Hadrian the Seventh (Penguin Classics) by Frederick Rolfe

Author:Frederick Rolfe [Rolfe, Frederick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241313039
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

His ecstasy was admiration of the lovely little person and the noble little soul. The clean and vivid candour, the delicate proportion, the pure tint, aroused in Him a desire to own. The frank self-hood, the unerring truth, the courageous tranquillity of self-renunciation, aroused in Him a sense of emulation. He, the Supreme Pontiff, was prostrate before the seraphic majesty of the Child. And, as though a curtain had been lifted, He had a peep into the human heart. Now, He thought that He could see and understand one cause, perhaps the chief cause, of human society – the ability to say ‘This is mine, mine: for I did it’. He began to understand that the human mind must have external as well as internal operation – and much beside. As for Himself, He was making experiment of the first personal emotion of undiluted enjoyment of human society which He could remember. ‘Then I can love, after all;’ He reflected. Though He mixed freely and absolutely independently with all men, yet, in the tender inner soul of Him, He shrank more shudderingly than ever from the contact. Every single act of urbanity, of courtesy, was a violent effort to Him. His feeling for His fellow-creatures was repugnance pure and simple. But, in the case of this yellow-haired mannikin, there was a difference. He would like to own such a radiant little piece of the Divine-Human as that fair Prince Filiberto. He would appreciate the honour and the joy of tending such a treasure. But He could not seek; and it never had been offered. Perhaps He would shrink if it were offered. That was His peculiar nature. Had He ever wished to exert for intimate relations with anyone? No: plainly no. He was a thing apart. More, He was a thing to be avoided. He remembered how many times he aimlessly had strolled through London, watching His species gambolling in Piccadilly, or at the Marble Arch on a Sunday where the fierce lanky spiky sallow Anarchist raved, and the coy Catholic barrister cracked correct jests out of a shiny black exercise book, and the bright-eyed clean Church Army youth spoke with genuine conviction. He had moved through partner-seeking mobs everywhere, lazily, vigilantly, studiously: yet no one ever had addressed him. He was seen. He was avoided. Yes, He was a thing apart. That was His trouble. And – what did the boy say? – ‘I had better keep it myself’. The content of that saying was to Hadrain just like a thunderbolt. It was Love – yes, that was quintessential Love, from the clear eyes and the stainless lips of childhood – to keep one’s troubles oneself. For in that way one relieved others. And the Servant of the servants of God must – He continued to sit in the sunlight in a sort of rapture. The lake and the hills and the turquoise sky faded from His vision. He was alone with His thoughts, His ideals, His soul … After the noon angelus, He went in to His solitary meal.

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