosso, Pietratta, Sega, Conella, acceded to Ragna, raising his total to twenty-four. Serafino-Vagellaio kept but five supporters, viz. his brother and the four Germans. Gentilotto lost the nine French: but gained Gennaio, di Bonti, Cassia, Creta, bringing his total to seven. The defection of the two Erse reduced Fiamma's adherents to eleven. And once more the puff of smoke emptied the Square of St. Peter's.

Private conferences occupied time: candles burned late into the night. Violet silk robes sussurated between violet serge curtains everywhere. There were colloquies, hints, exhortations, arguments, promises, promises dictated, suggested, given. Ragna took the opinion of his friends concerning a commodious pontifical name. Vivole offered him "Formosus the Second" and a pinch of Capuchin snuff out of the pages of his breviary: but Berstein preferred "Aloysius the First." The Secretary of State would bear both in mind. Cohesion in clots began. The French, Germans, Spaniards, and Erse, already were united in four groups. What the leader of each group would do, the nine, the four, the three, and the two would do. By demonstrating that cardinal-deacons occasionally were raised to Titles, or Suburban sees, by Popes Whom they had elected, Cardinal-Archdeacon Macca collected a little diaconal fraction of four, himself, Pietratti, Sega, and Pepato. Ten Italians, viz. Conella, Manco, di Petra, Ferita, Creta, Cassia, Gennaio, di Bonti, Sarda, Bosso, agreed to vote together. Mundo refused to join the Spaniards; and Nefski, the Germans, on account of sundry events in Poland. Ferraio, Archbishop of Milan, would stick to Fiamma under all circumstances, because they both had been raised to the cardinalature together. Saviolli threw in his lot with the Keltic and American cardinals. Della Volta was in sympathy with Saviolli and his friends. Del Drudo delivered himself of the cryptic sentence that one who had been a major-domo ought to know a fresh egg from a stale one. And Cardinal-Vicar Respiro, and Riciso, Archbishop of Turin, agreed with del Drudo.

So in the morning the third capitular assembly revealed an extraordinary state of affairs. Orezzo lost all his supporters but four, viz. Moccolo, Agnello, Anziano, Portolano. Serafino-Vagellaio lost all votes except his brother's. Gentilotto lost all but three, viz. Fiamma, Zafferano, Mantenuti. Fiamma retained his loyal eleven. And Ragna began to score. First, he kept Orezzo and Serafino-Vagellaio, the Benedictine, the Capuchin, the Jesuit, and the three Spaniards. The nine French (for a wonder) remained constant to him for two consecutive days. So did the two Erse: indeed O'Tuohy, who as a student had vowed that he never would look a woman in the face, (and kept his vow,) was as persistent as he had been when Leo XIII. had tried to force him into the primacy of Eblana in the teeth of electors who rejected him. The four Germans, the four deacons, and the decade of Italians also joined Ragna, whose tally went in jumps (so to speak) from two, to five, and eight, and seventeen, and nineteen, and twenty-three, and twenty-seven, and thirty-seven——

According to the Constitution of Alexander III., made at the Council of Lateran in the year of the Fructiferous Incarnation of the Son of God MCLXXX., and confirmed by subsequent Bulls of Gregory XV. and Urban VIII., the votes of two-thirds of the cardinals present at the Scrutiny are required for the election of a Pope. Not one of Their Eminencies was ignorant of the fact that two-thirds of fifty-seven is thirty-eight. Wherefore, when the tallies shewed thirty-seven votes for Ragna, and the Junior Scrutator stood up with just one more billet in his hand, some began stertorously to breathe through their noses: some went mauve and some magenta: while those of a phlegmatic habit of body reached for the cords of the canopies above their thrones, which descend at the manifestation of Christ's Vicar.

Harrera read the name "Ragna."

What happened next happened very quickly. The Scrutators broke the seals of the billets one by one; and Harrera read aloud the names of the electors as well as the name of the elected. At the thirteenth, he read, I, Cardinal Mariano Ragna, elect to the Supreme Pontificate the Most Reverend Lord my Lord Cardinal Mariano Ragna.

This was a horrid example of the clever strong man, who loses control of his directive faculty, in the moment of excitement. No one could have done such a thing out of wilful wickedness: for the stringency of conclavial regulations effectually denies success to nefarious practices. Everyone knows that. The Secretary of State, by voting for himself just when he was on the verge of achieving the most tremendous of all ambitions, forfeited his own suffrage; and his election was nulled by defect of a single vote. What passions dilacerated his breast, God only knows. He shut-up himself in his cell during the rest of the day, horribly snarling. Orezzo, who injudiciously went to sympathize, suddenly came-away mouthing and tottering.

The fourth Scrutiny began to shew how unpardonable a mistake is. Ragna's ten Italians and four Germans fled to the faction of Fiamma. Ragna himself voted for Serafino-Vagellaio. The tally gave Orezzo four: Ragna, twenty-three: Serafino-Vagellaio, two: Gentilotto, three: Fiamma, twenty-five.

In the fifth Scrutiny, desertions from Ragna continued. The French nine voted for Orezzo: the three Spaniards for Gentilotto. The tally gave Orezzo thirteen: Ragna eleven: Serafino-Vagellaio, two: Gentilotto, six: Fiamma, twenty-five.

And now the French began to be flighty. In the sixth Scrutiny, they were seen to have dashed from Orezzo to Gentilotto, making the tally of Orezzo four: of Ragna, eleven: of Serafino-Vagellaio, two: of Gentilotto, fifteen: of Fiamma, twenty-five.

Little suburban boys formerly used to satiate their emotions with a phrenetic and turbulent pastime called General Post. The seventh Scrutiny indicated a conclavial propensity for a verisimilar species of energetic dissipation. The four cardinal-deacons, evidently despairing of Ragna, left him. So did the two Erse cardinal-presbyters. The diaconate went over to Gentilotto, who lost the French to Serafino-Vagellaio. The Erse voted for the Cardinal-Chamberlain. The seventh puff of smoke from the chimney in the Square of St. Peter's was caused by the burning of fifty-seven suffrages allotted thus: Orezzo 6: Ragna 5: Serafino-Vagellaio 11: Gentilotto 10: Fiamma 25.

Confabulations, to say naught of protocols, became the order of the day and night. No new candidate was forthcoming. The five candidates flatly refused to retire, or to alter the disposition of their suffrages. Moccolo, Agnello, Anziano, Portolano, refused to desert Orezzo. Zafferano and Mantenuti refused to abandon Gentilotto. Vincenzo-Vagellaio refused to be false to his brother. The Benedictine, the Capuchin, and the Jesuit, refused to forsake Ragna. Fiamma's stalwart twenty-five excited disgust. Ringed and middle fingers were protruded at it. Although there was not a single clean-bred Englishman in its ranks, it was said to be getting "quite English"; and that is a very bitter taunt in the Vatican when the Quirinale is notoriously Anglophile. As for the Portugal Mundo, its leader—well, everyone knows that Portugal has been in the King of England's pocket since the Lisbon extravaganza, said Sañasca. As for the Germans,—well, everybody knows that Prussians are just as bestially cynical as Jonbulls, said Coucheur. The Franco-Hispano-Erse faction was quite ready to go anywhere and vote for anybody who was not "English." The deacons, on the contrary, remembered that England was very much the fashion; and began to have respect unto the twenty-five. But the Way of Scrutiny failed, and the Way of Access also failed, to produce a pontiff. Fiamma's tally rose to twenty-nine by the accession of the diaconate. The Franco-Hispano-Erse alliance attached itself by fits and starts to Orezzo, to Ragna, to Serafino-Vagellaio, to Gentilotto: but the indispensable two-thirds of fifty-seven never was attained. And, after a week of errancy, Their Eminencies thought that the whole affair was rather tiresome.

Ragna's massive prognathous jaw, the colour of porphyry, bulged in emitting a suggestion. As the College seemed unlikely to come to any agreement, why not elect an old man, who, in the course of nature, only could live a year or two, and whose demise would necessitate another Conclave at an early date? He unselfishly would designate Orezzo. There, for example, was a cardinal to whom the paparchy was by way of being owed since 1878, when he actually had lost it to Leo. Let Orezzo now be elected; and, during his brief pontificature, let the Most Eminent Lords devote their energies towards arrangements for giving him a generous glorious and enlightened successor, who, in this reactionary age, was experienced in all the devious subtilties of secular diplomacy, and who was under sixty-five years old.

The Sacred College rejected the bare idea. What! Elect a Pope who, out of sheer personal antipathy, would make it his business to annul the policy of Leo? What! elect a Pope who had spent more than a quarter of a century in composing and reciting litanies of complaints against Leo's management of the Church? What! Elect a Pope who had proved himself to be purely barbarian by the ferocity of his ritual tapping on the forehead of the dead Leo? Di meliora!!

Ragna adroitly disclaimed a personal predilection for Orezzo. That idea was dismissed.

"Then what?" was the general question.

"The Way of Compromise," cooed Vincenzo-Vagellaio.

There was another capitular session in the Xystine Chapel. By means of the snips of parchment, the lead balls, the huge violet burse, nine cardinals were chosen by lot and appointed as Cardinal-Compromissaries. Singularly enough they were Courtleigh, Mundo, Fiamma, Grace, Ferraio, Saviolli, Nefski, Gentilotto, and della Volta. The College executed a compromise in writing, no one contradicting or opposing it, whereby these nine were invested with absolute power and faculty to make provision of a pastor for the Holy Roman Church.

The Compromissaries conferred. To begin with, they mutually protested that they would not be understood to give their consent by all sorts of words or expressions which might fall from them in the heat of debate, unless they expressly set the same down in writing. Then, they looked whole inquisitions one at another, saying nothing. And, after half-an-hour they adjourned till the morrow: gathered up their trains; and swept each to his separate cell. Stupid conclavists tried to read their expressions. As well try to find out his thoughts from the sole of his unworn shoe as from the face of a cardinal. The cardinalitial mask is as superior (in impenetrable pachydermatosity) to that of the proverbial public-schoolboy, as is the cuticle of a crocodile to that of pulex irritans.

The task of the Compromissaries was too onerous to be begun until a chaos of ideas had been set in order. Gentilotto and Fiamma paced up and down the galleries together. Acceptance of their present office had nullified their chances of the triple crown. Either would have worn that gladly and well: neither was inclined to struggle for it. The Scrutinies dreadfully had annoyed their dignity, the pure and gentle dignity of Gentilotto, the radiant opulent dignity of Fiamma. To have escaped from the sweaty turmoil of competition satisfied them. Ferraio joined them in their perambulation: joined his ideas and sympathies to theirs. Mundo paid a visit to Courtleigh, and heard his confession: the Cardinal of Pimlico had no use for the conclavial confessor, who was a Jesuit. Nefski, pallid and wan, tried a little walk by the aid of the arm of della Volta: and afterwards, those two said mattins and lauds together. Saviolli sat-out the evening in Grace's cell, chatting about the Munroe Doctrine. Courtleigh sat alone in his cell: his hands were on the arms of his chair: his gaze was fixed on the flame of the candle. His thoughts whirled: eddyed: and were still. He fell asleep. His brother, who was his chaplain, peered through the violet curtains, inquiring his needs. He needed nothing—perhaps he would do a little writing before saying his night-prayers. Monsignor John placed a dispatch-box on the table, a couple of new candles on the prickets; and retired. Anon, His Eminency opened the box with a miniature gold key hinged to the under-side of the bezel of his cameo ring; and meditatively turned over and over his archiepiscopal correspondence. One packet of letters seemed to fascinate him. He held it in his hands for a long time, fixedly regarding it. He untied the vermilion ribbon; and began to read. He had read these letters before, just before he entered the Conclave. He would read them again now: reading helps thought: it is as a strong arm supporting feeble steps: it is as the pinions upon which thought can fly: or it is inspiration. Cardinal Courtleigh read a dozen pages or so. Then he sat with his chin in his hand, gazing again at the candle-flame. His thoughts were flying. They were quite personal, quite unconnected with his present situation or his present office. Orezzo, Ragna, and Serafino-Vagellaio, engaged the Compromissaries in conversations wherever they met them, in doorways, on promenades: quite often they called to make perfectly certain that they lacked no conveniences in their cells.

Morning and evening conferences were occupied by long discussions on the merits of the three remaining candidates, and of the other five-and-forty cardinals. The predilections of the Powers were passed in review. The ambassador of the Emperor had notified that Austria would look favourably upon Rugscha. But to think of that old man—born in 1818—nearly ninety years old—oh, quite impossible. The Siege of Peter needed no more senility, but rather juvence. Old men were so obstinate, much more obstinate than headstrong youth. The ambassador of the Catholic King had urged the claims of the Archbishop of Compostella. True, that one was not so old—but, three-score years and ten—is it not the Psalmist's limit?

And did any of Their Eminencies desire to assist at another Conclave, (say) within the next five years? Their Eminencies had had enough of Conclaves to last them for the span of their mortal lives. The French ambassador had made no recommendation, seeing that the Commune had recalled him, torn him out of the train at Modane on the French frontier and sliced him in pieces. Portugal had plumped for Mundo, who declared himself unwilling to accept, and as Compromissary incapable of accepting, the paparchy.

Italy—m-ym-ym-ym-ym—well, Italy? A geographical expression: no more. Now then the others. The German Emperor? His Majesty had nominated Courtleigh. Now why? The Cardinal of Pimlico, smiling, really did not know. He was much obliged, he was sure. Perhaps the young man thought that, by nominating one of his own uncle's subjects (and a very unworthy one) he would induce his said uncle to return the compliment and nominate a German. And would the uncle so oblige? Courtleigh thought not. The aforesaid uncle was quite as self-willed as, and infinitely more tactful than, and the last person in the world to let his leg be pulled by, his imperial nephew. Well then what was the King of England's attitude? Courtleigh did not know: but he believed—indeed he had had it from Mr. Chamberlain——Yes, and the Lord Chamberlain said?—Not the Lord Chamberlain:— Mister Chamberlain—the Prime Minister—had said that His Majesty was not by way of meddling with matters which did not concern him. The Compromissaries pronounced the King of England's conduct to be most observable. And the Cardinal of Pimlico added that in any case he (as a Compromissary) was ineligible: while the Cardinal of Baltimore calculated that America also would stand out of this deal.

A definite decision evaded capture. Satisfaction seemed to be such a very long way up in the air. Not one of the nine was sensible of an overwhelming irresistible impulse to select any particular individual as Pope. That is such an invidious undertaking: the spirit faints at its immensity. But the Compromissaries subconsciously were drawing near and nearer to each other, and away from the rest, who, in their turn cohered in curiosity. The fourth conference was an unusually futile one. Mundo frankly and abruptly stated his conviction that the Lord God was not intending Himself to take a Vicegerent out of the Sacred College: whereat Their Eminencies laughed; and adjourned, conversing of other and secular affairs.

Courtleigh went out on della Volta's arm. "Eminency," he said, "I have known you now for nearly twenty years: and, whenever I see you, I always fancy that I have met you somewhere in other circumstances. You have never been in London? I thought not. And I suppose you haven't what they call a Double? I don't mean that your type is common. Far from it. But, at times, I seem—— You remind me of—— And yet I do not know of whom——"

And another night enshrouded the palace on the Vatican Hill.

As Cardinal Courtleigh was trying to shave himself next morning, the phantom of his friend della Volta invaded his mental vision: suddenly, resemblance and remembrance clashed together striking a spark. By the light of it, he saw and knew—something. He laughed shortly: and grew grave. He was deeply engrossed with his dispatch-box until the hour of conference. The matters which he laid before the other Compromissaries caused several precedents to be set aside and some to be created. And, at 9 p.m., forty-two cardinals, wearing the habits of ordinary priests, drove away in cabs towards the railway-station: while the Cardinal-Chamberlain unlocked the inside of the door of the Conclave. Hereditary-marshal Ghici, summoned from his watching chamber to unlock the outside, was flabbergasted by an invitation to declare whether the Vatican was a prison for cardinals as well as for popes? He did hate being mocked by a boiled lobster!

Fifteen comparatively speechless Eminencies spent a few weeks there in quiet leisure, reading in the library, admiring the pictures and the sculptures, sometimes strolling in the gardens. One of them seriously began to study botany; and the Cardinal-Dean, with a view to a future Bull, composed a very scathing indictment of that hypocritical anomaly called Christian Socialism. And all the time the pontifical army guarded the inside of every entrance, fraternizing through the gratings with the national army outside. But special correspondents of the London newspapers in Rome munched vacuity and excreted fibs, after their kind.

By twos and threes, plain (but very dignified) priests arrived: were admitted; and changed black for violet. One did not change. He was only Cardinal Courtleigh's new chaplain. The door of the Conclave was locked on both sides and bricked-up again.

Ensued another session of the Compromissaries, when their authentic act was put into prescribed form by apostolic prothonotaries. Ensued a final capitular assembly, in which the Act of the Compromise was published. Ensued a tempest of tongues and manners, dissolving (as storms do) in muttered thunders, less and less convulsive upheavals, a parcel of broken boughs and chimney-pots, stillness, peace, relief, and sun-bright April smiles.

CHAPTER III

When their lords had entered the Xystine Chapel for this last exercise, the conclavists went away about their own affairs; and the door was shut. The Reverend George Arthur Rose departed with the Bishop of Caerleon who was acting-chaplain to Cardinal Mundo. They walked in the royal gallery between the Xystine and the Pauline Chapels. George was in a mood of silence. His mind (as usual) was receiving impressions: the historic scene being enacted under his notice: the magnificent masks veiling the humanity of the actors: the mysterious gloom of the stage, its smallness, its air of cavernous confinement: the sour oppressive septic odour of architectural and waxen and human antiquity. He had been told that he would have to say mass before noon; and his head ached from fasting in that indescribably stifling effluvia. He remembered that, in former days necessity frequently had forced him to abstain from all food for a hundred hours at a time. Often, during four days in the week, he had eaten nothing: but that was in the open air, on the shore of a northern sea, or among the heather on moors and mountains, where the wind and the spray gave life. Here, the fast of less than twenty hours made him sick and sulky. However, it had to be tolerated. Semphill once had told him that a course in an ecclesiastical college, and the first few years of clerical life, were as disgusting as ten years' penal servitude. He took it at that with his eyes open. It was part of the business. He determined to go through with it. Still, he was in a better position now than he ever had been before. He no longer was alone. Dr. Talacryn had seemed anxious for his company since that day in London; and George was inclined to value kindness. The Bishop of Caerleon appeared to be precisely what the new-fledged priest knew himself to need—a sympathetic expert subintelligent walking-stick, honest and sturdy as oak. Oh, for the certainty of fidelity! Presently George took out his cherished edition of Theokritos by Estienne. In spare moments, he was introducing his companion to the melody of Greek; and together they read and analyzed the twelfth idyll.

An hour later, the bishop suggested that they should go into the Pauline Chapel and say some prayers. George followed him. Prayer is a mind-cleanser—the best: anyhow it is an effort always due. They looked for a clean four-feet-of-floor: kneeled side by side; and got into communication with the Unseen. George's method was intellectual rather than formal. To him, with his keen and carefully cultivated sense of the ridiculous, the absurdity of a human individual composing complacent criticisms of Divine decrees, hashing up scriptural and liturgical tags with a proper and essentially sensuous pleasure in patchwork, seemed like gratuitous impertinence. "Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge, but a Saviour," was all the form of words which he used. It included everything, as far as he could see. He repeated it over and over again and again like a wonderful incantation; and anon it had its psychic effect. He became in direct communication with the Invisible Omniscient, to Whom all hearts are open, from Whom no secrets are hid. It was just his own method, compiled from bitter-sweet experience. In time, he began to finger his moonstone rosary, concentrating his meditation on the Mystery of the Annunciation: his mind strenuously went to work on that: his lips swiftly enunciated the prayers. After five decades he said Salve Regina: and examined his conscience. Was there any difference in him? He felt more clear: he felt that he had effected some kind of a difference. That was relief. But was it worth anything? Wasn't it stained? Was he really strengthened by the exercise? For example, was he now filled and inflamed with pure Love? No. Was he any nearer to pure Love, fit to be thought of, even harshly, by pure Love? No. Well: he had done his best: it would come some day. God be merciful to us all poor sinners.

He looked at the bishop, two weeks his junior in years, two centuries his senior in worth of every kind. The cheerful satisfied stolidity of that one, turning from his prayers and meeting George's gaze with a homely smile, was something astounding. How different men are! Here was one envying the other his stolidity, and the other half afraid of the agility of the one. George realized that this bishop never had had embarrassments of any kind: nor could have. He saw the great gulph which is fixed between the simple and the complex.

There was a stir at the door of the chapel. "I think perhaps we'd better be getting back," said Dr. Talacryn.

Two masters-of-ceremonies appeared in attendance upon Cardinal-Archdeacon Macca and Cardinal-Deacon Berstein. As George and his companion approached them, they turned and retraced their steps. George wished them anywhere but there, impeding him when he ought to be running-off to the service of his diocesan. They completely blocked the path as they went before him with superb unconcern. "How stiff, how antipathetic the elder one looks!" he whispered with acerbity.

"Sh-h-h!" the bishop sibilated.

The door of the Xystine Chapel was open. Conclavists from all quarters hurried towards it. George and his friend found themselves impelled through the portals. Beyond the delicate marble screen, gleamed the six steady flamelets of the candles on the altar. The protentous figures in the Doom appeared to writhe.

Inside the screen Macca and Berstein went; and paused; and faced the crowd which followed them.

George was looking about him, vehemently alert. He had felt like this three times in his life before, at the exsequies of the Queen of England, at the incoronation of the King of England, at the foot of the first grave which had opened in his path through life. It was the feeling of the cognoscente who is permitted, during sixty seconds, to do his own pleasure in a treasure-chest filled to the brim with inestimable intagliate gems. It was the feeling of absolute acquisitiveness. Here was history in the making; and he was in the front rank of the spectators. There was no time to think of effects. This was a case of causes; and every detail must be seized and stored. Selection could come later: appreciation afterwards: but now he must collect. First, his glance flashed upward to the little square canopies: they all were in position. Then, to the occupants of the five and fifty thrones: they were sitting as still as the conscript-fathers sat in their curule chairs, turned-to and watching the crowd which oozed through the screen-gates. Unconsciously, George was urged further and further in. His demeanour was abstrusely unemotional: he continued violently absorbent of the spectacle. Presently, he whispered to the bishop, "What is it? What is happening?"

"I think God has given us a Pope."

"Oh! Whom?"

"Wait. We shall know in a minute."

The silence, the stillness, the dim light, where motionless forms of cardinals curved like the frozen crests of waves carven in white jade and old ivory on a sea of amethyst, were more than marvellous.

A voice came out of the gloom, an intense voice, reciting some formula.

George did not take the Latin easily from an Italian tongue: he found himself translating, Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?

"Reverend?" he thought. Why not "Most Eminent"? He instantly turned to the bishop, with another question on his tongue. The bishop was kneeling behind him. The crowd also was kneeling. Why in the world did not he kneel too? Why should he hesitate for a moment? He faced round once more, a single black figure with an alert weary white face, alone and erect in the splendour of violet. He glanced again at the canopies.

It was on him, on him, that all eyes were. Why did he not kneel?

Again the voice of the Cardinal-Archdeacon intoned, "Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontificality?"

There was no mistake. The awful tremendous question was addressed to him.

A murmur from the bishop prompted him, "The response is Volo—or Nolo."

The surging in his temples, the booming in his ears, miraculously ceased. He took one long slow breath: crossed right hand over left upon his breast: became like a piece of a pageant; and responded "I will."

Two hands clapped, and the canopies came down rustling and flapping. The Sacred College struggled to its feet, as God's Vicegerent passed to the rear of the high altar.

They offered Him three suits of pontifical white, large, medium, and small. The large was too large: the small, too small: but the medium would serve for the present. He began to undress, among the throng of assistants, with the noncurance of one accustomed to swim in Sandford Lasher. He forbade all help, refusing to be touched. When He had assumed the white hosen, cassock, sash, rochet, cape, and cap, the crimson shoes and stole, the great new gold Ring of The Fisherman, He went through His former pockets leaving nothing behind: tucked His handkerchief into His left sleeve; and asked for the Bishop of Caerleon. While masters-of-ceremonies and the Augustinian sacristan hurried to prepare altars for the episcopal consecration of the Pope, Dr. Talacryn was admitted to the Apostolic presence. He made obeisance: the moment was too enormous for words, but eyes spoke.

"A glass of water," then the Pontiff said.

"The fast, Holy Father——"

"Will not be broken. Remain always close at hand, please." He felt as though the whole world suddenly had left Him. Not that He Himself had moved, or changed: but the world, the past, was entirely gone and blotted out: the future was obscure: the present was all strange. His unrelated idea was to steady Himself by this one link with the past. Water was brought. He dipped half His handkerchief: wrang it out: pressed it on His hot dry eyes.

All through the long ceremony of consecration, He carried Himself with enigmatical equanimity. Though His eyes saw nothing but the matters of each moment, and though His bearing seemed to indicate an aloof indifference, yet, within, His sensibilities were at their tensest. Nothing escaped Him. And He was mobilizing His forces: planning His campaign. He was looking-down, He was surveying, the opening vista. Two or three moves on the apostolic chess-board He already could foresee.

At the conferring of the episcopal ring, He drew-back His hand; and demanded an amethyst instead of the proffered emerald. The ceremony halted till the canonical stone came. Cardinals noted the first manifestation of pontifical will, with much concern, and with some annoyance. Ragna muttered of ignoble upstarts: Vivole, of boyish arrogance: Berstein, of beggars on horseback. "He, who is born of a hen, always scratches the ground," asserted the Benedictine Cacciatore: and "He, who was a frog, is now a king," Labeur quoted from the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter.

They brought Him before the altar; and set Him in a crimson-velvet chair, asking what pontifical name He would choose.

"Hadrian the Seventh:" the response came unhesitatingly, undemonstratively.

"Your Holiness would perhaps prefer to be called Leo, or Pius, or Gregory, as is the modern manner?" the Cardinal-Dean inquired with imperious suavity.

"The previous English pontiff was Hadrian the Fourth: the present English pontiff is Hadrian the Seventh. It pleases Us; and so, by Our Own impulse, We command."

Then there was no more to be said. The election of Hadrian the Seventh was proclaimed in the Conclave. They came to the ceremony of adoration. One by one, Their Eminencies kissed the Supreme Pontiff's foot and hand and cheek. Contact with senile humanity made His juvenile soul shudder. All the time he was saying in His mind "Not unto Us, O Lord, not unto Us...." Yet that seemed such a silly inadequate thing to say. It was not humility, it was physical loathing which nauseated Him all secretly. Some had the breaths of bustards, and all but one were hot. He would have liked to tear off His Own cheek with clawed tongs. By a peculiar mental gymnastic, He vaulted to the verse, "Who sweeps an house as in Thy Sight makes that and th' action fine." He clutched the thought and clung to it. "Greatest and Best, or by what other Name Thou wishest to be called, I am only Thy means. This horrible osculation is no more than a chance for them to benefit themselves by honouring Thee through me. Let them. I will be the means—Thy means to all men. Ouf! How it hurts!" His external serenity was unflinchingly feline. He just tolerated attention. The arrows of cardinalitial eyes impinged upon Him; and glanced off the ice of His mail. He withdrew His sensibilities from the surface; and concentrated them in the inmost recesses of his soul, foreseeing, forescheming. "One step's enough for me" was another tag, which became detached from the bundles of His memory to float in the ocean of His counsels. He made sure of the one step: fearlessly strode and stood; and prepared for the next. He never looked behind. The amethyst, the pontifical name, and now——? Yes! "Begin as you mean to go on," He advised Himself.

When the huge princes of the church bourgeoned in ermine and vermilion, Hadrian, mitred and coped in silver and gold, followed Macca who bore the triple cross. Tumultuous sumptuous splendour proceeded through the Conclave into the gallery of benediction over the porch of St. Peter's. Masons were removing brickwork from a blocked window leading to a balcony on the right hand, half-way down the long gallery. The Supreme Pontiff beckoned Orezzo.

"Lord Cardinal, this balcony looks-into the church?"

"Into the church, Holiness."

"Which window looks-out over the City?"

"The window on the left."

"Let the window on the left be opened."

The Sacred College swung together as to a scrum.

Pressure never had influenced George Arthur Rose. He used to say that you might squash him to death, if you could: but you never should make him do what you were too lazy, or too proud, or too silly, to persuade him to do. He would wait a century for his own way; and, unless you actually and literally had removed him from the face of the earth by the usual methods of assassination, you would find him still implacably persistent at the end of the said century. He had learned the trick from Flavio: observing that, if he would not open the door when the cat mewed to go out, the creature remained in the room, but would not come and sit on his friend's neck, nor agree to anything except the opening of the door. And Hadrian the Seventh was quite prepared to be hustled and hullabaloed-at, as Leo the Thirteenth had been hullabaloed at and hustled in 1878: but no earthly power should extort Apostolic Benediction from His hand and lips, except at a place and a time of His Own choosing. They might push this Pope on to the inner balcony; and they might lead a horse to the water: but not even the College of Cardinals arrayed in all its glory could make the one drink, the other bless.

"Holiness, that window was bricked-up in 1870; and has not been opened since."

"Let it now be opened."

Ragna snarled and burst out of the phalanx. There was a tinge of truculence about him. "Holiness, Pope Leo wished to have had it opened on the day of His Own election; but it was impossible. Impossible! Capisce? The rust of the stanchions, the solidity of the cement——"

"All that We know. The gentleness of Pope Leo was persuaded. We are not gentle; and We are not to be persuaded by violence."

Orezzo, though secretly inchanted that anyone should act differently to his one antipathy, Pope Leo, was rather shocked at the notion of blessing the City and the World while (what he held to be) the Piedmontese Usurper was occupying Peter's so-called Patrimony and Intangible Rome. It is an ingrained idea with his school that peoples should excruciate for the petty spites of potentates. But he tried urbanity. "Holy Father have pity upon us; and deliver us as soon as possible from the miseries which afflict us in this Conclave. Deign blessings to the faithful in the church to-day; and we will see what can be done about the other affair to-morrow."

Hadrian looked a little amused. The Bishop of Caerleon thought that he never had seen more cruelly dispassionate inflexibility. At a sign from the Pope, the master-mason came forward and fell on his knees. Hadrian stooped.

"Son, open that window."

Through and through vermilion billows the masons dived and thrust across the breadth of the gallery, conveying ladders, crowbars, hammers. Conclavial porters threw down rolls of carpet which they were about to spread, and sat upon them. Berstein squawked and expectorated. Hadrian winced: and marked the man. At the clang of hammers, masonry began to fall: a white dust hovered in the air: the vermilion college swept away with the white Pope. Some went to the end of the gallery, where loud voices became protestant: midway, the Germans halted with most of the Italians: they conversed more moderately. A few paces beyond the range of operations, the Pope remained quite still: by His side, He detained Macca with His cross: behind Him, congregated the Bishop of Caerleon and the nine Cardinal-Compromissaries.

In a break of the clang of the hammers, Hadrian intoned "Kyrie eleēson." Mundo gave prompt response. The assemblage at first failed to catch the idea: but, by degrees, voice acceded to voice; and the Litanies of the Saints magniloquently reverberated through the gallery.

Outside, in the Square of St. Peter's, only a few hundreds of people were collected. Interest in the proceedings of the Conclave was nearly dead; and several special correspondents were beginning to think seriously of the superior excitements of a murder-trial at New Bailey. But many old-fashioned Romans wished to be able to tell their grand-children that they themselves had been in the square when the Pope was proclaimed in the church; and, again, on the morning of St George's Day, no smoke had been vomited from the Xystine chimney. The affair was very mysterious! What combinations behind those white walls!

Inside the basilica, there were thousands of expectant people, officials of the Vatican, cardinalitial familiars, prelates, penitentiaries, beneficiaries, who had not been immured in the Conclave. Also there were lords and ladies of eminent quality belonging to the Black (or clerical) Party, who had been admitted with meticulous secrecy (in broad day-light and in face of all Rome) by a privy door. Every day for weeks, they had come and waited, hoping to be among the first to salute the Pope. To go to St. Peter's in the morning before dinner, and in the evening before supper, had become the mode in a society which has few and futile dissipations of its own and to which the comity of the Quirinale and White Society is forbidden fruit. Some, who were near the great doorway, thought they heard faint tappings in the gallery over-head. Rumour protruded her tongue: certainly there were tappings, more ponderous, more insistent. Certainly the balcony was being opened. Then the crashing ceased. In the hush, surmises were born; and stifled: or nurtured. A loose Benedictine with a face of a flesher, who was leaning against one of the great piers, suddenly asseverated that the tapping had begun again: but in another place—further away, he said. An honorary decurial chamberlain-of-the-cloak-and-sword sniffed long-nosedly, picking a vandyke beardlet; and stuttered, "They're n-n-never o-opening the outer b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-balcony." That notion resembled the spark between negative and positive poles. It vibrated and glittered; and fell upon a heap of human combustibles.

"Then what are we waiting here for?" shouted Prince Clenalotti; and he made a dash at the door by which he had entered. Naturally he led a stampede.

The crowd in the Square stood obliquely to the church, with all its eyes directed to the Vatican: when, round from Via della Sagrestia poured a stream of half-wild creatures, shooting instant glances at the vacant balcony, and bringing amazing news. The two crowds flew together, thronging the wide stone steps and the open space beneath. The military rigesced to attention. The special correspondents (as one man) made for the obelisk in the centre, or the basins of the fountains, and set-up portable pairs of steps. And, of course, motor-cars and cabs, and Caio and Tizio and also Sempronio, not to mention Maria and Elena and Yolanda and also Margherita, began to issue from every Borgo avenue.

There was nothing to be seen, except the empty balcony over the porch. It was neither canopied nor decorated: but someone said that there was movement behind the window. That was concisely true. More. The window itself was moving. The sun-flashed panes of glass turned dull, as it swung on its hinges, inward. The Italian army presented arms. Rome kneeled on the stones. The special correspondents ascended their pairs of steps: directed phonographic and kinematographic machines: pressed buttons and revolved wheels.

A tiny figure splashed a web of cloth-of-gold over the balcony; and a tiny ermine and vermilion figure ascended, placing a tiny triple cross. Came in a stentorian megaphonic roar a proclamation by the Cardinal-Archdeacon,

"I announce to you great joy. We have for a Pope the Lord George of the Roses of England, Who has imposed upon Himself the name of Hadrian the Seventh."

He gave place to another tiny figure, silver and gold, irradiant in the sun. A clear thin thread of a voice sang, "Our help is in the Name of the Lord."

Phonographs recorded the sonorous response, "Who hath made heaven and earth."

Hadrian the Seventh raised His hand and sang again, "May Almighty God, ✠ ✠ ✠ Father, ✠ ✠ ✠ Son, ✠ ✠ ✠ and Holy Ghost, bless you."

It was the Apostolic Benediction of the City and the World.

CHAPTER IV

Now things went briskly. There was a brain which schemed and a will to be obeyed. The hands began to realize that they would have to act manually. Dear deliberate Rome simply gasped at a Pontiff Who said "To-morrow" and meant it. The Sacred College found that it had no option. Naturally it looked as black as night. But the Cardinal-Archdeacon could not refuse point-blank to crown; and, when Hadrian announced that His incoronation would take place in the morning on the steps of St. Peter's, futile effort suggested difficulty preventing possibility. That was the only course open to the opposition. Three cardinals in turn alleged that there would not be time to give notice of the ceremony, to arrange the church, to issue tickets of admission. Hadrian swept these ideas aside, as rubbish. Another courted catastrophe saying that there was no time to summon the proper officials. He heard that there were sixteen hours in which to summon those who actually were indispensable. A fifth said that, owing to the antichristian tendencies of the times, no representatives of the King of France, of the Holy Roman Emperor, of the First Conservator of the Roman people, were forthcoming; and he politely inquired how the quadruplex lavation could be performed in their absence? The Pope responded that He was capable of washing His hands four times without any assistance, in the absence of legitimate assistants: but the General of the Church was not to seek: the modern Syndic of Rome was the equivalent of the ancient First Conservator: the Austrian Ambassador could represent the Empire: while, as for wretched kingless unkingly France—let someone instantly go out into the streets of Rome and catch the first Christian Frenchman there encountered. Anyhow, the quadruplex lavation was accidental. The essential was that the Supreme Pontiff should sing a pontifical mass at the high altar of St. Peter's, and should receive the triple crown. These things would be done at eight o'clock on the following morning. All the doors of the basilica were to be fixed open at midnight; and so remain. No official notice need be published. And that was all. Then the Pope shut-up Himself in His predecessor's gorgeous rooms, inspecting them till they gave him a pain in His eyes. Luckily He had secured his pouchfull of tobacco and a book of cigarette-papers: He smoked, and thought, looking out of the windows over Rome.

After sunset, He ate some cutlets and a salad: placed two chairs face to face near the right-hand window; and sent for the Bishop of Caerleon and a large jug of milk. His interior arrangements were as disreputably healthy as those of a school-boy.

Dr. Talacryn came, and observed the forms. Hadrian sent him to clear the antechambers and to close the doors. He returned and remained standing. The Pope was sitting in one of the splendidly uncomfortable red chairs.

"We have sent for Your Lordship because We have occasion for your special services."

"I am at all times very ready and willing to serve Your Holiness."

Hadrian was attracted to this bishop. Lots of his acts He loathed: but He liked the man, and believed him honest. The bishop was attracted to the Pope. He liked Him: but he could not understand Him, and was a little frightened of Him: but still—it was as well to know all that could be known and that might be useful.

"We placed this chair for Your Lordship," said Hadrian.

Dr. Talacryn was astonished: but not more than much. His trained placid nature stood him in good stead at a mark of favour which would have abashed many, and rendered others presumptuous.

"I thank Your Holiness," he simply said. It appeared that the ship was cleared for action.

The Pope continued in His usual concise monotone. He spoke in the key of E♭ minor, very quickly indeed, slurring the letter r, clipping some words and every final g, enunciating others with emphasis, in a manner curiously suggestive of fur and india-rubber and talons. As for His matter, He seemed to be arguing with Himself by the way in which He arrayed His ideas, disclosing His process of thought.

"We have very much to do, and We are confronted by the physical impossibility of carrying out Our schemes. We find Ourself surprizingly placed at the head of affairs. We believe that We should not have been placed there unless the service, which We are able to do, had been deemed desirable. Therefore We feel bound to act. But, though We know (or shall know) what to do, yet We cannot do it with this one pair of hands. We must have assistants with whom we can be intimate, and who themselves can be sympathetic. First of all, We wish to have Your Lordship."

The bishop was quite honest enough to get a little rosier with pleasure.

"Very pleased, whatever," he said.

"Next, We need information. Do you know the circumstances which led to Our election?"

"In the main they are known to me, Holiness. Indeed, I may say that they are generally known—except to the Supreme Pontiff Himself," the bishop added, with an episcopally roguish smile.

Hadrian enjoyed the point. "Please bear this dogma carefully and continually in mind:—the Pope well-informed is wiser than the Pope ill-informed. Remember also that Hadrian at all times desires to know everything. At present He wishes to know what you know about His election. Briefly: the details can be given later."

"Briefly, the Conclave found no Pope by the ordinary means; and committed the task to certain Cardinal-Compromissaries. These chose Your Holiness."

"But why?"

"Cardinal Courtleigh——"

"Was he a Compromissary? How many were there?"

"He was one of nine. The others were——"

"Never mind their names for the moment. Now We take it that these nine cardinals are well-disposed toward Us?"

"Most assuredly, Holy Father."

"Good! Nine! The names please?"

"Courtleigh, Grace——"

"Archbishop of Baltimore. Yes?"

"Saviolli——"

"What is he? He formerly was nuncio or something in America, was he not? Please give the status of each."

"He was Archbishop of Lepanto and Pontifical Ablegate to the United States of America. Now he is one of the curia. Then came della Volta, formerly Major-domo, also of the curia: he, by the bye, is Your Holiness's Double, according to Cardinal Courtfield."

"How delicious!" Hadrian vivaciously put in.

"Mundo, who led the Compromissaries, is Patriarch of Lisbon. Nefski is Archbishop of Prague, poor fellow——"

"Why 'poor fellow'?"

"Oh he was nearly killed by the anarchists.—Well then, Ferraio is Archbishop of Milan: Gentilotto is Prefect-General of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and Fiamma is Archbishop of Bologna. The two last were candidates at first, but gave it up by consenting to become Compromissaries."

"These, you say, are well-disposed to Us?"

"Yes, Holy Father."

"A Kelt: an American: a Portugal: five Italians: and a Pole."

"No, a Bohemian, Holiness."

"Oh?" Hadrian directed the bishop to a writing-table. "Now, whether this be in accordance with regulations or not, We neither know nor care. Please write"—He sipped a glass of milk; and began to dictate—"'Hadrian VII.—Bishop,—Servant of the servants of God,—wills that you immediately shall come—to Him—in the Vatican Palace—at Rome. Nothing—except the gravest physical inability—or your duty to your family—if such there be—is to impede you. All Catholics—are to afford you—the comfort—conveyance—and assistance—of which you may stand in need.' Please sign it with your own name and make five copies of it."

The bishop, sighing for his typewriter, diligently wrote in an angular oblique almost illegible hand. Electric lights sprang up in the City. The Pope lighted candles, closed the curtains, and rolled a cigarette. Then He came and sat by the table, looking at the manuscripts—considering the huge ring on His Own index-finger. Smiling to Himself, He took a taper and a stick of sealing-wax; and produced the Little-Peter-in-a-Boat at the foot of the six sheets.

"Address them," He continued, "to the Reverend George Semphill, St. Gowff's, North Britain:—Reverend James Sterling, Oakheath, Stafford:—Reverend George Leighton, Shorham, Sussex:—Reverend Gerald Whitehead, Wilton, Warwick:—Reverend Robert Carvale, Duntellin, Ayrshire:—and—yes, do you know that eighteen years ago he had the most exquisitely beautiful face and the most exquisitely beautiful soul and the most exquisitely horrible voice of any boy in the college,—address the sixth to Percy Van Kristen, 2023 Madison Avenue, New York."

While Dr. Talacryn was closing the envelopes, the Pope Himself wrote on a sheet of paper which, also, He sealed:

Hadrianus P.M. VII. dilectissimo filio Francisco Talacryni Caerleonis Episcopo.

Te in cardinalem Designamus et Approbamus: quod tamen sub silentio tenebis donec tempus idoneum aderit.

Datum Romae. Sub annulo Piscatoris. Anno pontificatus Nostri I., a.d. viiii Kal. Mai.

"Now please come and kneel here," He said.

The bishop looked an inquiry: but he came round the table, and kneeled before the Pope, Who addressed him in these words:—

"Well-beloved son, Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, We appoint thee to, and confirm thee in, the cardinalature. But thou shalt not disclose the fact until the proper time."

So saying, He lightly pinched-together the bishop's lips, putting the breve into his hand.

"Silence," the Pontiff continued. "Now will you yourself go to San Silvestro,—not to the post-office here,—and stamp and post those letters. One thing more. There will be no hitch to-morrow? Right. Then, after leaving San Silvestro, will you find Prince Pilastro and Prince Orso, and tell them——We certainly shall have the support of these nine? Good.—Well, quite informally let those princes (as Princes-Assistant at the Pontifical Throne) know of Our insuing incoronation. When you have named that to Prince Pilastro, say, also informally, that the Supreme Pontiff wishes the Syndic of Rome to know that, when He has received the crowns, He intends to go to Lateran to take possession of His episcopal see. No. There is to be no fuss. We will go as simply as possible and on foot. Will you always be quite near? We name you train-bearer; and will make your office a sinecure. God bless you. Da b'och a dibechod."

Hadrian remained standing at the antechamber-door, watching the bishop's big figure disappear along the corridor. He thought it a pity that a tendency to corpulency was not checked by healthy physical exercise. A detachment of the Swiss Guard stood armed and motionless at regular intervals. "For me," was His plebeian thought. A small man appeared, bowing. He had a servile air. Hadrian's second glance recognised him. "Is there an apartment on the top storey above this?" He inquired.

"But yes, Holiness, a large apartment of smaller rooms not having the altitude of these."

"You will cause them to be emptied by noon to-morrow. Now you can go to bed. Please take care that no one comes inside this door until the morning."

The Pope closed the door: and returned through the antechambers and the throne-room to the table where He had been working. He sat on the edge of the table for about an hour, swinging a leg, thinking, and sipping milk. Then He took a candle, and went into a dressing-room with huge oak clothes-presses. Opening their doors, He looked for a cloak among piles and festoons of new clothes. There were several of crimson velvet. After vainly searching for something plain, He put on one of these and proceeded to the outer door, taking a breviary from the table on the way. Out in the corridor, He signed to the nearest guard. The black-red-yellow-and-steel figure came and kneeled.

"Do you know the way into St. Peter's?" the Pope said.

"But yes, Most Holy Father."

"Procure what keys are necessary and conduct Us thither, son."

"But securely, Most Holy Father."

The Swiss went on before. Hadrian followed, feeling annoyed by the salutes with which He was received along the way. He had been so long unnoted that notice irritated and abashed Him. Life would be unbearable if trumpets and quaint halberds greeted every movement. He had not the stolidity of born personages. Presently, He threw back His cloak and kept head and hand raised in a gesture which petrified. They passed through innumerable passages and descended stairs, emerging in a chapel where lights burned about a tabernacle of gilded bronze and lapis lazuli. Here He paused, while His escort unlocked the gates of the screen. Once through that, He sent-back the guard to his station: but He Himself went-on into the vast obscurity of the basilica. He walked very slowly: it was as though His eyes were wrapped in clear black velvet, so intense and so immense was the darkness. Then, very far away to the right, He saw as it were a coronal of dim stars glimmering,—on the floor, they seemed to be. He was in the mighty nave; and the stars were the ever-burning lamps surrounding the Confession. He slowly approached them. As He passed within them, He took one from its golden branch and descended the marble steps. Here, He spread the cloak on the floor; placed the lamp beside it: and fell to prayer. Outside, in the City and the World, men played, or worked, or sinned, or slept. Inside at the very tomb of the Apostle the Apostle prayed.

At midnight, bolts of great doors clanged, and fell. A cool air crept in. Subsacristans set-up iron candlesticks, huge, antique, here and there upon the marmoreal pavement. The burning torch of each made a little oasis of light in the immeasurable gloom. From far away, a slim white form which carried a crimson cloak swiftly came, shedding benedictions on the startled beholders; and disappeared in the chapel of the Sacrament.

On returning to His apartment, Hadrian went straight to bed, invoking the souls in purgatory to awaken Him at six o'clock. He slept instantly and well.

At seven o'clock He had paid His debt with the De Profundis; and was dressed and waiting in the throne-room. Entered to Him a dozen cardinals, two by two. Opening their ranks, they disclosed the Cardinal-Prior-Priest solemnly ostending the image of a cock in silver-gilt. Hadrian stood on the steps of the throne, still, erect, vivid. He seemed so brimming over with restrained energy that He resembled a white flame. Not a sound was uttered. In silence they came; and they went away in silence. When the Pontiff was alone again, He strode and stopped in the middle of the floor.

"No, Lord, I never will deny Thee—never!" He exclaimed with tremendous emphasis. "But keep me and teach me and govern me, that I may govern and teach and keep Thy Flock, O Thou Shepherd of the people."

When the Bishop of Caerleon conveyed the extraordinary news to the Syndic of Rome, Prince Pilastro at once inquired what arrangements were made.

"No arrangements are made."

"But look here," said Marcantonio, who affected English brusqueness, "of course we are very happy that the Holy Father should come among us: but, you know, we are bound by our own guarantees to give Him all the honours of a sovereign-regnant. We shall be shamed in the eyes of Europe if we omit those. What I mean by that is this is a state-progress; and we shall have to turn out the troops, and stop the traffic and line the streets——"

"I don't think His Holiness expects you to do all that, Prince. I'm not speaking officially; and I'm not bringing you an official request for anything of the kind which you name. The Holy Father says He is going quite simply—on foot, in fact."

"Now I should just like to know what the devil (if Your Splendour will excuse the French) that means."

"Perhaps His Holiness thinks that the movement of the sedia gestatoria, or of a litter, will make Him sick. It did with Leo, you know."

"What's the matter with a white mule?"

"I happen to know that He cannot ride."

"Peuh! No sportsman, then! And yet He's English?"

"Yes: but not the kind of sportsman you mean, Prince."

"Well: what does He want me to do?"

"Let's say that I am sent to warn you of His intention, in order that you may arrest Him for disturbing the traffic, if you choose."

"Of course we shan't do that."

"No: of course you won't. That's only my way of putting it. I think He really means to advise you beforehand, so that it can never be said that He played you a trick, took you unawares, stole a march on you, so to speak."

"I see. Well, this is one of the amazing things which you English do as a matter of course. It's either frantic madness, or—— Will His Holiness go in any sort of state?"

"I think not. You see time is short; and (between ourselves) I'm not at all sure that we're all of one mind over there."

"By rights, you know, I ought to walk with Orso, just before the ambassadors. Does Orso know about this walking business?"

"No. Only of the incoronation."

"That means that there will be no formal procession. It is well. You see, as Pilastro, I walk with Orso in the Pope's progress: while, as Syndic of Rome, I ought to walk at the head of the pontifical pages who precede His Blessedness. I can't do both, can I? Well, I request Your Splendour to convey my respects to our Holy Father; and to say that Prince Pilastro will assist at the throne during the incoronation, and the Syndic of Rome will go before the Pope to Lateran."

"You will not take the chance of coming to blows with Prince Orso on the question of precedence then?" joked the bishop.

"But no. During the incoronation I shall secure the right hand; and the Pope will be between us. Afterward, no question of precedence will arise, because Orso may or may not join in this promenade to Lateran; and in each case the Syndic will have the more honourable position. I may not be the rose: but at least I shall be near the Rose—a great deal nearer than Orso," punned the versatile Marcantonio.

At eight in the morning, Hadrian descended to St. Peter's. Miscellaneous multitudes paved the spaces with tumultuous eyes. He came down in ruddy vesture, gleaming with rubies and garnets and carbuncles like a fire borne high above the crowd, slowly, deliberately, dropping benedictions. His English phlegm was much admired. They roared at Him, Long live the Pope-King. Instantly He stopped His bearers; and the very air of Him struck sudden silence. People stared, and forgot to shout: the wave of acclamation ebbed in the great nave and transepts. He moved onward, sitting erect, god-like, with a frozen mien prohibiting personal homage. Mitred and enthroned, He was the servant of those who would serve Him: that was the import of His demeanour. A child acolyth of the lowest rank held up before him a salver containing flax: set it on fire; and shrilled,

"Behold most Holy Father, how that the glory of this world passeth away."

His features shewed no emotion. He well knew all about that. He was accepting, even insisting on, the observance of all rites to consolidate Him in the Supreme Pontificature: not that He cared for them, but that He might be free to act. It was not the glory of the world which He craved: but the combat, the combat—because one rests so much more sweetly after strife.

Slowly, and with all the unspeakable solemnity accumulated during centuries, the mass was sung. The Apostle elevated the Host to the four quarters of the globe. Cardinals ruffled like huge flamingoes round Him. He always was white and still. At the end, the Cardinal-Archpriest of St. Peter's brought Him a damask purse containing twenty-five gold coins, honorarium for a mass well-sung. He bestowed it on della Volta and Sega, who had intoned the Gospel in Greek and Latin; and they passed it to their train-bearers. Down the nave, He went again toward the great porch. Out of the crowd a voice cried "Christus regnat." As He sat enthroned amid the surging peoples, Macca crowned Him, saying,

"Receive this tiara adorned with three crowns, and know Thyself to be the Ruler of the World, the Father of Princes and Kings, the earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ our Saviour."

Hadrian understood the formula in no metaphorical, but in the plain and literal, sense of the words. He neither minimised nor magnified their significance. He had an opportunity which was entirely grateful to Him. He was Ruler, Father, Vicar. And He was altogether unafraid. He stood up, and blessed the City and the World.

In the Xystine Chapel, they relieved Him of the pontifical regalia, and the voluminous far-flowing petticoat of white taffetas, which is so sumptuous to the eye of the beholden and so ridiculously cumbersome to the legs of the wearer; and He ate some apples while Orezzo, on behalf of the Sacred College, recited time-honoured compliments.

"Lord Cardinals," said Hadrian, "We thank you for your service: and We invite those of you who are able and willing to attend Us, now, when We go to take possession of Our episcopal see."

He moved towards the door. The short train of His cassock trailed behind Him, and the Bishop of Caerleon stooped to it.

Ragna had something to howl.

"Holiness, this is suicide for You and murder for us. The City is full of Jews and Freemasons; and we shall most assuredly be stabbed, or shot, or shattered to pieces with bombs, or drenched with vitrol——"

"The Church wants a martyr badly. Your Eminency is invited, not commanded."

Berstein muttered to Vivole, in a scandalized tone, that the Pope was courting popularity. Pepato, with a note of admiration, commented on the mad English. Word of the invitation rushed on ahead. Of the crowd of officials, many began to arrange themselves in a certain order: others had pressing calls elsewhere. Masters-of-ceremonies, wracking their brains for long forgotten details, flew hither and thither with instructions and pushes. Poor old Grani sat down in a recess; and wept to think that there was no time to get out the white gennets annually presented by the King of Spain. Hadrian came on slowly, chatting with Caerleon, giving people a chance of making up their minds. When He emerged from the colonnade in the Square of St. Peter's, the Syndic of Rome fell into the ranks just before the Pope; and a royal escort of the Prætorian Guard surrounded Him. Hadrian stopped; and beckoned Prince Pilastro.

"Sir Syndic, are We free?" He mewed.

"But free, Holy Father."

"Let your soldiers precede and not surround Us; and let no one come within ten paces of Us. We go by Via Giulia and Monte Celio."

The squadron moved to the head of the line. The Pope took His train from the Bishop: threw it over His left arm: and came-on alone. Acting as though the ideal were real, He made it real. If Jews and Freemasons would slay Him, well and good: it was part of the day's work, no doubt. He was by no means anxious to be martyred; and He sincerely hoped that, if it should come to Him, it would not be very painful or distorting. But, as it was His Own affair, a piece of the part He was fulfilling, He displayed Himself alone. Ten paces before Him went Prince Pilastro, looking back from time to time. Ten paces behind Him came the bishop, ruddy and strong in white and purple, wondering. The vermilion nine followed in a compact phalanx, very venerable and grand; and, after a great deal of bustle and noise, seventeen other cardinals added their magnificence. A motley of patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, prelates, and pontifical guards closed the rear.

A tremendous shout greeted Hadrian's first appearance in the square. It was quite incoherent: for the real significance of the pageant was not immediately realized. No Pope had set His foot in Rome since 1870: but here undoubtedly was the Pope, with a gentle inflexible face,—a lonely white figure Whose left hand lay on the little cross on His breast, Whose right hand gravely scattered the same sign. This crowd was not the even human parallels which authority is wont to describe on streets when the Great go by. It was a concurrence from side-ways coalescing with loafers and ordinary passers-by, suddenly dipping its knees, gazing, panting, and emitting howls of delirious onomatopes. Cabs and carts swept to the side of the road; and the drivers kneeled on the boxes. Here and there, some dowdy alien said "What mockery" and patronizingly explained that the Salvation Army did these things much more properly. Here and there, some sour sorry incapable stood spitting in praise of secret societies. Here and there some godless worldling scoffed in an undertone. But Hadrian went-on, walking at that deceptive pace of His, which seemed so leisurely and was so swift. His movements resembled the running of a perfectly-geared machine: they had the smooth and forceful grace of the athlete whose muscles are supple and strong: even the occasional impulse had no jerkiness. It was the manner with which He disguised His natural timidity. He sometimes glanced from side to side. Once He smiled at a bare-legged rascalt of brown boys who kneeled by one of Bernini's angels on the parapet of the bridge. He adored children, although He was so desperately afraid of them. Going up the hill by the Church of Sts. John and Paul, a little girl dabbed an indescribable rag on her head: rushed into the road, dashing primroses; and remained transfixed by her own audacity. He led her by the hand to her mother; and blessed them both. All His life long He had yearned to be giving. Now, under any circumstances, He always had something to give, ten words and a gesture; and people seemed so thankful for it. He was glad.

In the porch of the Mother and Mistress of All Churches in the City and the World, He sat on the low throne while canons made shift to intone, He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dung-hill; that He may set Him with the Princes, even with the princes of His people. They gave Him gold and silver keys. They attended Him to the throne of precious marbles in the centre of the apse. They intoned Te Deum. Ascending to the lodge of benediction, He blessed the mobile vulgar in the Square of St. John; and anon returned in the way by which He came, Bishop of Rome in act and deed, and Supreme Pontiff.

CHAPTER V

Being physically tired with the exertion of withstanding the concentrated gaze of Rome, He rested all the afternoon. The palace was a scene of commotion. Cardinals and their familiars cackled and cooed and squeaked and growled in corners: or arranged for return to their distant sees. Workmen cleared-away the structure of the Conclave. Hadrian made an attempt to get-into the gardens with a book: but, obsequious black velvet chamberlains with their heads in frills like saucers made themselves so extremely necessary, and Auditors of the Ruota scudded along bye-paths with such obvious secrecy and bounded out of box-hedges before Him by carefully calculated accident so very frequently, that at last He took refuge in the pontifical apartment. He rang the gong and sent for Caerleon.

"We have a more or less distinct remembrance of a place on the Lake of Albano, called Castel something."

"Castel Gandolfo, Holiness."

"Yes. And it used to be a pontifical villa?"

"It is a pontifical villa now: but since 1870 an order of religious women have used part of it as a convent."

"Which part?"

"They, I believe, keep the pontifical suite in statu quo, hoping for the day when the Holy Father shall come to His Own again."

"Good. Now will you at once telegraph to those nuns that the Pope is coming to His Own to-morrow for the inside of a week. And please arrange everything on a plain and private scale. That is the first thing."

"Perhaps I'd better do that at once whatever."

"Yes, but don't be long."

When the bishop returned, Hadrian invited him to take a tour of observation round the rooms. They were accentedly antipathetic, too red, too ormolu, too floridly renascent, too distractingly rococo. He could not work in them. Yes, work,—nothing was going to interfere with that. How, in the name of heaven, could anyone work under these painted ceilings, among all these violently ineffectual curves? Now that He was able, He must have what He wanted. He was going to move on to the top-floor, where people could not stamp on His head, and where there was a better view from the windows. He would have clean bare spaces and simplicity without frippery. Then His mind could move. By the clothes-presses, He damned red velvet. That should go. The feeling of it made Him squirm. The sight of it on His person reminded Him of the barking of malodorous dogs and the braying of assertive donkeys. White was all right, if it fitted properly. He would stick to white, soft flannelly white, not this shiny cloth: with a decent surplice (which did not resemble the garments of David's servants after the attentions of the children of Ammon)—a surplice and the pallium, and the pontifical red stole in public: but no lace—that should be left to ladies. How delicious to have plenty of white clothes to wear! How delicious to wear white in the sun! Well, He was going to work to earn all these amenities. And now, talking of work, something would have to be done to the rooms upstairs: and certain things would have to be settled regarding the domestic arrangements. To what official ought directions to be given?

"The Major-domo is the head of the household; and the Master of the Chamber has immediate charge of Your Holiness's person."

"That set man? Look now, he shall continue to be Master of the Chamber. We will not repeat the mistake of Pius IX., or interfere with any of their offices. But he must not come near Us. We should feel bound to assist his decrepitude; and Our idea is to be so free from secular cares that We can concentrate undivided attention upon Our Apostolature. There is the root of the matter. That man is a stranger: his age makes it certain that he has got into a groove: he is full of prior experiences and opinions which he cannot, and ought not to be expected to, change for a newcomer. But, if he remains here, it will be Ourself Who will have to obey him. That would distract Us. Therefore, We must interpose someone whom We know—someone who is young enough to suit himself to Us. There are two young ruffians of about twenty-five years old, who, like most of his other acquaintances, formerly loved and hated George Arthur Rose. Their circumstances are disagreeable: they never had a chance: they are hot-headed passionate people, always in love with some woman or other, because they have no means of amusing themselves innocently, being tied and bound with the chains of respectable poverty. They really have no opportunity of leading godly righteous and sober lives. They're insane, unhealthy, because civilization gives them no opportunity to live sane healthy lives unless they crush all the most salient and most admirable characteristics of their individuality. Please send for them—John Devine, 107, Arkwright Street, Preston—Iulo Carrino, 95, Bloomsbury Square, London,—and let Us give them some service and much freedom, and a little wholesome neglect to strengthen and develop their characters and to give play to their individual natures, as good old Jowett says. We believe in making it, not difficult but, easy to be good—— Look, Frank, tell Iulo Carrino to bring with him that yellow cat which you may remember. By the bye, both these men cannot move without money. Take this cheque for George Arthur Rose's balance at Coutts's: use what is generous—generous, mind you,—and account to Us later. And now, about the other things, We had better see Centrina and the Major-domo upstairs."

The Pope and the bishop inspected a series of empty rooms on the top-floor. They occupied the N.E. and the S.E. sides of the palace. Hadrian chose the large room in the angle with windows on two sides, for the secret chamber. It was approached from the N.E. corridor by way of fifteen antechambers and a large room suitable for private receptions. Beyond the antechambers there was another series of apartments which He also took. The private room in the angle, sitting-room, or workshop (as He called it), led into some smaller rooms on the S.E. face of the palace. Here he fixed upon a bedroom, bath-room, dressing-room, oratory, and sundry store-rooms, accessible by a single door in the last room which led into the corridor over-looking the court of St. Damasus.

The Major-domo and the Master-of-the-Chamber attended. The latter was quaking about his situation. Hadrian rapidly reassured him and came to the point. "You are confirmed in your benefice until such time as you choose to retire. The emoluments and the pension are at your disposal. In a few days, two gentlemen will arrive from England. You will prepare a parlour and a bedroom for each, adjoining the first antechamber. Fix a bell in each parlour communicating with this room. (They were standing in the room which had been selected as a workshop.) You will provide two servants for them. They will take their meals in their parlours. After their arrival, Our commandments will come to you through them." (He turned and addressed Himself to the Major-domo.) "These two gentlemen must be given some official status."

"If I understand aright, Your Holiness is appointing two Gentlemen-in-Waiting-in-the-Apostolic-Chamber."

"That will do. When they arrive, see that they have diplomas of appointment as Gentlemen of the Apostolic Chamber. The Bishop of Caerleon will arrange with you about their emoluments. Now, let Us furnish these rooms."

They went out into the corridor; and re-entered the apartment by the first antechamber.

"Cover all the walls and ceilings with brown-packing paper—yes, brown-packing paper—carta straccia," the Pope repeated. "Stain all the woodwork with a darker shade of brown. The gilding of the cornices can remain as it is. No carpets. These small greenish-blue tiles are clean; and they soothe the eye. Curtains? You may hang very voluminous linen curtains on the doors and windows, greenish-blue linen to match the tiles, and without borders. Furnish all those antechambers with rush chairs and oaken tables. Remember that everything is to be plain, without ornament.—In this room you may place the usual throne and canopy: and that crucifix from downstairs—(how exquisite the mother-of-pearl Figure is!)—and the stools, and twelve large candlesticks—iron or brass.—Now this room is to be a workshop. Let Us have a couch and three armchairs, all large and low and well-cushioned, covered with undyed leather. Get some of those large plain wooden tables which are used in kitchens, about three yards long and one-and-a-half wide. Put writing-materials on one of them, there, on the right of the window. Leave the middle of the room empty. Put three small book-cases against that wall and a cupboard here.—Make a bedroom of this room. Let the bed be narrow and long, with a husk mattress; and let the back of the head be toward the window. Put one of the large wooden tables here and a dozen rush-chairs.—(He spoke to the bishop.) Do you know that there is no water here at all, except in little jugs? (He continued to the Major-domo.) Line the walls of this room with greenish-blue tiles, like those on the floor. Put several pegs on both doors. In this corner put a drain-pipe covered with a grating; and, six feet above it, let a waterpipe and tap project rectangularly two feet from the wall. Yes. Six feet from the floor, two feet from the wall; and let there be a constant and copious supply of water—rain-water, if possible. Do you understand?"

The Major-domo understood. The Master-of-the-Chamber shivered.

"And lamps. Get two plain oil-lamps for each room, with copper shades: large lamps, to give a very strong light. Paint over both doors of the bedroom, on the outside of each, Intrantes excommunicantur ipso facto. When We have finished here," (He addressed the Master-of-the-Chamber again),

"you will parade your staff; and We will select one person and provide him with a dispensation from that rule as long as he behaves himself well. He will have charge of the bedroom and the sole right to enter it." (The Pope passed into the next room: paused, and whispered explicit directions to the Major-domo; and moved on to the farther room.)

"The clothes-presses from downstairs can be moved into this room. They will serve. And you had better make a door here, so that it can be entered from the corridor." (He went on again.) "This room is to be the vestry;—and this the oratory. Let Us have a plain stone altar and the stations, and the bare necessaries for mass, all of the simplest. Let everything, walls, floor, ceiling, everything, be white—natural white, not painted; and make a door here, also leading into the corridor, a large double-door convenient for the faithful who assist at the pontifical mass. The rooms beyond—you will take order about them at a convenient occasion."

Hadrian and the bishop returned to the pontifical apartments downstairs.

"Your Holiness will excuse me——"

"Yes?"

"—but have You ever contemplated the present situation?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, Your Holiness seems to have everything cut and dried."

The Pope laughed. "You shall know that George Arthur Rose has had plenty of time for thinking and scheming. His schemes never came to anything, except once; and he certainly never schemed for this. But you understand perhaps that the last twenty years have rendered Hadrian conscious both of His abilities and His limitations, as well as of His requirements; and hence He is able at a glance to describe in detail what He wants. When He wants something, without knowing what He wants, He asks questions. For example, what is that hinged arrangement under Cardinal Courtleigh's ring?"

"A master-key, Holiness; I have just got one too." The bishop shewed his own ring.

"What is that?"

"I have several places which I have to keep locked, safes, cupboards, and that sort of thing; and the keys, which are all different, have to be entrusted to my various chaplains, and so on. Well, each of these can only open the lock of the thing which concerns him: but, with that master-key, I can unlock everything and no one else in the world can do that."

"Capital! Where do you get these things made?"

"At a place in Band Street—Brahma I think the name is."

"Tell them to——" The voice sank, for some scarlet gentleman began to bring in tables with the sealed dishes of the pontifical supper. Hadrian's eyes lingered on the intruders for a moment. They were so slim, so robust, so deft, so grave, so Roman. He drew the bishop into the embrasure of a window.

"Aren't they lovely?" He said. "Isn't the world full of lovely things, lovely live things? It's the dead and the stagnant that are ugly."

This was so rapid a change of mood that Talacryn could not follow it. As soon as the servants were gone, Hadrian continued, returning the episcopal ring "Tell your Brahma people to fit all the doors upstairs with locks which have separate keys, and to send another score of locks also with separate keys; and also to send a man here who is capable of making an episcopal ring for Us which shall contain a master-key to all those locks."

"Very well, Holy Father."

"Don't go. Supper can wait a minute Look here: We desire to be in direct communication with the Sacred College. We chiefly are curious to know the nine compromissaries: but distinctions sometimes are invidious. At all events, We must have a long and secret conference with Cardinal Courtleigh. So will you please make it known to Their Eminencies that We will receive them after supper. Ask Pimlico to remain after the others. And—who manages the finances here?"

"The Cardinal-Deacon of Santa Maria Nuova is Apostolic Treasurer; and the Major-domo is responsible for the household expenses."

"Ask the Treasurer particularly to come? Don't come yourself. Good-night: God bless you."

Caerleon firmly had believed that he knew George Arthur Rose to be charming—perhaps somewhat incomprehensible, and therefore perhaps somewhat dangerous. But as for Hadrian—Caerleon felt about him as M. and Mme. Curie felt when they first put a penny on a piece of radium and observed the penetrative energy incessantly thrown off from a source which was both concrete and inexhaustible.

The Pope's evening party was well attended. Some of the older members of the Sacred College, who really had suffered from the discomforts of the Conclave, had left the Vatican. Most of the French absented themselves, as they had every right to do in view of the informality of the invitation. The Secretary of State stayed away on a plea of business. But a mixed motive, in which inquisitiveness was the dominant ingredient, impelled thirty-two vermilion princes into the Pontiff's throne-room. The Cardinal-Dean, notwithstanding his age and infirmity, came with glee. Next to succeeding to the paparchy himself, nothing suited him better than to have a perfect stranger for a Pope, Who evidently was about to subvert every single act of Leo's. He said almost as much to Hadrian, bustling up to the throne and using a stool.

"We take it very kindly that Your Eminency should come to Us; and We let you know that We summon Our first consistory to meet on the thirtieth day of April," said the Pope, in a tone which was a skilful blend of the World's Ruler's with that of youth to age, of a newcomer to an old stager.

Orezzo was pleased. He took the ball of conversation and set it rolling. "It is a fortunate event, Holiness," he said, "that the Divine Leo—may His soul rest in a cool place—never carried out His intention of nominating His successors."

"Ah!" the Pope responded. "We remember reading about that in an English newspaper, the Pall Mall Gazette, a few years back. Perhaps Your Eminency can tell Us what truth there was in the report?"

"The facts, Holy Father, were these. Leo so firmly believed that the policy, which He had seen fit to pursue during His long reign, was essential to the welfare of the Church, that He wished to be assured of its continuance; and He would have had each of us to promise Him that, upon election, we would not depart from His example. Some of us—I name no names—were unwilling to bind ourselves; and, being unable to secure unanimous assurance, Leo declared that He would use the plenitude of the apostolic power and nominate His successors."

The other cardinals, attracted by these words, drew nearer to the throne. Some sat on stools: others remained standing: all intently listened to Orezzo: all intently gazed at Hadrian. The aspect of the Pontiff did not give satisfaction. It was not listless: it was not inattentive, for, as a matter of fact, it indicated very vivid ardent studiose concern, a perfect perception of being "among the Doctors": but Hadrian seemed to be treating the matter too impersonally, too much from the view-point of the outsider. He gave no sign whatever that He was conscious how very nearly this thing touched Himself.

"He reminds one of a surgeon probing for a bullet in a body which is not his," said Mundo to Fiamma.

"And He will find that bullet," the Archbishop of Bologna replied.

Hadrian (Who could see as far through a brick wall as most men, and a great deal further than some), was not by any means unconscious of the situation, and was avidly curious after information. He pursued the inquiry. Many thought it would have been more delicate to drop it.

"Yes. That was the gist of the statement in the paper," He continued to Orezzo. "We remember it well: because We wondered whether or not such a privilege was included in that 'plenitude of apostolic power.' We could not find a precedent; and none of the authorities whom We consulted could provide one. Advise Us, Lord Cardinal."

If Orezzo had not been Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia and Velletri, Dean of the Sacred College, and Chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church, he would have grinned. He found the moment unmitigatedly delectable.

"Holiness, there is a pious opinion, represented (I believe) by the Cardinal-Penitentiary"—(Serafino-Vagellaio violently flushed)—"to the effect that the Divine Leo was not in error. Also, there is another pious opinion, represented (I happen to know) by the rest of the College, that on this point the said Divine Leo erred as infallibly as possible."

This was thin ice indeed.

"Your Eminency's exposition hath been most sound. The matter is one for the theologians," said Hadrian, ceasing to lean forward. "But why, Lord Cardinal, do you call it fortunate that the nomination was not effected?"

"Because if it had been effected, we might not have experienced the pleasure of saluting a Pontiff Who, according to the Cardinal of Pimlico, is an academic anarchist."

Hadrian candidly and simply laughed, with a friendly look at Courtleigh, who did not at all like being the second victim of Orezzo's caustic tongue.

"His Eminency has taken that bad habit of labelling people from Us," He said. "But, although We give due weight to the epithet 'academic,' We abhor from and cannot away with the term 'anarchist.' Aristocrat We are not: the mere word Democrat fills Us with repugnance. Such as it is, Our philosophy is individualistic altruism. But, Eminencies, is not the labelling of matter which is in a state of flux, humanity for example, somewhat futile? Even supposing the labelled matter to be static, do not the very words on the label change their meaning with the course of time? But deeds remain; and the motive of a deed is that by which it must, and will, be judged. Give Us then the benefit of your holy prayers, Lord Cardinals, that Our motives may be pure, and Our acts acceptable to Him Who has deigned to Our unworthy hands the awful office of His Vicegerent here on earth."

He leaned back in His chair for the moment after this little out-burst. The sense of His enormous responsibility was upon Him. In an indefinite shadowy sort of way, it had been in His mind to utter some such allocution to the cardinals by way of explaining to them His Own conception of His task: but He had intended to make it more of a deliberate formal pronouncement. The instant when the words had passed His lips, however, He perceived that in one sentence He had said all. He also perceived that the gaiety of the beginning, and the solemnity of the conclusion, sufficed to give His utterance distinction. He said no more. There was no doubt but that He had created an impression: an impression which differed, it is true, according to the temper of the impressed—but still He had created an impression. Those Eminencies, who were more formal than vital, assumed that professional abstraction of demeanour which marks a conference of clergy while one of their number is "talking shop." Those two or three, who were devout enthusiasts, blessed themselves and exhibited the white cornea beneath the iris of their eyes. The majority, (who combined the qualities of the dignified fine-gentleman-of-the-old-school, with those of the scholar, the teacher, and the practical Christian) beamed instant approbation. Their verdict was that the utterance was very correct and proper. Nothing could be more true.

The assemblage split-up into groups; and separate conversations were begun. The Pope sat, still and grave. Orezzo gracefully pleaded his age and the hour of night: kissed the Apostle's knee; and retired.

Hadrian beckoned the Cardinal-Deacon of Santa Maria Nuova; and addressed him in a confidential manner.

"We understand that the expenses of Our household pass through the hands of the Major-domo. Are they paid from some fund particularly allotted to the purpose?"

"Yes, Most Holy Lord; from——"

"The details are unimportant. And the expenses of the paparchy in general?"

"There are numerous funds, Most Holy Lord, which are administered by numerous departments under my supervision."

"And those funds—— Some suffice; and some do not suffice. They vary, no doubt?"

"Most Holy Lord, they vary."

"Is there any particular fund over which We have exclusive control?"

"The whole revenue, Most Holy Lord, is subject to Your pleasure: but Peter's Pence belong to the pontiff-regnant personally. They are His private property—salary—honorarium, I should say."

"In eight days, Your Eminency will be good enough to let Us know the annual average of that income, say for the last twenty years."

"It shall be done, Most Holy Lord."

"Meanwhile, what money is at Our disposal at this moment?"

"There has been accumulated a large reserve, the exact amount of which is known only to the bankers. It is Yours, Most Holy Lord."

"What approximately is the sum?"

"In round numbers, Most Holy Lord, it cannot be less than five millions."

"Lire?"

"Pounds sterling, Most Holy Lord."

Hadrian's eyes sparkled. "Where is it?"

"The bulk is in the Bank of England, Most Holy Lord: but there is much gold in the safe."

"Which safe?"

"The safe in the bedroom wall, Most Holy Lord."

"Where is the key?"

"The Cardinal-Chamberlain holds all keys, Most Holy Lord."

"To-morrow Your Eminency will be good enough to cause the safe in the bedroom-wall to be removed to a similar position in the bedroom which We have instructed the Major-domo to prepare on the upper storey. And now please follow the Cardinal-Chamberlain: obtain the key of the safe; and bring it to Us."

The Apostolic Treasurer rose; and went out. Hadrian also stood up. The company, understanding that the reception was ended, made obeisance and began to move away. The Pope detained Courtleigh.

"Eminency," He said, "We have many things to say to you: but We will not detain you now. To-morrow We go to Castel Gandolfo. Come with Us. A few tired priests are sure of a hospitable welcome there. Yes, come with Us. Who is that young cardinal by the door?"

"That is Monsignor Nefski, Holiness,—the Archbishop of Prague."

"He is marked by some fearful sorrow?"

"A most fearful sorrow indeed."

"Once, in a man's rooms at Oxford, a young undergraduate happened to enter. He had just that deadly pallor, that dense black hair, that rigidity of feature, that bleached bleak fixity of gaze. When he was gone, We remarked on his appearance. Our host said that he had been seeing his best friend drowned. They were on a cliff, somewhere in Your Eminency's native-land, taking photographs of breakers in the height of a storm. The friend was on the very verge. Suddenly the cliff gave way; and he fell into the raging sea. He was a magnificent swimmer. He struggled with the billows for more than half an hour. There was no help within five miles; and, finally, the breath was battered out of him. The other perforce had to stand by, and watch it all. It indelibly marked him. Cardinal Nefski, you say, is marked by a fearful experience. Lately? Was it as fearful as that?"

"Ten weeks ago, Holiness; and a much more fearful experience."

"Eminency, bring him also to Castel Gandolfo. Some of you must attend the Pope. Let Us have those to whom We can be useful."

When he was alone, Hadrian examined the safe in the bedroom wall. It added to His consciousness of His immense potentiality. What a number of long-planned things He could do now! With its contents, He would open a current account at the Bank of Italy. With that, and another at the Bank of England——He acquainted Himself with the tools of His new trade. Truly, Caerleon did not altogether err in calling Him an incomprehensible creature. On the one hand, with His principle of giving He could not even grasp a problem which involved taking: while, on the other hand, He utterly failed to realize that most people are averse from giving. As for Himself, He took freely; and, as freely, He was going to give. As for the Bishop of Caerleon's opinion—it is so easy and so satisfactory to call a man "an incomprehensible creature," when one is mentally incapable of comprehending, or unwilling to try to comprehend, the "creature."

CHAPTER VI

He spent the first day at Castel Gandolfo in the garden, writing, enjoying the loveliness of late spring. He produced a score of sheets of swiftly-scribbled manuscript bristling with emendations. The second day He summoned Cardinal Courtleigh directly after breakfast; and addressed him with some formality.

"We desire to establish relations with Your Eminency, chiefly because You hold so responsible a position in England, a country dear above all countries to Us which We design to treat with singular favour. In pursuance of Our intention, and of Our desire, certain matters must be defined. If Our words are unpleasing, Your Eminency must take them in the light of Our said intention and desire."

The cardinal put on his cardinalitial mask. He was to hear and to note this rash young man. If anything needed to be said, he was there to say it.

"It is Our wish to make England 'a people prepared for The Lord.' We will attempt it of the whole world; and for this reason We begin with the race which dominates the world. We find Ourself impeded at the outset by the present habitude and conduct of English Catholics, especially of the aboriginal English Catholics."

At this unexpected fulguration, this feline scratch, the cardinalitial eyebrows shot upward with a jerk and horizontally came down again. His Eminency slightly bowed, and attended. The Pope fingered a volume of cuts from English newspapers: selected a cut; and continued,

"Kindly let Us have your opinion of this statement:—A remarkable petition has been prepared for presentation to Parliament. The petitioners are the Roman Catholic laity resident in England; and they pray Parliament to set up some control over Roman Catholic moneys and interests. It is pointed out that the total capital invested in the Roman Catholic clergy in the United Kingdom must amount to nearly £50,000,000. It is alleged that no account is afforded by the Roman Catholic bishops of the management or disbursements of such property and moneys. And the petitioners also call attention to gross injustices which are of daily occurrence."

"That emanated from a priest of my archdiocese, Holiness. It was a terrible scandal: but we were successful in preventing it from spreading."

"Then there was such a petition? At first, We were prepared to ascribe it to the imagination of one of Sir Notyet Apeer's young men. And really were there many supporters of the petition?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Then you have rebellion within the camp. And was there any ground for these statements?"

"There was no ground whatever for the insinuation that we habitually misuse our trusteeship. The man had a grievance. His agitation was merely a means to compel us to solace him. He trusted, by making himself unpleasant to us, to make us pleasant to him. So he attacked our financial arrangements. It was a wicked stroke: for, you know, Holy Father, that we cannot be expected to account to any Tom-Dick-and-Harry for bequests and endowments which we administer."

"Your accounts are properly audited, no doubt?"

"To a great extent, yes."

"But not invariably? You trust much to the honesty and the financial ability of individual clerks? We do not presume for a moment that there is any systematic malversation of trust. You have had a lesson on that subject."

"Lesson?"

"Yes: in 1886: after the notorious Carvale Case, when the infatuated imbecility of the Gaelic and Pictish bishops was shewn to render them undesirable as trustees, the clergy simply dare not stray into illegal paths. Oh no. But are the clergy actually capable of financial administration?"

"As capable, I suppose, as other men."

"Priests are not 'as other men.' However, We take it that you all believe yourselves to have acted conscientiously. We also take it that, in view of the power and influence which the position of trustee affords, your clergy eagerly become trustees and are unwilling to submit to supervision or to criticism. That is quite human. We entirely disapprove of it."

"But what would your Holiness have?"

"We cannot say it in one sentence. You must collect Our mind from Our conduct as well as from our words. We entirely disapprove of the clergy competing for or using any secular power or dominance whatever, especially such power as inheres in the command of money. The clergy are ministers—ministers—not masters. And as to the other charge—'the gross injustices which are of daily occurrence'?"

"That, of course, is simply the scream of an opponent. It is spite."

"Does Your Eminency mean that there are no injustices? Don't you know of gross injustices?"

"'It needs must that offences come.'"

"'But woe to him by whom the offence cometh.' Eminency, why not frankly face the predicament? The clergy are more than less human; and they certainly are not even the pick of humanity. Now, don't they attempt too much in the first instance; and, in the second, don't they invariably refuse to admit or amend their blunders? Listen to this. The Pall Mall Gazette states, on the authority of the Missiones Catholicae that, in Australia, during the last five years, we have increased our numbers from 3,008,399 to 4,507,980. But the government census taken last year gives the total population of Australia at 4,555,803. That leaves only 47,823 for the other religious and irreligious bodies. As a matter of fact, the latest Roman Catholic record is 916,880. Therefore an overstatement of 3,591,100 has been made. Which is absurd. And perpetuated. Which is damnable."

"I do not precisely see Your Holiness's point."

"No? Well, let us go to another." The Pope produced a small green ticket on which was printed, Church of the Sacred Heart—Quest Road—Admit Bearer to—Midnight Service—New Year's Eve 1900—Middle Seat 6d. "This comes from Your Eminency's archdiocese," he said.

The cardinal looked at the thing, as one looks at the grass of the field. There it is. One has seen it all before.

"We disapprove of that," said the Pope.

"What would Your Holiness suggest then to prevent improper persons from attending these services?"

"Improper persons should be encouraged to attend. No obstacle should be placed in their way."

The cardinal was irritated. "Then we should have scenes of disorder, to say nothing of profanation."

"That is where Your Eminency and all the aboriginals err. Your opinion is formed upon the apprehensive sentimentality of pious old-ladies-of-both-sexes whose ideal of Right is the Not-obviously Wrong. When a thing is unpleasant, they go up a turning: wipe their mouths; and mistake evasion for annihilation. They don't annihilate the evil: they avoid it. Now, we are here to seek and to save that which was lost: and our churches must be more free to the lost than to the saved—if any be saved. Experience proves that your pious fears have no sure warranty. Wesleyan schismatics have performed Watch-night services for more than a century. Anglican schismatics have done the same: and, in later years, they have celebrated their mysteries at midnight on Christmas Eve. We Ourself have assisted at these functions. The temples were open and free: and We never saw or heard a sign of the profanation of which you speak. Sots and harlots undoubtedly were present: but they were not disorderly: they were cowed, they were sleepy, they were curious, but they made no noise. Even though they had shouted, it only would have been in protest against some human ordinance; and a human ordinance must give way the moment it becomes a barrier between one soul and that soul's Creator. Supposing means of grace to be obtainable in a church, who durst deny them to those who chiefly need them? The position which you clergy take up is an essentially false one. We are not here to establish conventions, or to enforce conformity. We are here to serve—only to serve. We especially disapprove of any system which bars access to the church, or which makes it difficult;—this admission-fee, for example."

"Holy Father, the clergy must live."

"You lead Us to infer that they cannot live without these sixpences?"

"We are so poor: we have no endowments: the fee is no more than a pew-rent for a single service——"

"Lord Cardinal, be accurate. You have endowments: not equal to those of which you are thinking, the 'stolen property' enjoyed by the Church-of-England-as-by-Law-Established: but you have endowments. You mean that they are meagre. But pew-rents are abominable: so are pews, for that matter. Abolish them both."

"I am bound to obey Your Holiness: but I must say that this quixotic impossible idealism will be the ruin of the Church——"

"That is impossible: because Her Founder promised to be with Her always even unto the end of the world."

"God helps those who help themselves——"

"But not those who help themselves out of other people's pockets."

"The workman is worthy of his hire——"

"Perfectly. But he accepts the wage: he does not dictate it. The builder of London's new concert-hall in Denambrose Avenue did not let his masons domineer. He offered work at a certain wage. They took it, or left it. You confuse the functions of the buyer with those of the seller, as the clergy always do. Besides, as you seem fond of Scripture, 'provide neither gold nor silver nor brass in your purses,' and 'take no thought for the morrow——'"

"This is simply Tolstoy!"

"No. We never have read a line of Tolstoy. We studiously avoid doing so. We give you the commands of Christ Himself as reported by St. Matthew. Lord Cardinal, you are all wrong——"

"Your Holiness speaks as though You were not one of us."

"Oh no! The head looks down at the hands; and says 'Your knuckles and your nails are dirty.'"

The cardinal really was angry. Hadrian paused: fixed him with a taming look: and continued "Is it right or even desirable that the clergy should engage in trade—actually engage in trade? Look at your Catholic Directory; and see the advertisement of a priest who, with archiepiscopal sanction, is prepared to pay bank interest on investments, in plain words to borrow money upon usury in direct contravention of St. Luke's statement of The Lord's words on this subject. Look at the Catholic Hour; and see the advertisement of a priest who actually trades as a tobacconist. Look in the precincts of your churches; and see the tables of the Fenian-literature-sellers and the seats of them that sell tickets for stage-plays and bazaars where palmistry is practiced——"

"I merely interrupt to remind Your Holiness that Your august predecessor traded as a fisherman."

"Very neat," the Pope applauded, enjoying the retort: "but not neat enough. A fisherman's trade is an open-air trade, and a healthy trade, by the way: but—did Our predecessor St. Peter trade as a fisherman after He had entered upon the work of the apostolature? We think not. No, Lord Cardinal, the clergy attempt too much. They might be excellent priests. As tradesmen, variety-entertainers, entrepreneurs, they are failures. As a combination, they are catastrophes. These two things must be kept apart, the clerical and the secular, God and Mammon. The difference must be emphasized. By attempts at compromise, the clergy fail in both. As priests, they are mocked: and as for their penny-farthing peddling——"

"But Holy Father, do think for one minute. What are the clergy to live on?"

"The free-will offerings of the faithful; and one must keep the other."

"But suppose the faithful do not give free-will offerings?"

"Then starve and go to Heaven, as Ruskin says. That is what We are going to do, if possible."

"How are we to build our churches?"

"Don't build them, unless you have the means freely given. Avoid beggary. That way you sicken the faithful—you prevent generosity——"

"How shall we keep up those we have? For example, the cathedral——"

"Yes, the cathedral,—a futile monument of one vain man's desire for notoriety. How many lives has it ruined? One, at least, We know. How many evil passions has it inspired?—the passion for advertisement by means of the farthing journalist, the critical passion which is destroying our creative faculty, the passions of envy and covetousness, the passion of competition, the passion of derision,—for you know that the world is mocking the ugly veneered pretentious monstrosity now. Better that it never had been. As it is, and in regard to the churches which exist, you must do what you can. If the faithful freely give you enough, then let them stand. If not, you must let them go. England never will lack altars. In any case, encumber yourselves with no more unpaid-for buildings. Accept what is given: but ask for nothing and suggest nothing. Lord Cardinal, the clergy do not act as though they trusted the Divine Disposer of Events. They mean well: but their whole aim and object seems to be to serve God by conciliating Mammon. There is nothing more criminally futile. Instead of winning England's admiration, you secure Her scornful toleration. Instead of consolidating the faithful, multitudes have become disaffected, and multitudes leave you day by day. Instead of improving the clerical character, (and, by consequence, the character of all who look to the clergy for example,) the clergy ever more and more assimilate themselves to the laity. The clergy should cultivate the virtues, not the vices, of humanity. Not one of us can tell which of our actions is important or unimportant. By a thoughtless word or deed, we may lead-astray a brother for whom Christ died. That is what is to be feared from your worldly clergy. Teach them that magna ars which St. Thomas of Aquino says est conversari Jesu. Teach them to rise above the world."

"Surely, Holy Father, they do."

"Some members of the clergy do, no doubt. We never met them. The tone of the clergy is distinctly worldly. Here is an illustration from your own newspaper. The very first thing which The Slab thinks worthy of note is How Monsignor Cateran signally vindicated his honour and suitably punished his traducer, the proprietor of 'The Fatherland.' The terms of the apology which Sir Frederick Smithers has had to publish in his own journal are set forth as a warning to evil-doers. It is on p. 397. You know the particulars?"

"I have read them."

"You cannot approve of the savage triumph of the letter on p. 416, in which Monsignor Cateran describes his victory: you cannot approve of the sneer at his enemy who could not be punished by damages—he has no means to pay, or the gibe at the freemasonry of the libeller, or the vicious malignant spite of the whole disgraceful document——"

"But, Holiness, the libel was a dreadful one and grossly unjust."

"But, Eminency, the accused was bound by his Christianity to suffer revilings and persecutions and the saying of all manner of evil falsely. He forgot that. In vindicating himself, he behaved, not as a minister of God but, as a common human animal. However, besides the so-called triumphant vindication of Monsignor Cateran, which The Slab glorifies in three separate columns, this same number bristles with improprieties. On p. 415, you have Dominican and Jesuit controversialists calling each other liars, and otherwise politely hating and abusing one another——"

"Oh, Jesuits and Dominicans!"

The Pope put down the paper, and looked. The cardinal collected himself for a sally in force.

"Your Holiness will permit me to say that all this is extremely unusual. I myself was consecrated bishop in 1872, fourteen years before You were a Christian; and it seems to me that You should give Your seniors credit for having consciences at least——"

"Dear Lord Cardinal, if We had seen a sign of the said consciences——"

The cardinal tottered: but made one more thrust.

"I am not the only member of the Sacred College who thinks that Your Holiness's attitude partakes of—shall I say singularity—and—ha—arrogance."

"Singularity? Oh, We sincerely hope so. But arrogance—We cannot call it arrogance to assume that We know more of a particular subject, which We eagerly have studied from Our childhood, than those do who never have studied it at all. Eminency, We began by saying that We desired to establish relations with you. Now, have We shewn you something of Our frame of mind?"

"Certainly, Holy Father: You wish me to——"

"We wish you to act upon the sum of Our words and conduct, in order that England may have a good and not a bad example from English Catholics. No more than that. We may call Ourselves Christendom till We are black in the face: but the true character of a Christendom is wanting to Us because the great promises of prophecy still lack fulfilment. The Barque of Peter has been trying to reach harbour. Muting within, storms without, have driven Her hither and thither. Is She as far-off from port to-day as ever? Who knows? But the new captain is trying to set the course again from the old chart. His look is no longer backward but onward. Lord Cardinal, can the captain count on the loyal support of his lieutenant?"

"Holy Father, I assure You that You may count on me." It was an immense effort: but, when it came to so fine a point, the nature and the pride of the man gave way to the grace of his Divine Vocation.

"Well now, only one more blow from the flail, and then We will take up the crook. Do stop your Catholics from toadying the German Emperor. Read that. It's perfectly absurd for them to tell him that the whole Catholic world would be delighted if the protection of Catholics in the Orient were confided to him. He's an admirable person: but We are not going to confide the protection of Catholics in the Orient to him. England is the only power which can manage Orientals. And what right have these Erse and Gaelic Catholics to speak for 'the whole Catholic world'? Do neither England nor Italy count? Do make these pious fat-wits mind their own business—make them understand that when they tell the Kaiser that they will exert themselves to remove all misunderstandings between Germany and England—England last, you note—they would be comical if they were not impertinent and entirely stupid,—and of course disloyal as usual."

Hadrian collected His documents and the book of newspaper-cuts: swept them all into a portfolio; and abruptly changed the subject.

"Will Your Eminency be good enough to tell Us the circumstances which led to Our extraordinary election?"

Barely recovered from his commotion of mind, and posed point-blank like this, Cardinal Courtfield hesitated and said something about the Acts of the Conclave. His aboriginally tardy temperament was incapable of keeping pace with the feline agility of the Pontiff. Hadrian perceived his difficulty, and intently pursued the inquiry from another footing.

"We know all about the Acts of the Conclave, which We shall read at Our leisure. But We want the more human light which Your Eminency can throw upon the subject. Perhaps it will be simpler if We use the Sokratic method. By what means did Our name, did the mere fact of Our existence become known to the Sacred College?"

"By my means, Holiness."

"We understand that Your Eminency actually proposed us to the Conclave?"

"That is so."

"And We infer that you also recommended Us: or at least described Us in such a way that the cardinals knew whom they were electing?"

"Yes, Holy Father."

"Why did Your Eminency propose Us?" the Pope purred.

The cardinal seemed to be at a loss again. He appeared to have a difficulty in expression, not a lack of material for expression. Hadrian made a dash for the rudiments.

"There were other names before the College? Why were none of their owners chosen?"

"It was impossible to agree about their merits, Holiness."

"Several attempts, no doubt, were made?"

"The Ways of Scrutiny and Access were tried seven times."

"And then?"

"And then came a deadlock. None of the candidates obtained a sufficiency of suffrages: and none of the electors were willing to change their opinion."

"And then?"

"The Way of Compromise was tried."

"And, through Your Eminency's means, the compromissaries were induced to impose Us on the Sacred College?"

"Yes, Holiness."

"Eminency, at the time when the Conclave first was immured, We hardly can have been in Your mind. It is improbable that you could have thought of Us then in this connection. At what point did We come into your calculations?"

"I ought perhaps to say that Your name had been brought before me some weeks before the demise of Holiness's predecessor."

"That would be in connection with the matter of which we treated in London."

"Yes."

"Precisely in what way was Our name brought before Your Eminency?"

"It was brought before me in a letter from Edward Lancaster—a perfectly frantic letter accusing himself of all sorts of crimes. Your Holiness perhaps is aware what a queer person he is, rather inclined to be scrupulous, and most impulsive."

"Yes, We know him. We Ourself would have said 'unscrupulous': Your Eminency uses the word 'scrupulous' in the Catholic sense, whereas We prefer frank English."

"I mean that he is given to tormenting himself about fancied sins——"

"And We mean that as a rule, he does nothing of the kind: but, like a good many others, is singularly successful in lulling his conscience. At least, for fifteen years he contrived to do so in this case. However, he now has made amends; and there is nothing more to be said. Let us continue. You received a self-accusing letter from Edward Lancaster. And then?"

"Not one letter, Holiness: a dozen at least. The injustice, of which You had been the victim, was on his nerves. He wrote me several letters; and came to see me several times. He is, as you know, a person of some importance and a great benefactor to the Church; and so I was obliged to take the matter up. I promised to investigate the case myself."

"Yes. And you did."

"I instituted an inquisitorial process among some of the persons who had had to do with Your Holiness; and I am bound to say that their replies gave me grounds for thought."

"Why?"

"They differed materially as to the details of Your history; and yet their opinion of You seemed to be fairly unanimous."

"It was not a desirable opinion."

"No, Holiness."

"It would not be. We never were able to arrange to be loved. To be disagreeable was a sort of habit of Ours. But is Your Eminency able, from memory, to give Us an idea of these differences in regard to facts? Opinions do not matter."

The cardinal pondered for a minute. "Yes, Holiness, I can give you three examples from Oxford. Fr. Benedict Bart said that he had met You twice personally: but that he had heard much of You from his friends, priests as well as laymen. He stated that all that could be done for You had been done; and that You were—ha—Your Holiness will pardon me—a very incapable and ungrateful person."

The Pope gave the little leaden weight of His pallium a swing: and beamed with delight. The cardinal went on.

"Fr. Perkins who received You into the Church said 'I'm afraid he's a genius, poor fellow!'"

"What rank blasphemy!"

"Blasphemy, Holiness?"

"Yes: blasphemy. Almighty God happens to make something a little out of the common; and, instead of praising Him for the privilege of tending a singular work of His, Fr. Perkins actually bewails the fact! But continue."

"I confess I never thought of it in that light before——"

"No: nor did Fr. Perkins. Continue."

"I also took the opinion of a certain Dr. Strong who appears to be one of the superiors of the university."

"He was senior Public Examiner in Honour Greats, if you know what that means."

"Quite so. Well: he said that You had been his intimate and valued friend for more than twenty years, that You had had no influential friends to encourage You, and that Your abilities were no less distinguished than Your moral character."

The Pope laughed again. "Dr. Strong is an experienced writer of testimonials."

"But I should hardly think that a man in his position——"

"Certainly not. Dr. Strong is one of the two honest men known to Us. Well: and how did the discrepancy between his statement and Fr. Benedict's strike you?"

"It struck me in this way. How did so many worthy priests arrive at practically the same opinion, (for what Fr. Benedict said, others said also,) when their knowledge of facts seemed to be so superficial and so doubtful. I mean, Fr. Benedict and the rest spoke from an exceedingly casual acquaintance: but Dr. Strong from more than twenty years' intimacy. However, just when I was pondering these contradictory statements, Your Holiness's predecessor died; and I was obliged to come to Rome."

"Did Your Eminency ever note that very few clergymen are capable—capable—of forming an unprejudiced proper original opinion—of judging on the evidence before them and on nothing else."

"I have excellent reason to believe that what Your Holiness says is correct."

"It is so much easier to echo than to discriminate. Now, if you please, we will go back to the Compromise. What brought Us again to Your Eminency's remembrance in the Conclave?"

"Holy Father, that was most strange. We compromissaries were quite as unable to agree as the Sacred College had been. And then, at the end of one of our sessions, I was struck by the extraordinary likeness of Cardinal della Volta to someone whom I remembered having seen, but whose name I had forgotten. It was the merest accident: but I came away wracking my brains about it. Another curious thing happened the same night. Having some papers to sign, I happened to go to my dispatch-box; and, quite by accident, I came across Edward Lancaster's letters about Your Holiness——"

"We do not call these things 'accidents.'"

"Nor do I, Holy Father, now. Well: for want of something better to do, I suppose, I looked over half-a-dozen of the letters: and I determined to go further into the matter on my return to England. But, early the very next morning, it suddenly flashed across my mind that I myself had seen Your Holiness——"

"In 1894."

"Ah yes, in 1894; and that Cardinal della Volta was Your Holiness's Double. This sent me back to the letters again; and I became more and more convinced that an immense and almost irreparable wrong had been done. I cannot tell You how strongly I felt that, Holy Father."

"But what made you—well, practically impose Us on the compromissaries?"

"That I cannot say: although in my own mind there is very little doubt but that——However, these are the facts. I was so full of the case, that I narrated it at our morning conference as an instance of the fallibility of what—I think it was Your Holiness Who gave it the name—yes, it was,—as an instance of the fallibility of the Machine. I shall never forget the effect of my words upon Cardinal Mundo. It was most extraordinary. He said—I shall remember what he said as long as I live—he said 'My Lord Cardinal, you owe it to that man to propose him for the paparchy; yes you owe it!' He rather upset me. I replied that Your Holiness was not even in sacred orders. He answered 'Whose fault is that?' I may say that the point was a very keen one. No one could fail to perceive its relevancy. To use a vulgar expression, it touched the thing with a needle. The others did not help me at all; and I considered the matter for a few minutes. Mundo went on, 'If that man had a real Vocation, he will have persevered: if he has persevered, the twenty years or more of waiting will have purified——'"

"Pray do not quote Cardinal Mundo."

"Well, in short, I was irresistibly moved to propose Your Holiness——"

"And then, because no other candidate was forthcoming: because—We understand. You came to Us, found Us persistent——"

"Yes, Holiness."

"Well: shall we take a little stroll in the garden, and say some Office?"

Cardinal Courtleigh jumped. "I'm sure—if Your Holiness doesn't mind walking by the side of my bath-chair——"

"Oh, but We do. It is Our invariable custom to walk behind bath-chairs and push them."

"Indeed I could not for one moment permit——"

"No: but for an hour you will submit. Nonsense man, do you suppose that one never has pushed a bath-chair before! Now sit-down quietly and open your breviary and read the Office; and We will look over your shoulder and make the responses. It's awfully good exercise, you know."

CHAPTER VII

After his morning's exertions in the way of taming and domesticating a prince of the church, Hadrian was conscious that He required a change of emotions. His thoughts went to the next thing on His list—the matter of Cardinal Nefski. That would be an exceedingly interesting experience. He did not want to intrude upon grief: but He was attracted by all singular phenomena; and the pathos of the pale young prelate seemed to be quite exemplary. Once in His secular life, George Arthur Rose had been taken by a doctor to see a man who had severed his throat in an unusual manner, using a broken pen-knife and cutting a jagged triangle, of which the apex missed the larynx, and the base the sterno-kleido-mastoid, avoiding by a hair's breadth carotid and jugular. The doctor wanted a diagram of the wound made for the enlightenment of the jury which was to pronounce upon attempted suicide; and George had made the sketch from the staring speechless life, noted the furniture of the room and the aspect of his model, quite untouched by the man's sensations or the horror of the event. Hadrian approached Cardinal Nefski with similar feelings. He was curious, He was psychically apart: but, at the same time, something of subconscious sympathy in His manner elicited the desired revelation. It was a ghastly one. Nefski, Cardinal Archbishop, had rushed to a little city in Russian Poland, occupied by anarchists, for the purpose of pleading with them. He arrived at sunset. There was a college there where a hundred and twenty lads of noble birth were being educated: among them, his own youngest brother, just seventeen years old. The cardinal was seized and crucified with ropes to the fountain in the market-square. Anarchists burst into the college: stripped its inmates naked; and flung them into the street before his eyes. He absolved each one dashed from the lofty windows. Some instantly were smashed and killed: others, who fell on others, were broken and shattered, but not killed outright. All night long, Nefski remained crucified. The anarchists must have forgotten him: for they left him; and at dawn some one, whom he did not know, came and cut him down. He remembered nothing more, until he found himself paralyzed, in a waggon with two priests, en route for Prague. Then he came on to Rome, hoping to lose the phantasm which continually occupied his sight and hearing—the heap in the dark night, the growing groaning heap on red stones of white young bodies and writhing limbs like maggots in cheese, the pale forms strained and curved, the flying hair, the fixed eyes, continually falling, the cut-off shrieks, the thudding bounding ooze of that falling, the interminable white writhing. It was a ghastly tale, quite unimpassionately told. The young man still was in that stupor which benignant Nature sends by the side of extreme pain. His paralysis was passing away. He could walk easily now—only he saw and heard. He spoke affectionately of his murdered brother: but he did not mourn for him.

Hadrian was moved. He put all the human kindness which he had, and it was not much, into His voice and manner. He really tried to comfort the cardinal. He quoted the splendid verses of the herald in the Seven against Thebes,

"being pure in respect to the sacred rites of his country,
"blameless hath he fallen, where 'tis glorious for the young to fall."

Nefski seemed grateful. The Pontiff offered to remove him from Prague; and to attach him to the Court of Rome: but he preferred to return to his archbishopric for the present, at least, he said, until this tyranny be overpast. And, anon, he asked permission to retire. The sunlight dazzled him.

During the rest of the time at Castel Gandolfo, the Pope seldom was seen. A boatman rowed Him out on Lake Albano for an hour or two in the afternoon, while He occupied Himself in pencilling corrections on manuscript. But the white figure, set in the blaze of the sunny blue water, did not escape the notice of passers-by on the high road near the Riformati; and, finding Himself under observation, He returned to the seclusion of the garden. His memory flew back to the time when people used to jeer at Him for His habit of writing letters, letters which explained a great deal too much, to blind men who could not see, to deaf adders who would not hear. He chuckled at the thought that those same people would read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest, every word and every dotted i of His letters now—letters which were not going to be painfully voluminously conscientiously persuasive any more: but dictatorial. He wrote sheet after sheet; and emended them: He returned to His room and burned all the rejected preliminaries; and He took a fair copy with Him to Rome on the night of the twenty-eighth of April.

Early on the morning of the thirtieth, at a secret audience in the new throne-room, Caerleon introduced five rather startled very dishevelled and travel-stained priests, five priests who had undergone a mental shock. Mr. Semphill, with a white close-cropped head and the face of a clean pink school-boy, contrived to remind himself that he was in the presence of the most amusing man he ever had met. He bucked-up; and made his obeisance with an aplomb which was a combination of the Service, Teddy Hall, an Anglican curacy and a Pictish rectory. Mr. Sterling, a stalwart brown schoolmaster, very handsome except for a mole on his nose, hid his feelings in calm inscrutability. Mr. Whitehead, a level-headed common-sense Saxon, golden-hearted, who never had had any wild oats for sowing, observed reticence in a matter which was beyond his comprehension. Mr. Leighton, plump, clean, curly-haired, blinked genially and waited. Mr. Carvale, a lithe intense little Gael, with the black hair and rose-white skin and the delicate lips and self-contained mien of a dreamer, looked upon his old college-acquaintance with clear eyes of burning blue. Some of the five had the remembrance of sins of omission at the back of their minds. None remembered sins of commission. All were wondering what was required of them,—what the devil it all meant, as Semphill secularly put it. If any of them expected allusion to the past, they must have been disappointed. Hadrian gave them no sign of recognition. It was the Supreme Pontiff Who very apostolically received them and addressed them.

"Reverend Sirs, Our will is to have such assistance in the work of Our Apostolature as the organs of sense can render to the mind, or as the experimentalist can render to the theorist. For reasons known unto Ourself, We have selected you. Believing you to be single-hearted in this one thing, namely the service of God, We call upon you to devote yourselves actually to the service of His Vicegerent. To this end, We would attach you to Our Person in a singular and intimate connection, by raising you to the cardinal-diaconate. Those of you who believe yourselves unable to do God-service better in this than in your present capacity, can depart without forfeiting Our good-will. The conscience of each man is his own sole true light. Far be it from Us to interfere with any man's prerogative as his own director in so grave a matter."

The five remained standing, saying nothing. Semphill was sincerely delighted: the literary quality, the tops-i'-th'-turfy straightforwardness of the allocution gave him the keenest joy. The others felt obedience to be their plain duty: for George Arthur Rose never had been wantonly fantastic, there always had been a fundamental element of reason about his eccentricities, he never had revolved at random but always round some deliberately fixed point. And, to plain priests, the voice of the Successor of St. Peter was a call, to be answered, and obeyed.

The Pope addressed Semphill. "Your Reverency quite legitimately hoped to end your days at St. Gowff's?"

"True—(hum!)—Holiness: but I may be translated elsewhere by a telegraph's notice from my diocesan."

"You are not yet a missionary-rector?"

"Merely a poor master-of-arts of Oxford."

"But you have been at St. Gowff's as long as We can remember."

Mr. Semphill choked a chuckle. "Having a little patrimony, Holiness, I made my will in favour of the archdiocese of St. Gowff's and Agneda; and I did not omit to mention the fact to my archbishop. I happened also to say that, in the event of my being moved from St. Gowff's, I should be compelled to make another will: but of course I did not contemplate being moved as far as Rome."

Hadrian turned to Mr. Sterling. "The last words, which We said to Your Reverency, were that you had cause to be ashamed of yourself."

"One had cause, Holy Father."

"To you, Our invitation is a means of repairing a single small defect in a praiseworthy career."

"It shall be repaired, Holy Father."

To the others the Pope said nothing: for He saw their clean souls.

In the Sacred Consistory, the Supreme Pontiff dictated to consistorial advocates a pontifical act, denouncing the Lord Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, as Cardinal-presbyter of the Title of the Four Holy Crowned Ones:—the Lord George Semphill as Cardinal-deacon of St. Mary-in-Broad Street:—the Lord James Sterling as Cardinal-deacon of St. Nicholas-in-the-Jail-of-Tully:—the Lord George Leighton as Cardinal-deacon of The Holy Angel-in-the-Fish-Market:—the Lord Gerald Whitehead as Cardinal-deacon of St. George-of-the-Golden-Sail:—the Lord Robert Carvale as Cardinal-deacon of St. Cosmas and St. Damian. Then the six were brought in, and sworn of the College: their heads were hatted, their fingers ringed with sapphires, their mouths were closed and opened by the Pope; and they retired in ermine and vermilion.

What their emotions were, need not be inquired. Indeed, they had little time for emotion, seeing that during the rest of the day they sat in the secret chamber, writing writing writing from Hadrian's dictation. In the evening, Whitehead and Carvale put on their old cassocks and posted a carriage-full of letters at San Silvestro. These all were sealed with the Fisherman's Ring; and, as they were addressed to kings, emperors, prime-ministers, editors of newspapers, and heads of various religious denominations, it was considered undesirable to trouble Prince Minimo, the pontifical post-master, with material for gossip. Meanwhile Hadrian and Cardinal Semphill sat in the Vatican marconigraph office alone with the operators; and the Pope dictated, while the experts' fingers expressed His words in dots and dashes in London and New York. By consequence, what His Holiness called 'the five decent newspapers' came out on the first of May with an apostolic epistle, a pontifical bull, and editorial leaders thereupon.

The world found the Epistle to All Christians very piquant, not on account of novelty, but because of the nude vivid candour with which old and trite truths were enunciated dogmatically. Christianity, the Pope proclaimed, was a great deal more than a mere ritual service. It extended to every part of human life; and its rules must regulate Christians in all matters of principle and practice. He laid great stress on the assertion of the principle of the Personal Responsibility of the Individual. It was quite unavoidable, quite incapable of being shifted on to societies or servants. Each soul would have to render its own account to its Creator. In connection with the last doctrine, He denounced as damnable nonsense the fashionable heresy which is crystallized in the Quatrains of Edward Fitzgerald,

"O Thou, Who didst with pitfall and with gin
"Beset the road I was to wander in,
"Thou wilt not, with predestined evil, round
"Enmesh; and then impute my fall to sin.
"O Thou, Who man of baser earth didst make;
"And, e'en with paradise, devise the snake;—
"For all the sin, wherewith the face of man
"Is blackened, man's forgiveness give,—and take!"

He described those lines as the whine of a whimpering coward: pertinently inquiring whether a human father would be blameable, who, having taught his boy to swim, should fling him into the sea that he might have the merit of fighting his own way to shore where the rope was ready at hand? He condemned all attempts at uniformity as unnatural crimes, because they insulted the Divine intelligence Which had deigned to differentiate His creatures. He declared that God's servants were to be known by their broad minds, generous hearts, and staunch wills.

"The Church of God is not narrow, nor 'Liberal,' but Catholic with room for all: for 'there are diversities of gifts.'"

It was the individual soul which must be saved; and it was that which was addressed in the Evangel. He considered the immense strength of the single verse,

"Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind." Hence He would have no barrier erected between Christians of the Roman Obedience and Christians of other denominations. The following passage, containing His Own idea of His relation to other men, attracted much attention:—

"It is in no man's power to believe what he list. No man is to be blamed for reasoning in support of his own religion: for he only is accountable. 'Other sheep I have, which are not of this fold'; and these deserve more care and love, but not cheap pity, nor insulting patronage, nor irritated persecution: for if, as has been said, a man shall follow Christ's Law, and shall believe His Words according to his conscientious sense of their meaning, he will be a member of Christ's Flock although he be not within the Fold. And, though We know that he understands Christ's Words amiss, yet that is no reason for Our claiming any kind of superiority over an honest man, the purpose of whose heart and mind is to obey and to be guided by Christ. Such an one is a Christian and Our good brother, a servant of God; and, if he will have Us, We, by virtue of Our Apostolature, are his servant also."

The conclusion of the Epistle contained a very striking admonition addressed to members of His Own communion, to the effect that the being Christian did not confer any title to physical or external dominion, but rather the contrary. Perhaps the peroration is worthy of quotation:—

"Persuade, if ye can persuade, and if the world will permit you to persuade: but seek not to persuade. Better to live so that men will convince themselves through the contemplation of your ensample. That way only satisfaction lies. Accept, but claim not, obedience. Seek not suffering, nor avoid it: but, when it is deigned to you, most stringently conceal it and tolerate it with jubilation, remembering the words of Plato where it is written 'Help cometh through pain and suffering, nor can we be freed from our iniquity by any other means!' Scorn not the trite. Scorn no brother-man. Scorn no thing. Yet, if ye (being men) must scorn, then scorn the enemies of God and the King, which be the Devil and Dishonour and Death."

An even greater sensation, than that caused by the Epistle to All Christians, attended the simultaneous publication of the Bull Regnum Meum. It personally was addressed to the very last person in all the world by whom, under ordinary circumstances, a communication from the Vatican might have been expected. Hadrian VII., Bishop, Servant of the servants of God, sent Greeting and Apostolic Benediction to His Well-beloved Son—the Majesty of Victor Emanuel III., King of Italy. "My Kingdom is not of this world" was the text of the Bull, which the Pope began with an unwavering defence of the Divine Revelation, the Church, Peter, and the Power of the Keys. So far, He spoke as a theologian. Then, with lightning swiftness, He assumed the rôle of the historian. His theme was the Forged Decretals or Donation of Constantine, which first were promulgated in a breve which His Holiness's predecessor, Hadrian I., addressed to His Majesty's predecessor (in a certain sense), the Emperor Charlemagne. He recited the well-known facts that these Decretals, though undoubtedly forged, had been forged merely as the intellectual pastime of an exiled archbishop's idle hours, and with no nefarious intent whatever. He shewed how that, during four centuries, no doubt as to their authenticity had been entertained; and how that three more centuries had elapsed before evidence had been collected sufficing to justify their being thrown overboard from the Barque of Peter to lighten the ship. Then, He continued, the Pope was the sovereign of a patrimony of which He held no title-deeds. A right more inexpugnable than prescriptive right was deemed desirable; and Alexander VI. and Julius II. bound the Patrimony to Peter by military conquest. So it remained until the unification of Italy under the House of Savoy, when those territories, formerly known as the States of the Church, were absorbed by the new kingdom. Thus far Hadrian pursued the argument; and then turned to a disquisition on the worldly rights of Christians, the purport of which perhaps most luminously is expressed in the following sentences:—

"We use worldly things till they are wanted by the world: then we will relinquish them without even so much as a backward thought. For we all are clearly marked to get that which we give. Nothing is irrevocable on this orb of earth. Nothing is final: for, after this world is the world to come. Therefore, let us move, let us gladly move, move with the times, really move. God always is merciful."

Hence, as Supreme Pontiff, Hadrian would practise the principle of renunciation. He would renounce everything which another would take, because "My Kingdom is not of this world." And, first of all, in order to remove a bone of contention, He made a formal and unconditional renunciation of the claim to temporal sovereignty and of the civil-list provided by the Law of Guarantees. At the same time, He would not be understood as casting any slight upon His predecessors Who had followed other counsels:—

"They were responsible to God: They knew it: He and They were the judges of Their acts. We, on Our part, in Our turn, act as We deem best. We know Our responsibility and shrink not. We are God's Vicegerent; and this is Our will. Given at Rome, at St. Peter's by the Vatican, on this ninth day of Our Supreme Pontificate."

The formal publication of the Epistle and the Bull occurred in the second consistory which met at the abnormal hour of 6 a.m. on May-day. Hadrian read the two documents in that distinct minor monotone of His which was so intensely and yet so impersonally magisterial. By itself the tone was aggravating. The matter also was exasperating; and the pontifical manner added exacerbation. He seemed to be expecting opposition. That came from Ragna. If the Pope no longer was a sovereign, where did the Secretary of State come in? Was he dismissed? Oh dear no, he certainly was not dismissed: only, instead of playing at statesmanship in regard to states over which he had no control at all, and which were really rather commodiously managed by the secular power, he was requested to turn his attention to the increase of business which inevitably now would come into his department.

"The world is sick for the Church," said Hadrian; "but She never would confess it as long as the Church posed as Her rival."

Nevertheless the thing was a blow, a blow that was heavy and strong. Half the College put on an indifferent non-committal air: the other half roared anathemas and execrations. And Ragna howled,

"Judas, Judas, this shall not be!"

In a lull, Hadrian coldly mewed "It is; and it shall be."

He flung down the steps of the throne a bundle of advance-copies of the Roman morning journals. Vermilion faces stooped to them. There were the Epistle and the Bull in the vernacular. Serafino-Vagellaio pounced-upon an announcement in Il Popolo Romano to the effect that

enabled to present to our readers these authentic and momentous acts simultaneously with the Times, the Morning Post, the Globe, the St. James's Gazette, and the New York Times, the splendid journals of the magnanimous English, to which race (the sempiternal friend of Italy) we owe so grand and so enlightened a pontiff."

Undoubtedly the thing was done: for the world knew it; and, knowing it, would not let it be undone. There was no cardinal, however infuriated, who was not sufficiently serpentine to recognise the columbine as the attitude most appropriate to the circumstances. The first mad idea which had seized the rebellious ones, the idea of suppressing the pontifical decrees by physical force, was laid aside. There no doubt were other means of nullifying them later. And Their Eminencies dispersed to say their masses with an air which made the Pope feel like a very naughty tiresome little boy indeed, said Hadrian to Cardinal Leighton.

The question of Edward Lancaster worried Hadrian considerably: for the simple reason that, while He did not want to tire Himself by a renewal of relations with this individual, decency demanded something. He discussed the position with Courtfield and Talacryn, neither of whom were able to appreciate His difficulty. Thrown back upon His Own resources, He made a cigarette very carefully, a long fat one with the tobacco tucked into the paper cylinder with a pencil, and with neatly twisted ends, resembling a small white sausage; and smoked it through. Then He wrote a letter, telling Lancaster that his offering had been accepted and applied, assuring him of the pontifical good-will and of a pleasant reception in case he should feel bound to present himself in Rome, and conferring Apostolic Benediction and a plenary indulgence at the hour of death. This, He enclosed in a gold snuff-box with a device of diamonds on the lid, which the recipient might put upon his mantel-piece with other curious monstrosities.

Orezzo and Ragna appeared to have exchanged ethics: for, whereas the latter had been a pontifical right hand while Orezzo had shut-up himself in the Chancery, now it was Orezzo who watched the Pope while Ragna kept aloof in vermilion sulks. It was not that his occupation was gone: but he wished to emphasize (by withdrawing it) his indispensability. As for the others, they wonderfully retired into their shells. Hadrian kept his new creatures in fairly close attendance; and the nine Compromissaries always were ready to make themselves agreeable when they were in Rome. The Pope wished and tried to be on friendly terms with them; and failed, as He always failed. He could not shew Himself friendly.

Crowds of English visitors appeared; and would have been distracting. They dotted themselves about the Ducal Hall and Hadrian walked among them. At one of these receptions, the pontifical glance lighted, on entering, on a dark gaunt Titan seamed with concealed pain, who was accompanied by a quiet fastidious English lady (wife and mother), and three children, two glorious girls and a proud shy English boy. They were a typical group, typical of all that is best,—trial, culture, moderate success, and English quality. Hadrian at once shook hands with them.

"Please wait till the others are gone," He said; and passed on to a cocky little gentleman with a pink eye, and a plump bare-faced party who tried to stand easily in the cross-legged pose of the male photograph of 1864. These sank to their knees, but stood up again at a word.

"Well, Holy Father, who would have thought," etcetera, from the first; and "Oh, I'm sure I shall never dare to call Your Holiness 'Boffin' again" from the second.

"Yes you do," replied Hadrian; and gave them a blessing, to which the plump one nervously responded,

"Quite so, I'm sure, as it were!"

Another couple kneeled, a weird brief-bodied man in a pince-nez and a small suppressed woman with beautiful short-sighted eyes. They were raised; and the man would chatter like a hail-storm, wittily and with Gallic gesticulation, and quite insincerely. They were blessed; and the Pontiff went-on (with some elevation of gait) to the others.

When the audience was over a slim gentleman in scarlet, with the delicate pensive beauty of a St. John the Divine by Gian Bellini, conducted the English family to the apostolic antechamber. Here Hadrian offered them some fruit and wine; and shewed them the view from the windows.

"Now perhaps Mrs. Strong would like to see the garden," He presently said.

It was a very happy thought. His Holiness carried His little yellow cat, and they all went down together; and strolled about the woods and the box-alleys and the vineyards. They picked the flowers; and the children picked the fruit. They admired the peacocks: and rested on white marble hemicycles in the sun-flecked shade of cypresses; and they talked of this, that, and the other, as well as these and those. A chamberlain came through the trees, and delivered a small veiled salver to the gentleman who followed the pontifical party at fifty paces. At the moment of departure he came near. The salver contained five little crosses of gold and chrysoberyls set in diamonds. Three were elaborate and two severely plain. Hadrian presented them to His guests.

"You will accept a memorial of this happy day; and of course" (with that rare dear smile of His) "you will not expect the Pope to give you anything but popery. Good-bye, dear friends, good-bye."

"How He has improved!" said the dark girl, as they went out.

"O mother, and did you see the buckles on His shoes!" said the fair one.

"I call Him a topper," said the boy.

"He isn't a bit changed," said the wife to the silent husband.

"I think that He has found His proper niche at last," the great man answered.

Percy Van Kristen arrived; and was brought into the secret chamber. Though only a little over thirty, he looked as old as Hadrian. The glowing freshness of his olive-skin had faded: but his superb eyes were as brightly expectant and his small round head as cleanly black as ever. He looked tired, but wholesome; and he was immaculately groomed. The Pope said a few words of greeting and of remembrance; and asked him to speak of himself. Van Kristen was shy: but not unwilling. Leading questions elicited that he was one of that pitiable class of men for whom the gods have provided everything but a career. Majority had brought him three-quarters of a million sterling. There was no necessity for him to go into commerce. Politics were impossible for respectable persons. He was too old for the services. The fact was, he had not the natural energy which would have hewn out a career—a career in the worldly sense—for himself; and by consequence, the world had shoved him aside on to the shelf of objects whose functions are purely decorative. His mode of life was that of a man of fashion, simple, exquisite. Perhaps he read a great deal; and, of course, his home took up most of his time—but that was a secret. Hadrian deftly extracted from him that he had founded and was maintaining a home for a hundred boys of his city, where he provided a complete training in electrical engineering and a fair start in life. His splendid eyes glittered as he spoke of this. It seemed that he had kept his own world in entire ignorance of his ardent effort to be useful; and one naturally enjoys talking of one's own affairs when the proper listener at last is encountered. No: he never had felt inclined to marry and rear a family of his own. He did not think that that sort of thing was much in his line. Yes: after leaving Oxford, he had had some thoughts of the priesthood. But Archbishop Corrie had laughed him out of that. He was not clever enough for the priesthood. That was the real truth, in his private opinion. Oh yes, he would like it very well,—as much as anything: but really he hardly felt himself equal to it. He didn't want to seem to push himself forward in any way. Yes: the Dynam House could get on quite well without him. They were fortunate in having a capable manager whom every one liked; and his own share didn't amount to much more than playing fives with the boys, and paying the bills, and finding out and getting all the latest dodges. If he could run over and look round the place, say twice a year, say two months in the year, he was quite willing to take up his abode with Hadrian, if His Holiness really wanted him. As a cardinal-deacon? Oh, that would be a daisy! But—sorry: he never did understand chaff. Hadrian was serious. Van Kristen's grand virginal eyes attentively considered the Pontiff. Then, with that strangely courtly gracious manner which was his natural gift, (and due to the perfect proportion of his skeleton), contrasting so weirdly with the normal nasality of his speech, he said

"Wal: I expect I won't be much good to You: but You're the master; and, if You really want me, I guess I'll have a try."

And he went straight into retreat at the Passionists' on the Celian Hill.

CHAPTER VII

"The key to all your difficulties, present and to come, is Love." Hadrian was at His old self-analytical games again; and the aphorism, which He had gleaned in the most memorable confession of His lifetime, suddenly came back to Him. He went over a lot of things once more. He was convinced that, so far, He did not even know what Love was. People seemed to like Him. Up to a point there were certain people whom He liked. But, Love—— He admitted to Himself that men mostly were quite unknown to Him. Perhaps that was His fault. Perhaps He could not get near enough to them to love them simply because He did not admit them to sufficient intimacy—did not study them closely enough. That was a fault which could be mended. He summoned His fifteen cardinals to spend an hour with Him in the Vineyard of Leo. The day was a glorious Roman day of opening summer. The Pope desired to use Their Eminencies for the discussion of affairs, to sharpen His wits against theirs, to pick their brains in order to assist in the formation of His Own opinions.

Gentilotto gently remarked that, if His Holiness would state a case, they would do their best to help Him. He designated the renunciation of the temporal power; and struck them dumb. Of course, in most of their own minds, they disapproved of it. It had shocked them. One and all of them had been brought up in the fatuous notion that the success of the Church was to be gauged by the extent of Her temporalities. An idea of that species, especially when it is inherited, is not dug-up by the roots and tossed-out in a moment, even by a Pontifical Bull. Hadrian understood that His supporters (as well as His opponents) disliked that audacity of His.

"Holiness, we don't presume to condemn it: but we don't praise it. Yet You must have had reasons?" Fiamma at length said.

The Pope had not His reasons ready on the surface: they were fundamental. And the temper of Him used to lead Him to disguise the sacrosanct with a veil of frivolity: that is to say, when His arcana seemed likely to be violated, He was wont to divert attention by some gay paradox or witticism. A little roguish glimmer lit His thin lips; and a suspicion of a merry little twinkle came in the corners of His half-shut eyes.

"Once upon a time We used to know a certain writer of amatory novels. The sentimental balderdash, which he put into the mouths of his marionettes (he only had one set of them), influenced Us greatly. He had a living to get. He thought He could get it by recommending the Temporal Power. He was a very clever worldly Catholic indeed: but the arguments, which he produced in so vital a matter as the earning of his living, were so sterile and so curatical, that We summed up the Temporal Power as negligible. Then there was the disgracefully spiteful tone of the Catholic newspapers—gloating over the misfortunes of hard-working well-meaning people, prophesying revolution and national bankruptcy for this dear Italy, and so on. Well: Our sympathy naturally went, not to the malignant but, to the maligned. Oh yes, We had reasons."

"That is enough. One's hands obey one's head," said Sterling.

"For my part, I think that if the temporal Power is worth having it is worth fighting-for. Lord Ralph Kerrison, who's a British general, once told me that, if the Pope cares to call-upon Catholics throughout the world and order military operations, he is quite ready to throw-up his commission to-morrow and enlist in the pontifical army," Semphill asserted.

"No?" Mundo with big eyes inquired.

"Fact: I assure you," Semphill asservated.

"But is it worth fighting-for?"

"Of course, Holy Father, the possession would confer a certain status," put in Saviolli.

The Pope smiled. "'Certain'—and 'status'? Oh really!"

Talacryn was annoyed. He considered the query too sarcastic.

"His Holiness perhaps leans upon the theory that the Church never was more powerful than She is now," della Volta ventured.

"I calculate that's fact, not theory!" exclaimed Grace.

"Well then?"

"I see. In these thirty-odd years without the Temporal Power, the Church has increased in power. It might be argued on that that Temporal Power is not essential."

"Prosecute that argument, and——"

"Has anyone a theory as to what precisely is the chief obstacle in Our way here in Italy?" the Pope interpolated.

"The secret societies."

"Atheism."

"Poverty."

"Socialism."

"Corrupt politicians."

"What do we new comers know of Italy?" asked Whitehead of Leighton, who had made the last remark.

"The newspapers say——"

"The newspapers!" Carvale ejaculated. "Don't we know how the newspapers are written? Has no one of us ever contributed a paragraph? Well then——"

"Please view the question from this stand-point. On the one side, you have the Paparchy and the Kingdom, Church and State, Soul and Body. On the other, you have the enemies of those. What is necessary?"

"The destruction of the enemies."

"Or the conversion of them into friends. But how?"

"How shall two walk together unless they be agreed?" the Pope inquired.

"The Paparchy and the Kingdom are not agreed," said Courtleigh.

"Your Holiness means that they should be agreed: that they should unite forces?" Ferraio asked.

"It is Our will and Our hope to be reconciled with the King of Italy."

"But is His Majesty willing?"

"We know not: but We have shewn that We will not block the way."

"Certainly the Pope and the King together would have almost unbounded influence for good," Ferraio reflected.

"Then Your Holiness does not think the Temporal Power to be worth fighting-for?" Sterling concluded.

Hadrian's eyes no longer were half-shut. "No," He answered. "Try, Venerable Fathers, to believe that the time has come for stripping. We have added and added; and yet we have not converted the world. Ask yourselves whether we really are as successful as we ought to be: or whether, on the whole, we really are not abject and lamentable failures. If we are the latter, then let us try the other road, the road of simplicity, of apostolic simplicity. At least let us try. It's an idea; and for Our Own part We are glad to have a chance of realizing it, the idea of simplicity, going to the root of the matter."

"Your Holiness is not afraid of going too far?" inquired Talacryn.

"William Blake says that truth lies in extremes. To the humdrum champion of the so-called golden mean, (which generally is a great deal more mean than golden), that maxim is nothing less than scandalous. All the same, it is as sound as a bell, Eminency, and nowhere does it ring more soundly than in the principle of the union of Church with State."

As they were going in to dinner, Mundo whispered to Fiamma "Have we a saint or a madman for a Pope?"

"Two-thirds of the one and one-third of the other," replied the radiant Archbishop of Bologna.

After one of the receptions of English pilgrims, Hadrian privately received an unusual visitor in the last antechamber. She was brought in by a gentleman, who remained outside one of the doors during the interview, while his fellow guarded the outside of the other. It was as secret an audience as ever has been deigned to a sovereign; and it was accorded to a woman of the lower-middle class, about sixty years old, who looked like an excessively worthy cook. She flopped on her knees when the Pontiff came to her: mentioned her joints when assisted to rise; and made bones about using the chair which He placed for her. Hadrian's manner was absolutely divested of pontificality. No one would have taken him for anything but a plain Englishman, perhaps of a slightly superior type, and perhaps rather oddly attired. He spoke kindly and easily; and gradually brought His guest from a glaring twitching state of terror and obsequious joy to her honest ordinary self.

"Ee-e-h," she burbled, "but I can never tell Your 'oly Majesty what I felt when I knew that You was going to let me come and see You. Oh thank You and God bless You, Sir. And I always knew You'ld come to it. And, O 'oly Father, ain't You very 'appy to think of all the good You're doing? Just fancy that ever I should say that to Your 'igh 'oliness and me sitting on one of your own chairs. God bless You Mr. Rose, Sir, as if You was my own boy. Well now, I knew in a minute who it was that sent it me. Why 'oly Father? Why because Your 'oly 'ighness named that very amount years ago as what You'ld give me if You was paid properly. Yes 'oly Father: I've done what You wished me. I got it cheaper than we thought because it's been empty so long. Thirteen 'undred pound cash on the nail for the 'ouse: a 'undred for doing it up: four 'undred and two for furniture and things: and please 'oly Father I've brought the change."

She lugged out a great bank-bag containing one hundred and ninety-eight English sovereigns.

"Oh but, you dear good soul, you shouldn't have done that. It was all yours."

"All mine, 'oly Father? But I tell You I got it cheaper than we thought."

"Well then you see you're a hundred and ninety-eight pounds to the good. You have the house and the furniture; and, if you can get the lodgers, you're safe for life."

"If I can get lodgers, 'oly Father? Why I'm filled up, and turning them away."

"Good! Well, put that in the bank for the winter."

"But then I shall have oceans of money I've made in the summer, 'oly Father."

"Look here, Mrs. Dixon. Do you remember cooking two dinners one Christmas Day? One, we ate. The other, you carried under your apron to some carpenter who was out of work. Don't you remember who caught you pretending that you weren't spilling the gravy on your frock?"

"Oh, Mr. Rose, Sir, how You do recollect things!"

"Well now, you stinted yourself then, didn't you?"

"Well perhaps a little."

"Now don't stint yourself any more; and give away as many dinners as you like. See?"

The tears were streaming from her glaring eyes and running down her kitchen-scorched cheeks. She certainly was looking frowsy.

"See? I should think I did. Mr. Rose Sir, if I say it to Your face, saint was what I always said of You. Dear! Dear! To think of me giving way like this. Well, well, You're too good for this world, Your Majesty. Oh and I've taken the liberty of bringing you a jar of pickled samphire like what You used to fancy. I've picked it and did it up myself with my own 'ands;—and I thought perhaps You wouldn't mind 'aving this antimacassar which I've worked for You, 'oly Father. I knew all Your 'oly chairs'ld be red, because I've seen pictures of them; and I thought that the grey and the orange would brighten up a dark corner for You."

Hadrian thanked her kindly; and took her little offerings as though He prized them more than His tiara; and made her infinitely happy.

"Well now I won't detain Your Majesty, because I know there must be no end of grand people waiting about to see You, and me occupying Your time like this, 'oly Father. So I'll just ask You to pray for me and give me a blessing; and thank You Sir for all You've done for me, and I'll say a prayer for You every day as long as I'm spared."

She got on her knees: and the Pontiff blessed her. Then He said,

"When do you go back, Mrs. Dixon?"

"Well, Your 'oly Majesty, I was thinking of looking about a bit while I'm 'ere, so as to have plenty to say to the lodgers: but I can't stay more than a week longer."

Hadrian wrote on a card, The bearer, Mrs. Agnes Dixon, is Our guest. Receive and assist her. He signed it; and gave it to her, saying, "You know this place is full of lovely things, pictures and so on. And there are heaps of sacred relics in the churches. Well now, that card will admit you to see everything."

"Will they let me see the fans?"

"Which fans?"

"Them they fan You with when You're glorified?"

"Oh yes. Shew that card to the gentleman who is going to take you down stairs and tell him what you want to see."

"Will they want me to give the card up at the door?"

"No. Not if you want to keep it."

"Ah well, I'll see everything; and I'll keep the card till I'm laid out, 'oly Father. Oh what ever can I say! You'll excuse me Sir, and I'm an honest woman: but I must kiss Your 'oly Majesty's anointed 'and. Oh bless You, my dear, bless You!"

Hadrian paced through and through the apartment as soon as He was alone. "Dear good ugly righteous creature," He commented. Passing the safe in the bedroom, He let-out with His left and punched the iron door. "That's what use you are," He said; and put glycerine on His bleeding knuckles. Catching a glimpse of His face in the mirror, "Beastly hypocrite" He sneered at Himself.

Very disagreeable talk went on in Ragna's circle. The pontifical acts of Hadrian were vile enough, but His private ones were simply criminal. A Pope who asked you the hour and the date and the place of your birth, drew diagrams on paper, and then told you your secret vices and virtues, was a practisant of arts unholy. Doubtless that frightful yellow cat, which He took into the gardens every morning, was His familiar spirit. It had cursed Cacciatore in a corridor, almost articulately. Balbo, the chamberlain, was prepared to swear two things, which he had gathered from the gentlemen of the secret chamber. First, that His Holiness stood under a tap in His bedroom every morning and evening, and sometimes during the day as well. Undoubtedly that was to allay the fervence of the demon who possessed Him. Secondly, that His Holiness sat up half the night writing or reading, and yet the pontifical waste-paper basket always was empty. Not even a torn shred of paper remained. But then, the ashes in the fireplace. Ah! The disposition was to refer to lunacy, or stupidity, or knavishness, or vileness, whatsoever was novel to the understanding. The Pontiff's aggressive personality, His ostentatious inconsistency, His peculiarly ideal conception of His apostolic character, His moral earnestness, His practical and uncomfortable embodiment of His views in His conduct, caused Him to be as loathed by Ragna's set as He was loved by the nine and the six. He was accused of an anarchistical kind of enthusiasm. When He heard that, He said

"We are conservative in all Our instincts, and only contrive to become otherwise by an effort of reason or principle, as We contrive to overcome all Our other vicious propensities."