Hadrian the Seventh (Historical Novel). Frederick Rolfe
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 portentous 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 tralating, Reverend Lord, the Sacred College has elected thee to be the Successor of St. Peter. Wilt thou accept pontifically?
"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 pontifically?"
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 the 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