Front matter (continued 8)

"Of course we shall believe what you say," Semphill rather nervously intercalated. "I'm sure we believe it unsaid. We take it as said, you know. But if you could see your way to give us details, say on half a dozen points, that would be quite enough."

"The Daily Anagraph has not apologized for its latest slander," Carvale put in.

"Why should it?" George inquired.

"Well, I sent an authenticated account of what happened in the last consistory. The other papers printed it; and I should have thought the least the Daily Anagraph could have done would be——"

"Carvale, you're making a mistake. The Daily Anagraph has no personal grudge against me: although the last editor had, because I once innocently asked him whether historical accuracy came within the scope of a Radical periodical. That was years ago, at the time of the second Dreyfus case. I know that he was furious; because Bertram Blighter, the novel-man, told me that that editor in revenge was going to put me on the newspaper black-list, whatever that may be. No, it is not a personal matter, a matter in which an apology is customary. It's simply an example of the ethics of commercial journalism. The man wanted to increase the sale of his paper. I happened by chance to be before the world just then. And he took the liberty of increasing his circulation at my expense. Actually that is all. You can't (at least I don't), expect an editor, who is capable of doing such a thing, to apologize for doing it. The case of the other papers is verisimilar: except of course the Catholic Hour. That simply exists on sycophanty by sycophants for sycophantophagists, as Semphill knows."

"Yes I know," said Semphill. "And I don't allow the thing to enter my house."

"But the others—in their case it's not lurid malignance, but legal malfeasance. Did you say that they apologized?"

"No. None of those, which printed the calumnies, apologized. They just kept silence. But all the respectable papers, which had not calumniated you, printed my refutation of the Daily Anagraph."

George made a gesture of scorn, of satisfaction, of dismissal. "Then the Pope is clear;" he said. "Now I will try to tell you, as briefly as possible, what you want to know about the other person." He produced a sheaf of newspaper-cuts. He was in such a white rage at having to do what he was about to do, that he wreaked his anger on those who listened to him, piercingly eyeing them, speaking with swift fury as one would speak to foes. "The Catholic Hour states that in 1886 I was under an under-master at Grandholme School: that I had to leave my master-ship because I became Catholic. That is true in substance and absolutely false in connotation. I was an under-master: but as I also had charge of the school-house, I was called the house-master. You also perhaps may be aware that there is only one head-master in a school; and that all the rest are under-masters. But, when slander is your object, 'under-master' is a nice disgraceful dab of mud to sling at your victim for a beginning. Well: I resigned my house-mastership of my own free and unaided will for the reason alleged; and I have yet to learn that the becoming Catholic is an extraordinarily slimy deed. Further, note this, far from my resignation being the dishonourable affair which the Catholic Hour implies, the head-master of Grandholme School remained my dear and intimate and honoured friend through thick and thin, for more than twenty years, and is my only dear and intimate friend at this moment."

Semphill and Carvale looked up, and then down. Sterling looked down, down. Van Kristen looked up. The others, anywhere. Talacryn looked annoyed. The taunt was flung out; and the flying voice went-on. "The Catholic Hour thus casts its diatribe in a key of depreciation. Next, I am said to have gone to a school for outcasts, to have quarrelled with the two priest-chaplains; and presently to have been 'again out.' The idea being to infer evil, it is rather cleverly done in that statement of the case. But here are the facts. The school perhaps might be called a school for outcasts. But I, a young inexperienced Catholic of six months, was lured by innumerable false pretences, on the part of the eccentric party who offered me the post, to accept what he called the Head-mastership of a Cathedral Choir School. He did not tell me that he was forcing the establishment on the bishop of the diocese, nor that the Head-mastership had been refused by several distinguished priests simply on account of the impossible conditions. I bought my experience. That I quarrelled with the chaplains is quite true. I did not quarrel effectually though. They were a Belgian and a Frenchman. They drank themselves drunk on beer, out of decanters, chased each other round the refectory tables in a tipsy fight, defied my authority and compelled the ragamuffins of the school to do the same. I naturally resigned that post as quickly as possible. Then follows a pseudo-history of the beginning of my ecclesiastical career at Maryvale. Talacryn knows all about that; and can tell you at your leisure. Afterwards, I came across, (I am quoting), 'came across a certain Pictish lairdie, and was maintained by him for three or four months——'"

"And I know all about that," Semphill interrupted: "You gave a great deal more than you got."

"The fallacies connected with my career at and expulsion from St. Andrew's College are known?"

"Thoroughly," assented Semphill, Talacryn, and Carvale in a breath.

"The statement that I contracted large debts there——"

"What about those debts?" Ragna asked.

Carvale told him. "They all were contracted under the personal supervision of the Vice-Rector. They were quite insignificant. Besides that, they would not have been contracted but for the promise of Archbishop Smithson and the advice of Canon Dugdale——"

"And the advice of me," Semphill added in a low tone.

"Oh, you at length acknowledge it?" George fiercely thrust at him.

"Yes, I acknowledge it."

"Well then, we're quits now:" George quietly and mysteriously mewed.

"One confesses that the question of the pseudonym interests one," Sterling judicially said.

"I had half-a-dozen. You see when I was kicked out from college, without a farthing or a friend at hand, I literally became an adventurer. Thank God Who gave me the pluck to face my adventures. I was obliged to live by my wits. Thank God again Who gave me wits to live by."

Cardinal Leighton was standing-up, blinking and blushing with indignation which distorted his honest placid features. "Holy Father, don't say another word." He twitched round towards his fellow-collegians. "How can you torture the man so!" he cried. "Can't you see what you're doing, wracking the poor soul like this, pulling him in little pieces all over again? Shame on ye!—Holy Father don't say another word."

"Oh if I had only known!" cried Van Kristen.

"You did! I told you myself; and you didn't believe me!" George fulminated.

The youngest cardinal wept into his handkerchief, shaking with sobs. George neither saw nor noted anyone. He was glaring like a python. Demurrers to Leighton's remarks arose. No one wanted to wrack anybody. Questions had been invited. Of course no one believed. But it would be so much more satisfactory—Ragna added. George sat violently still in his chair while they talked: let them talk; and prepared to resume.

"If Your Holiness would condescend——" Carvale began.

"There is no Holiness here," George interrupted, in that cold white candent voice which was more caustic than silver nitrate and more thrilling than a scream.

"If you would do us the favour of just noticing a few heads."

"As you please," George chucked at him: "agree among yourselves as to those heads; and you shall have bodies and limbs and finger-nails and teeth to fit them."

Their Eminencies began agreeing. George meanwhile went into the secret chamber for ten minutes or so: and returned with his cat on his neck, and his own tobacco-pouch. He was beginning a cigarette; and his gait was the gait of a challenged lion. Sterling presented him with a pencilled slip of paper. He read aloud "Pseudonym: begging letters: debts: luxurious living: idleness: false pretences as to means and position."

"I think it right to say that I myself am perfectly satisfied on all those points," said Semphill. "I've read the calumnies—and I call them dastardly calumnies—in the light of my own knowledge of the facts; and I can only say that the worst thing which they've alleged against you is that you've been used to go-about bilking landlords. All the rest is excusable, not to say harmless."

"Gracious Heavens!" George exclaimed in a rictus of rage. "Do you suppose that a man of my description goes-about bilking landlords for the sake of the fun of the thing? It's no such deliriously jolly work, I can tell you. However, I've never bilked any landlords if that's what you want to know. Never. They saw that I worked like nineteen galley-slaves; and they offered to trust me. I voluminously explained my exact position and prospects to them. I was foolish enough to believe that you Catholics would keep your promises and pay me for the work which I did at your orders. So I accepted credit. I wish I had died. When at length I was defrauded, legally, mind!—for, as my employers were Catholics and sometimes priests, I trusted to their honour, and obtained no stamped agreement:—when I was defrauded of my wages, my landlords lost patience (poor things—I don't blame them,) harried me, reproached me, at length turned me out, and so prevented me from paying them. I dug myself out of the gutter with these bare hands again and again; and started anew to earn enough to pay my debts. Debts! They never were off my chest for twenty years, no matter what these vile liars say. Debts! They say that I incurred them for luxurious living, unjustifiably——"

His passionate voice subsided: he became frightfully cool and tense and terse, analytical, quite merciless to himself. Their Eminencies never before had seen a surgical knife at work in a human heart and brain. They sat all vigilant and attentive, as self-dissection proceeded. "They say that I gorged myself with sumptuous banquets at grand hotels. Once, after several days' absolute starvation, I got a long earned guinea; and I went and had an omelette and a bed at a place which called itself a grand hotel. It wasn't particularly grand in the ordinary sense of the term; and my entertainment there cost me no more than it would have cost me elsewhere, and it was infinitely cleaner and tastier. They say that I ate daintily, and had elaborate dishes made from a cookery book of my own. The recipes, (there may have been a score of them,) were cut-out of a penny weekly, current among the working classes. The dishes were lentils, carrots, anything that was cheapest, cleanest, easiest, and most filling—nourishing—at the price. Each dish cost something under a penny; and I sometimes had one each day. As I was living on credit, I tried to injure no one but myself. That's the story of my luxurious living. Let me add though that I was extravagant, in proportion to my means, in one thing. Whenever I earned a little bit, I reserved some of it for apparatus conducing to personal cleanliness, soap, baths, tooth-things, and so on. I'm not a bit ashamed of that. Why did I use credit? Because it was offered: because I hoped: because—— That I did not abuse it you may see, actually see, by my style of living,—here are the receipted bills;—and by the number and quantity and quality of the works of my hands. I never was idle. I worked at one thing after another. The Catholic Hour admits my skill; and mispresents that as a crime. At the same time, I myself don't claim my indefatigability as a virtue. Nothing of the kind. It's something lower than that. It's comical to say it: but my indefatigability was nothing but a purely selfish pose, put-on solely to make philanthropists look unspeakably silly, to give the lie direct to all their idiotic iniquitous shibboleths. It wasn't that I couldn't stop working: but that I wouldn't. The fact is that I long, I burn, I yearn, I thirst, I most earnestly desire, to do absolutely nothing. I am so tired. I have such a genius for elaborate repose. But convention always alleges idleness, or drunkenness, or lechery, or luxury, to be the causa causans of scoundrelism and of poverty. That's a specimen of the 'Eidola Specus,' the systematizing spirit which damns half the world. People never stop to think that there may be other causes—that men of parts become rakes, or scoundrels, or paupers, for lack of opportunity to live decently and cleanly. Look at François Villon, and Christopher Marlowe, and Sir Richard Steele, and Leo di Giovanni, and heaps of others. Well: I resolutely determined that you never righteously should allege those things of me. Simply to deprive you of that excuse for your failure to do your duty to your neighbour—simply to deprive you of the chance of classifying me among the ruck which your neglect has made—I courted semi-starvation and starvation, I scrupulously avoided drink, I hardly ever even spoke civilly to a woman; and I laboured like a driven slave. No: I never was idle. But I was a most abject fool. I used to think that this diligent ascetic life eventually would pay me best. I made the mistake of omitting to give its due importance to the word 'own' in the adage 'Virtue is its own reward.' I had no other reward, except my unwillingly cultivated but altogether undeniable virtue. A diabolic brute once said to me 'If I had your brains I would be earning a thousand a year.' I replied 'Take them: tell me what to do: give me orders, and I implicitly will obey you. Then, take that thousand a year, and give me two hundred; and I'll bless you all my days.' He said nothing; and he did nothing. He was just a fatuous liar. I mocked him: caught him stealing my correspondence—there is his written confession;—and, he wrote these anonymous calumnies in long cherished revenge." The dreadful lambent voice flickered for a moment;—and more rapidly flashed-on. "I repeat, I never was idle. I did work after work. I designed furniture, and fire-irons. I delineated saints and seraphim, and sinners, chiefly the former: a series of rather interesting and polyonomous devils in a period of desperate revolt. I slaved as a professional photographer, making (from French prints) a set of negatives for lantern-slides of the Holy Land which were advertised as being 'from original negatives'—'messing about' the Catholic Hour elegantly denominates that portion of my purgatory. Well I admit it was messy, and insanitary within the meaning of the act too—but then you see I was working for a Catholic. I did journalism, reported inquests for eighteen pence. I wrote for magazines. I wrote books. I invented a score of things. Experts used to tell me that there was a fortune waiting for me in these inventions: that any capitalist would help me to exploit them. They were small people themselves, these experts,—small, in that they were not obliged to pay income tax: they had no capital to invest: but they recommended me, and advised me, to apply to lots of people who had:—gave me their names and addresses, dictated the letters of application which I wrote. I trusted them, for they were 'business men' and I knew that I was not of that species. I quieted my repugnance; and I laid invention after invention, scheme after scheme, work after work, before capitalist after capitalist. I was assured that it was correct to do so. I despised and detested myself for doing it. I scoured the round world for a 'patron.' These were my 'begging letters.'—At that time I was totally ignorant of the fact that there are thousands of people who live by inviting patronage; and that most of them really have nothing to be patronized: while the rest are cranks. I knew that I had done such and such a new thing: that I had exhausted myself and my resources in doing it: that my deed was approved by specialists who thoroughly knew the subject. I was very ashamed to ask for help to make my invention profitable: but I was quite honest—generous: I always offered a share in the profits—always. I did not ask for, and I did not expect, something for nothing. I had done so much; and I wanted so little: but I did want that little,—for my creditors,—for giving ease to some slaves of my acquaintance. I was a fool, a sanguine ignorant abject fool! I never learned by experience. I still kept on. A haggard shabby shy priestly-visaged individual, such as I was, could not hope to win the confidence of men who daily were approached by splendid plausible cadgers. My requests were too diffident, too modest. I made the mistake of appealing to brains rather than to bowels, to reason rather than to sentiment. I wanted hundreds, or thousands—say two: others wanted and got tens and hundreds of thousands. A cotton-waste merchant could not risk fifteen-hundred on my work, although he liked me personally and said that he believed in the value of my inventions: but, at the same time, he cheerfully lost twelve-thousand in a scheme for 'ventilated boots.' I myself was wearing ventilated boots, then: but the ventilated-boot man wore resplendent patent leather Cardinals' secretaries could live at the rate of two-thousand-two-hundred-and-ninety pounds a year and borrow three-thousand-and-sixty pounds, on a salary of two-hundred pounds a year; and they could become bankrupt for four-thousand-one-hundred-and-twenty pounds with one-hundred-and-eighty pounds worth of assets. But I,—I could not get my due from that man, one of whose secretaries wrote his business to me on the franked note-paper of the late Queen of England's Treasury: while the other, the bankrupt, gave me a winter of starvation, because his lord had altered his mind, quoth he, about the job on which I was working, and had determined to put his money into a cathedral. No. I never accomplished the whole art and mystery of mendicity. I perfectly could see what was required of him who would be a successful swindler. I was not that one. I was playing another kind of game—unfortunately an honest one. Take that 'unfortunately' for irony, please. I mean—but you perfectly know what I mean.—I made nothing of my inventions. By degrees, I had the mortification of seeing others arrive at the discovery which I had made years before. They contrived to turn it into gold and fame. That way, one after another of my inventions became nulled to me. I think I am right in saying that there are only four remaining at the present moment. Finance them now? Engage in trade like a monk or a nun? No. No. I shall give them to—that doesn't matter. It shall be done to-day.—Idle? Idle? When I think of all the violently fatuous frantic excellent things I've done in the course of my struggles for an honest living—ouf! It makes me sick! Oh yes, I have been helped. God forgive me for bedaubing myself with that indelible blur. I had not the courage to sit-down and fold my hands and die. A brute once said that he supposed that I looked upon the world as mine oyster. I did not. I worked; and I wanted my wages. When they were withheld, people encouraged me to hope on; and offered me a guinea for the present. I took the filthy guinea. God forgive me for becoming so degraded. Not because I wanted to take it: but because they said that they would be so pained at my refusal. But one can't pay all one's debts, and lead a godly righteous sober life for ever after on a guinea. I was offered help: but help in teaspoonfuls: just enough to keep me alive and chained in the mire: never enough to enable me to raise myself out of it. I asked for work, and they gave me a guinea,—and a tacit request to go and agonize elsewhere. My weakness, my fault was that I did not die murdered at Maryvale, at St. Andrew's College. The normal man, treated as I was ill-treated, would have made no bones whatever about doing so. But I was abnormal. I took help, when it was offered gently. I'm thankful to say that I flung it back when it was offered charitably, as the Bishop of Claughton offered it, and Monsignor—you know whom I mean, Talacryn,—and John Newcastle of the Weekly Tabule. I'll tell you about the last. He said that, being anxious to do me a good turn, he had deposited ten pounds with a printer-man, who would be a kind friend to me, and would consult me as to how that sum could be expended in procuring permanent employment for me. I took seven specimens of my handicraft to that printer-man. He admired them: offered me a loan of five pounds on their security. With that, I fulfilled a temporary engagement. Then I consulted the printer-man, the 'kind friend.' He proposed to give me a new suit of clothes, (I was to do without shirts or socks), to accept my services at no salary, and to teach me the business of a printer's reader for three months; and, then, to recommend me for a situation as reader to some other printer. But, I said, why waste three months in learning a new trade when I already had four trades at my fingers' ends? But, I said, what was I to live on during those three months? But, I said, what certainty was there at the end of those three months? But, he said, that he would 'have none of' my 'lip, for' he 'knew all' my 'capers'; and he bade me begone and take away my drawings. Those were ruined: he had let them lie on his dirty office floor for months. Oh I admit that I have been helped—quite brutally and quite uselessly. Helped? Yes. Once, when they told me at the hospital that I was on the verge of a nervous collapse, a Jesuit offered to help me. He would procure my admission to a certain House of Rest, if I would consent to go there. By the Mercy of God I remembered that it was a licensed madhouse, where they imprisoned you by force and tortured you. Fact! There had been a fearful disclosure of their methods in the P.M.G. Well: I refused to go. Rather than add that brand to what I had incurred through being Catholic, I made an effort of will; and contrived to escape that danger: contrived to recover my nerves; and I continued my battle.—Regarding my pseudonyms—my numerous pseudonyms—think of this: I was a tonsured clerk, intending to persist in my Divine Vocation, but forced for a time, to engage in secular pursuits both to earn my living and to pay my debts. I had a shuddering repugnance from associating my name, the name by which I certainly some day should be known in the priesthood, with these secular pursuits. I think that was rather absurd: but I am quite sure that it was not dishonourable. However, for that reason I adopted pseudonyms. I took advice about adopting them: for, in those days, I used to take advice about everything, not being man enough to act upon my own responsibility. Also, the idea of using pseudonyms was suggested to me; and the first one was selected for me. As time went on, and Catholic malfeasance drove me from one trade to another—for you know—Talacryn—Carvale—Semphill—Sterling—that two excellent priests declared in so many words that they would prevent me from ever earning a living—legal assassination, you see definitely was contemplated—I say as Catholic malfeasance drove me from one trade, I invented another, and another; and I carried on each of these under a separate pseudonym. In fact I split up my personality. As Rose I was a tonsured clerk: as King Clement, I wrote and painted and photographed: as Austin White, I designed decorations: as Francis Engle, I did journalism. There were four of me at least. I always have thought it so inexplicable that none of the authorities—you, Talacryn, with your pretended confidence in me and your majestic immobility towards me,—that none of you ever realized the tremendous amount of energy which was being expended, misdirected, if you like. Certainly no one of you ever made a practical attempt to direct that energy. I was a like a wild colt careering round and round a large meadow. You all looked on and sneered 'Erratic!' Of course I was erratic, for you all did your very best, by stolidity, hints, insinuations, commands, to create obstacles over which I had to jump, through which I had to tear a way; and there was no one to bit and bridle me, to ride me, and to share his couch with me. And of course my pseudonymity has been misunderstood by the stupid, as well as mispresented by the invidious. Most people have only half developed their single personalities. That a man should split his into four and more; and should develop each separately and perfectly, was so abnormal that many normals failed to understand it. So when 'false pretences' and similar shibboleths were shrieked, they also took alarm and howled. But, there were no false pretences. I told my name to everyone whom it concerned. I am not the only person who has traded under pseudonyms or technikryms. Take, for example, the man whose shop I am said to have offered to buy. He himself used a trade-name. He begged for my acquaintance when I was openly living as a tonsured clerk, about a couple of years before my first pseudonym even was thought of. Take, for another example, those priests, Fr. Aleck of Beal, and the Order of Divine Love, who are alleged to have 'charitably maintained' me. By the way, they never did that. They always were paid for my entertainment, in hard coin, and their own price—always. And the Fathers of Divine Love refused me shelter for one night in 1892 at the very time when they are said to have 'charitably maintained' me. They did suggest a common lodging-house at fourpence, though; and I flung back the suggestion in their faces and walked the streets all night. But all these people knew all about me and my pseudonyms. In fact, the very priest who suggested the common lodging-house, was the man on whose advice I adopted my first pseudonym. It was invented by an old lady who chose to call herself my grandmother: she was that priest's patron and penitent. It was approved by him and adopted by me. And there you have the blind and naked truth on that point. It now is pretended that 'King Clement' was a jesuitical machiavellian device of mine, implying royalty, dominions, wealth, and interminable nonsense. I think that the pretension is due to malice and imbecillity. It is malignant now: but I firmly believe that it began by being imbecile. I confess that the name, taken together with my domineering manner, my pedantic diction, my austere and (shall I say) exclusive habit, was liable to misconstruction by the low coarse half-educated uncultured boors among whom I lived. It's an example of the 'Eidola Fori,' the strange power of words and phrases over the mind. I think it really was believed, in some vague way, that I was an exiled sovereign or some rot of that sort. I believe that I perceived it; and laughed to myself about it. But I did my best to disabuse the fools of their foolery. That made things worse. Liars themselves, they could not conceive of a man speaking truth to his own detriment. My disclaimer was taken for a lie; and they honoured me the more for it; and chuckled at the thought of their own perspicacity:—that is to say, when what I said was intelligible to them. You see I used to be a great talker. I have had many experiences; and I used freely to talk of them. It amused and instructed; and I like to amuse and to instruct. You will understand that my voice and my manner of speech did not resemble the voice and the manner of speech of the ruffians with whom I worked and lived. Live as poorly as I would, dress as shabbily as I would, the moment I opened my mouth I was discovered to be different to those people. They perceived it; and I never could disguise my speech. Also, I'm quite sure that they could not understand my speech—follow my argument. I used words which were strange to them to express ideas unimagined by them, while their half-developed minds were more than half occupied, not in listening to me but, in contemplating me, and in trying to form their particular idea of me by the aid of the 'Vulgi sensus imperiti,' the imperfection of undisciplined senses, at their disposal. I called that Imbecillity. Perhaps Ignorance is the apter term. The Malice is to be found among people who ought to know better: people to whom I have told the exact truth about myself, exact at the time of telling: people, who being possessed by a desire to think evil, think evil: people who read between, instead of on, the lines: people, prone to folly, whom I have not helped to avoid their predilection. I tried to be simple and plain, to sulk (if you like) in my own corner by myself. It was no good. Anyhow, I told no tales of realms or wealth as mine. I made no false pretences. I myself was grossly deceived: barbarously man-woman-and-priest-handled. I was foolish to try to explain myself. I was foolish to try to work with, to live with, to equal myself in every respect with, verminous persons within the meaning of the act. I ought to have died. But I did not die. That is all. It is not half. Now you know. Make what you please of it."

"Tell me," Gentilotto instantly said: "Why did you never go to the Trappists?"

"Because I went to something worse, to something infinitely terribly more ghastly. Trappists live in beautiful silent solitude; they have clean water, beds, regular meals, and peace. I went to live in intellectual silence and solitude in an ugly obscene mob, where clean water was a difficulty, food and a bed an uncertainty, and where I had the inevitable certainty of ceaseless and furious conflict."

He hurled the words like javelins, and drew back in his chair. The old bitter feeling of disgust with himself inspired him. He feared lest perhaps he might have seemed to be pleading for sympathy. So he angrily watched to detect any signs of a wish to insult him with sympathy. But he really had gone far, far beyond the realm of human sympathy. There was not a man on the earth who would have dared to risk rebuff, to persist against rebuff, to soar to him with that blessed salve of human sympathy—for which,—underneath his armour,—and behind his warlike mien,—he yearned. Pity perhaps, horror perhaps, dislike perhaps, might have met him. But he only had emphasized his own fastidious aloofness. He had cleared-off the mire: but he had disclosed the cold of marble, not the warmth of human flesh.

The cardinals remained silent for a minute. Then Ragna said "'An enemy hath done this!' Who is it?"

George blazed with vigorous candid delight. "That is the first genuine word which I have had from the heart of Your Eminency!"—He returned to his repellent manner. "I gave the names of my calumniators to Cardinal Leighton."

"Jerry Sant the Liblab, aided by the woman and a clot of worms who had turned;" Leighton said to Ragna.

"Let them be smothered in the dung-hill. Anathema sint." Ragna growled.

Again there was an exposition of silence in the throne-room. George was frozen hard and white. Ragna and Leighton continued to look at each other. Carvale's eyes had the blue brilliance of wet stars. Saviolli, Semphill, Talacryn, Whitehead, were as though they had seen the saxificous head of the Medoysa. Stirling gazed straight before him, in the manner of the sphinx carven of black basalt. George was watching them with half-shut eyes from the illimitable distance of his psychic altitude. Presently, the pure pale old face of Gentilotto and the pure pale young face of Van Kristen simultaneously were lifted; and their eyes met His. He blushed: slowly drew out the pontifical ring: and put it on His finger.

"Lord Cardinals, it is Our will to be alone:" the Supreme Pontiff said.

They came one by one and kissed His ring; and retired in silence.

CHAPTER XXII

When the door was shut, Hadrian remained quite motionless on the throne; and set Himself to review what He had said. He wondered whether He for once had got-down to and laid-bare the root of the matter: whether He for once had made His argument clear and convincing.—Good God! Who even could hope to be convincing?—He flung the thing away from Him; and for ever closed that volume of the book of His life.

He rose; and went straight into the bedroom. Here He stripped, and stood erect, knees and feet close: gripped a pair of ten-pound dumb-bells; and swung them with the alternating gesture of a right and left overhand bowler, rhythmically swaying from the hips. He counted up to a hundred; and went to another movement: a full round over-head sweep of both arms together, expanding the long-breathing lungs, quickening the pulses, brightening the eyes. His skin became moist and warm. He washed His face and hands in oatmeal-water with no soap; and went into the bath-room, turning on the high tap and letting the cold soft water rain-down upon Him until He was numbed. He quickly dried Himself; and put on completely clean clothes, rolling up those which He had discarded and thrusting them into a linen bag. Then, He emerged all flushed and white and fresh; and summoned Sir Iulo to the secret chamber.

"And so you are thinking of marriage, carino;" Hadrian said, putting the young man into a chair and bestowing fumificables.

Sir Iulo went almost as scarlet as his uniform: his eyes and teeth gleamed. Hadrian handed to him a sheet of paper containing six stanzas of passionate expression in rhyme, under the heading "Vorrei che tu ascoltassi la mia voce."

"Don't leave your sonnets about. And don't be so terrified, you silly boy. Well: is it true?"

The lover's face twitched rather. "I l-o-v-e her," he said with an enormous vocal expansion of the middle word. "But I will not to abandon You, Santità:" he added with fixed eyes.

"Who is she? Is she good? Has she any money?"

"She is the little daughter of the dentist. But good? But, yes. But no money:" was the categorical reply.

"Does she love you?"

"Oh, but how she loves me!"

"How long have you known her?"

"Since Christmas, Santità, when the father of that has scaled the my tooths."

"Have you spoken to 'the father of that' about 'that'?"

"Oh, but not yet, Santità. Nothing of less, he knows. I gave him to know without the word."

"And he didn't drive you out of the house?"

"But no: for behold me not the assassin of that dentist."

Hadrian laughed. "Can you describe her?"

"Oh that I might to describe her to one who is so dear, so wise——"

"Describe her."

"Is named Evnica. Is example of goodness, of intellectuality. For example: yesterday with the favour of the Most Holy I make a visit. I am entering the saloon in the manner of cat, softly, softly. Behold in a book reads the Signorina Evnica—not book of novels, not journal of Don Chisciotte. No. I look over her shoulder, reading titles. Behold, book of piety entitled Office to the Proximate——"

"Office to the Proximate? What book of piety is that?"

Sir Iulo repeated the title in Italian.

"Ah yes, The Duty towards our Neighbour. Yes: a very good sign in a girl. Go on."

Sir Iulo fixed his bright green eyes upon a mental image; and described each point as he observed it, using his gorgeously florid Tuscan idiom. "Has a face to make burn Jove, and to return to ram, eagle or bull; and to make scorn to medals old and new. Blond she has the hair like thread of gold. The cheeks appear like a rose damasked. The mouth and the eyes are worth a treasure. Has looks angelic, divine: but in the effects and all the motions, human; and the her excellencies not have end. She has what they call a good and fine hand: is white like snow of mountains. Is literate; and makes to talk Tuscan; and in life not a flaw can be found. There is not who better to a swan understands me. Does great things, enough facts, little eats: not drinks never in the middle of eating and not at afternoon-tea (merenda). More, I say. She is in her proper acts so learned, that all I have in the world, or small or great, I should have given to her pleasure at a stroke. The more beautiful to my day I never saw: none more servitial: none more prudent: nor acts in a girl more courteous and gay. Has Petrarch and Dante in her hand; and, at time and place if I command, she vomits a little sonnet lightly. Girl of all perfect qualities; and holds me in pledge there if mine——"

"Well now: suppose that you marry her, will you be good to her?"

"Oh, that she shall be the my life and the my delight, dressed in velvet, guarded as a queen, for fear that if she goes about too much should not be robbed by some little hypocrite: that she shall live on collops and bread of baker——"

"How amusing you are! Well: marry that paragon, and be good and happy. You must have an apartment in the City for her, you know;—and, about your duties here:—you can come when you like. You are not dismissed: but John and James will suffice. Understand, boy, you are wanted, wanted here, always."

"I am here always, Santità."

"No. Go-away and marry. 'The most certain softeners of a man's moral skin, and sweeteners of his blood, are domestic intercourse and a happy marriage and brotherly intercourse with the poor.' Always remember that. By the bye, what are you going to live on?"

"If I am always a Gentleman of Hadrian, I am having a plenty of money."

"Ah, but you always will not be a Gentleman of Hadrian, because Hadrian will not be always; and, when He is not, His successor will say 'Via! Via!' to you."

"And then I shall do some things?"

"Ah, but what things?"

"Who knows? But I shall do things."

Hadrian went to the safe in the bedroom: then to the writing-table, and wrote. He came back with some papers in His hand.

"Attend! Take this note to Plowden by the Post-office. He will give you a thousand sterling. That is a marriage-gift to you, so that you may get an apartment in the City and marry that little daughter of the dentist. Don't be silly. Listen. What do you know about photography?"

"About photography? But I know to use that kodak, the gift della Sua osservantissima e venerabilissima Santità."

"And you do it very well. You are one of the few men now alive who perceive the right moment for pressing the button. Understand?"

"I see with eyes."

"But there is something beside seeing with eyes. There is a mind which ponders and selects."

"Too much of honour."

"No. No honour at all: a stated fact. Well now: think of negatives. They are dense in places: clear in places; and, in other places, more or less dense. Understand? Under the negative you put a certain paper; and expose it to light. Light goes through the clear places and stains the paper black: it partly goes through the more or less dense places; and stains the paper grey in various gradations of tint. It fails to go through the dense places and leaves the paper white. There is your photograph, a little black a little white and many different greys. Understand?"

"Yes, Santità."

"Your photograph is an image of the form, the contours, the modelling, the morbidezza, of the object before your lens. It lacks one thing. It has not colour. The process has tralated colour into monochrome. Do you see that?"

"Yes, Santità."

"Now white means a blend of all colours; and black means the absence of all colours. Then grey should mean some colours, of this quality or that, of this quantity or that, according to the clarity or the density of the grey. Understand?"

"Yes, Santità."

"Your negative is black and white and many greys."

"Yes, Santità."

"Then understand that all colours lie hidden in the black and white and greys of the negative. In the black, lie all colours: it produces the positive white. In the white lie no colours: it produces the positive black. In the various greys, lie various colours—why are you jumping about? Keep still and listen, wriggling lizard that you are! What do you want to do?"

"To liberate those poor colours."

"So does everybody. At least, everybody wants to photograph in colours: so they paint on the backs of the films; and they play the fool with triply-coloured negatives. Only one man in the world knows that the colour already is there—already is there, my boy—stored in the black white grey negative; and that the black white grey ordinary negative will give up its imprisoned colours to him who has the key.—Well now: take the second envelope. The key's there; and it's yours. (Don't stare like that!) There are three other things as well, which may be useful. (Don't say a word!) Read all those papers until you understand them. They're quite simple. Then practise. When you can do the trick, you will want a little help to do it greatly, to make it useful. (Get off the floor!) Then take the third envelope to Plowden—it's mentioned in the first,—and he will give you two thousand sterling. (Don't touch that foot!) That will be enough if you are industrious. Now you are trusted, Iulo mio. Be good always; and be kind to everybody. No don't move. We are going into the gardens with Flavio. You stay here till you feel better.—Ptlee-bl ptlee-bl ptlee-bl," Hadrian mewed to His delighted and excited and persequent cat.

CHAPTER XXIII

It was the festival of St. George, Protector of the Ninefold Kingdom. Hadrian noted with pleasure that it was what the Italians call one of His 'fortunate days.' His head was clear, His limbs were supple, His body lithe: He felt young, exuberant, potent. His soul seemed balanced, elevated. His whole poise was one of gentle incisive simplicity. He had that upright rather dominant gait, by no means arrogant, which marks the happy able man. The Sacred College came early in the morning, directly after His mass, to congratulate Him on the anniversary of His pontificature; and Ragna took occasion to whisper that the Northern Emperor left Palazzo Caffarelli for the Quirinale at dawn. Everyone knew what that meant.

When, later, Hadrian descended in state to the Sala Regia, He was on the alert. The introducer-of-sovereigns announced,—the Ninefold King,—the President of the United States of America,—the Northern Emperor,—the Japanese Emperor,—and a posse of subsidiary kings, princes, and sovereign-dukes, who came with the world's congratulations. The pontifical paraphernalia lay on the high red throne: but Hadrian stood at its foot to receive His guests. His garb was white, absolutely simple and fresh; and His pose was apostolic, frank and genial. These enormous potentates towered above Him in the splendour of their grandeur; and, as Cardinal Carvale, the fantastic dreamer, said to Cardinal Van Kristen, they radiated from Him as from a source of light.

After the ceremony of reception was finished, Their Majesties, Augustitudes, Highnesses, and Honours, lingered, chatting with the pontifical court. Some of them had a few words with the Supreme Pontiff. The Northern Emperor came and said, "I know that Your Holiness will felicitate me on a dispatch which I have just received from my brother Prince Henry, who announces that my glorious German navy has taken Kronstadt."

Hadrian replied; and added "Be merciful, Augustitude."

William then did a politely ferocious scowl, intended to indicate imperial impatience; and continued in a lower tone, "I am also anxious to assure Your Holiness that I myself deeply regret the absence of my cousin and imperial brother, Victor Emanuel. All that I could say has been said to persuade His Augustitude to join me on this auspicious and never-to-be-forgotten occasion. I wish that to be known."

"It only is a personal obstacle, not a political, which prevents the Southern Emperor from coming here?"

"Most Holy Lord, it is not even a personal obstacle. Victor Emanuel has the most profound and much-to-be-admired and pre-eminently-well-merited veneration and reverence for Your Person. It is—well, really it seems almost childish—but he has persuaded himself that——"

"That the Roman Pontiff owes the King of Italy a visit?"

"Precisely, Holy Father. There is some history of an approach which His Augustitude's royal and martyred father made to the Conclave of 1878——"

"And for a mere idea, Victor Emanuel, will continue alienate from Us! Yet, ideas are very fine things, to be respected, to be cultivated, in this material age. They are so rare, so singular. And constancy, fidelity to an idea, above all things is singular and rare, in this age of compromise from which the world only now emerges. Victor Emanuel is not to be blamed, but praised." Suddenly a bright light came in the Apostle's eyes. "Well, then, the next step is obvious. If the son will not come to the Father, then the Father must go to the son." And an impulse to instant movement appeared to urge Him onward.

The Northern Emperor splendidly rose to the occasion. "It would be one more grand deed added to Your Holiness's many grand deeds. I trust that I may have the never-sufficiently-to-be-valued honour of accompanying You."

"But We walk:" said Hadrian.

"I also will gladly walk:" said William.

The Pope darted a rapid glance round the hall. The King of Portugal was talking to the Japanese Emperor; and the Basil of the Hellenes was listening to the Prince of Montenegro-and-New-Servia. The Ninefold King, with one arm paternally resting on the shoulder of the young King of Spain, was telling (as his own) an extremely funny story, (which he had heard five minutes before from Cardinal Semphill), to the President of America. Cardinals and sovereigns clustered round them, ploding with laughter at each admirably detailed jocosity. "We can escape this way;" the Pope said to the Emperor. Outside the hall, a pontifical page ran for the white three-cornered hat; and the two descended the Scala Regia, with its Ionic columns flanked by pontifical guards, and made their way into the Square of St. Peter's. There was a cleared roadway; and they quickly walked between long lines of magnificent Italian soldiery. Rome occupied the side-walks; and sank to its knees as the Supreme Pontiff, shedding benedictions, went swinging lightly and swiftly by. The German Gentleman made no attempt to take salutes until Hadrian said, "Oh do notice these dear Romans. They will be pleased. And you know that you profoundly admire the bersaglieri."

The Emperor responded, "I am as proud to salute the Romans as I am to salute the noblest Roman of them all,—to use the words of Your Holiness's divine Shakespeare." And he strode on, saluting, while the Pontiff blessed.

As they passed the Palazzo Venezia, Hadrian said, "Victor Emanuel really behaves extremely well. Three-quarters of his army are in the field; and here is a parcel of foreign sovereigns practically occupying his capital in—no, not homage—in courtesy to Us.——"

"And also out of respect, Holiness."

"Out of respect then and courtesy to Our Apostolature. It is no affair of his; and yet he lines the streets with troops, while he himself——oh, it's really very decent of him!"

"Victor Emanuel is a truly great man;" the Emperor commented. The Pope assented.

They entered the Palace of the Quirinale; and went straight through the ambassador's hall to the Southern Emperor's study. William remained in the antechamber. Victor Emanuel in a light-grey flannel suit was reading proofs of his numismatic catalogue. He stood up pale and stiff, when his groom-of-the-chambers came in and whispered a word. Hadrian followed on the instant, entering with candid gentle dignity, extending an English hand. Not a word was said. Victor Emanuel, shining with the light of the purple which he had not yet worn, took the outstretched hand: held it: felt his own gripped and held. He bent his head—then his knee. Reconciliation was complete.

"May I have the honour and the happiness of presenting my wife to Your Holiness?" he said, a minute later. He went along the corridor and gave two raps on a further door. "Darling," he cried; "please come."

The exquisite Empress Elena appeared. She started slightly at first: but bravely came on, imperially mysteriously pale and radiant as 'the chorus of nightly stars and the bright powers which bring summer and winter to mortals, conspicuous in the firmament.'

Hadrian at once won her with "And the lovely children."

"Oh yes, the kiddies!" Victor Emanuel said.

"Do you know that We owe one immense emotion to your boy?" and Hadrian narrated the incident in Prince Attendolo's garden.

Mother and father proudly laughed. "Yes, we heard about that, of course; and I wondered what would happen if ever we ourselves should meet Your Holiness by accident, as the children did:" the Empress said.

"Well, we have met, and now Your Augustitudes know:" laughed Hadrian.

"Filiberto is a queer little chap," Victor Emanuel continued: "he says the most extraordinary things;—came running into the stables the other morning crying because some dog had barked and startled him. 'Stamp at 'em,' I said; 'and after all, you can run faster than a dog,' said I to hearten him. 'Yes' says he 'but you see, father, when I do run, I'm always putting out one leg at the back for the dog to bite!'"

"But I can tell you something better than that," the Empress put in. "He was a bad boy in the chapel at benediction on Sunday. I'm afraid, Holiness, that this is rather a naughty story——"

"Tell it instantly and relieve your sinful soul, daughter;" the haughty pontiff commanded.

How the three roared! She continued, "He persisted in trying to balance a pile of prayer-books on the ledge of his chair-back; and every now and then they came down with a crash. At last I took him on my knee; and told him that the holy angels were looking at him, and that they would go and tell the Lord God what a wicked little ruffian he was. And then he said—he said, 'Dirty little sneaks!'"

"Oh, oh, the exquisite boy!" Hadrian shouted with laughter.

"Well, I'll go and fetch him;" said the Southern Emperor, running-out of the door, just as the Northern Emperor came-in by the other, prepared to play the part of peace-maker. That, now, was not necessary; and England, Germany, and Italy, chattered like children till the children came. Their father did not return. His men were having a bad time, trying to beat the record for getting a sovereign into his habit of ceremony.

The fair Prince Filiberto solemnly approached the Pope. "Are You the White Father which formerly I have seen in somebody's forest?"

"Yes," said Hadrian.

"Are You quite good now?" the boy continued, with great black basilic eyes.

"No," said Hadrian, feeling the horror of the end of youth confronted with the flower of innocence.

"Are You truly contrite for having been a naughty boy—no, man I mean?"

"Yes," said Hadrian.

"Are You sitting on my father's sofa because he has forgiven You?"

"Yes," said Hadrian, thinking what a frightful old fool He must appear.

"I liked You when I saw You in that forest; and I like You now: but mother told me that the White Father was not my father's friend."

"Mother made a mistake, little son;" said the Empress, leaning forward in sudden confusion. "The White Father is father's best friend."

"Oh, how I am glad for that: because now You can be also my friend!" the prince cried, scattering his deliberate English to the four quarters of the globe.

"Most willingly," said Hadrian, taking the rose-brown hand, and drawing the child towards Him. Innocence put up its pretty lips. The Apostle lost one breath;—and stooped and kissed the stainless brow. Then He turned to greet the girls.

"This child once asked my husband a very awkward question," the mother said, presenting the Princess Yolanda. "The King of England was coming here; and Victor was shewing her His Majesty's incoronation portrait. Ah, but how she admired it! And she said, 'Father why don't you wear a hat like that king?'"

The Supreme Pontiff looked at the blushing child. "You would not call it a 'hat,' Princess, now that you are grown up?"

"No, Papa Inglese,—a crown."

"You would like your father to have a crown? Tell him that there are two waiting for him, one at Monza, and another in the Lateran."

The Roman Emperors escorted the Pope returning to Vatican. On the way, carriages met them, and disgorged sovereigns: state-coaches met them, and emitted cardinals: courtiers alighted from horseback and emerged from motor-cars. The return became a procession of the powers, led by the Power of the Keys. They had crossed the Ponte Santangelo, and were about to turn to the left by the Castle, when a dishevelled man in black contrived to break out from the ranks of the people. He got through the bersaglieri and stepped into the middle of the road: pointed a revolver at Hadrian; and fired. The bullet struck His Holiness high up on the left breast, piercing the pulmonary artery just above the lung.

The slim white figure stopped—wavered—and sank down. The whole world seemed to stand still, while the human race gasped once.

A frantic woman in a fox-coloured wig pitched out of the opposite crowd; and grovelled. "Love, Love," she howled hideously: "oh and I loved him so! Oh! Oh! I really did love him. Yes I did, I did, I did, I did ..." she yelped to the sun in the firmament of heaven. The discord resembled the baying of a dog which breaks the cadence of Handel's Largo on arch-lutes.

God's Vicegerent moved,—looked at her from a distance, gently, even curiously. "Daughter, go in peace," He said and turned away. She remained there grovelling, longing to touch Him, forlorn, gorgonized.

The Roman Emperors also kneeled to right and left, fiercely looking among their aides for the help which did not come, which could not come, from man.

The assassin was in a hundred tearing hands. Screeches shot out of his gullet when they silently and inevitably began to tear him to pieces. Roman knives flashed over the parapet; and slid into Tiber: hooked hands, like the curving talons of griffins, were the weapons for this work. But the Supreme Pontiff beckoned him; and the gesture was unmistakeable—universally authoritative. Shaken and violently shaking, jagged, lacerated, a disreputable wreck of Pictish ready-made tailoring, Jerry Sant staggered forward, staggered like one fascinated. Cardinals and sovereigns drew away from him, and the mob hemmed him in.

" ... for they know not...." The Apostle raised himself a little, supported by imperial hands. How bright the sunlight was, on the warm grey stones, on the ripe Roman skins, on vermilion and lavender and blue and ermine and green and gold, on the indecent grotesque blackness of two blotches, on apostolic whiteness and the rose of blood.

"Augustitudes, Our will and pleasure is——"

"Speak it, Most Holy Father——"

"Augustitudes, We name you both the ministers of this Our will." And to the murderer He said, "Son, you are forgiven: you are free."

Down Borgo Nuovo came guards, chamberlains, curial prelates, cardinals, from Vatican. The English and American cardinals took their vermilion on their arms, and ran like lithe long-limbed school-boys. The faithful young Sir John outran them all. He kneeled to Hadrian, Who said,

"Dear John, take this cross—and Flavio." The Southern Emperor unclasped the chain and rosy pectoral cross; and handed them to the gentleman-of-the-apostolic-chamber, who took them and fainted away. Out of Santo Spirito, came one with the stocks of sacred chrism. Cardinals Van Kristen and Carvale, panting, kneeled before the Ruler of the World. Percy drew out the hidden pontifical pyx: took the Sacred Host therefrom; and held It. "The profession of faith, Most Holy Lord," he bravely whispered.

"I believe all that which Holy Mother Church believes. I ask pardon of all men. Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge but a Saviour."

Cardinal Sterling gravely intoned the commendation of a Christian soul. The splendid company of angels, the senate of apostles, the army of white-robed martyrs, the lilied squadron of shining confessors, the chorus of joyful maids, patriarchs, hermits, Stephen and Lawrence, Silvester and Gregory, Francis and Lucy and Mary Magdalene, Mary—God's Own Mother, all the saints of God who daily are invited to attend the passing of the poorest Christian soul, were invoked for the Father of Princes and Kings. "And mild and cheerful may the Aspect of Christ Jesus seem to thee——" The singer's voice failed. Cardinal Carvale went on with no interval: imparted absolution, and the sacrament of the dying. "Saints of God advance to help him: Angels of The Lord come to meet him, receiving his soul, offering it in the Sight of The Most High." The splendour of mortal words reverberated from the ancient fortress wall, in the great silence of Immortal Rome.

When the Earthly Vicar of Jesus Christ had received Extreme Unction and Viaticum, when He had had done for Him all that which Christ's Church can do, He required to be lifted on His feet. The Roman Emperors rose, raising Him. The vehement ferocity of their aspect terribly contrasted with their tender movement. The torments of powerless power, of intimidation inflicted in the supreme moment of exultation, rent these grand strong men—and graced them. The blood-stain streamed down the Pope's white robes with the red stole of universal jurisdiction. The slender hand with the two huge rings ascended. The shy brown eyes fluttered; and were wide, and very glad. Then the tired young voice rang like a quiet bell.

"May God Omnipotent, ✠ ✠ ✠ Father, ✠ ✠ ✠ Son, ✠ ✠ ✠ and Holy Ghost, bless you."

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

The hand and the dark eyelashes drooped, and fell. The delicate fastidious lips closed, in the ineffable smile of the dead who have found out the Secret of Love, and are perfectly satisfied.

So died Hadrian the Seventh, Bishop, Servant of the servants of God, and (some say) Martyr. So died Peter in the arms of Caesar.

The world sobbed, sighed, wiped its mouth; and experienced extreme relief.

The college of Cardinals summed Him up in the brilliant epigram of Tacitus. 'Capax imperii nisi imperâsset.' He would have been an ideal ruler if He had not ruled.

Religious people said that He was an incomprehensible creature. And the man on the motor said that the pace certainly had been rather rapid.

Pray for the repose of His soul. He was so tired.

Feliciter

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