Hadrian the Seventh — A Reader’s Guide
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iness. 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.
From its opening sentence, Frederick Rolfe's 'Hadrian the Seventh' establishes a narrator who measures exhaustion in precise, bodily terms: 'In mind he was tired, worn out, by years of hope deferred, of loneliness, of unrewarded toil.' The protagonist's physical pain—'the pain of an arm on the tenth day of vaccination'—is rendered as a personal affront, and his response ('Some one will have to be made miserable for this') signals a voice that blends petulance with grandiosity. Rolfe's prose is dense with specific objects: a shabby brocade armchair, an Antiquarian drawing-board, a yellow cat named Flavio. These details ground the narrative in a material world that feels both intimate and eccentric.
A Voice of Archaic Precision
Rolfe's diction is deliberately archaic and idiosyncratic. The protagonist compiles a 'private dictionary' of Greek and Latin words, forming English adjectives like 'hybrist' from ὑβριστής. This lexical self-consciousness mirrors the author's own style: sentences are often periodic, laced with parenthetical asides and classical allusions. The narrator refers to 'Sophokles' denunciation' and quotes Gabriele d'Annunzio, signaling a mind steeped in high culture. Yet the tone can shift abruptly to colloquial irritation, as when the protagonist mutters about his toothache. This juxtaposition of erudition and petulance creates a distinctive, often jarring, narrative voice.
Dialogue as Theological Jousting
The excerpts from later chapters show dialogue that is less conversational than forensic. Cardinals address the Pope with elaborate deference ('Holiness,' 'Your Eminency'), but their exchanges are sharp and argumentative. When Cardinal Talacryn argues that requiems for non-Catholics are 'impossible, profane, inconsistent,' the Pope counters with a preference for 'the inconsistent, rather than for that undevelopable fossil which goes by the name of consistency.' The debate unfolds through precise theological distinctions—'the tessera communionis,' 'the Clean Oblation'—yet the speakers interrupt and challenge each other. Rolfe uses these exchanges to dramatize doctrinal conflict, but also to display his own command of ecclesiastical rhetoric.
Setting as Psychological Landscape
Rolfe's descriptive choices often blur the line between external setting and internal state. The opening scene places the protagonist in a 'small low armchair' with frayed brocade, his writing board resting on his knees—a cramped, shabby environment that mirrors his mental fatigue. Later, the Pope sits on a 'great white-marble arc-shaped seat' in a garden, but his preference for marble over grass is explained by his aversion to lizards: 'their creepy-crawly jerks on grass or gravel shocked his nerves.' This detail, at once precise and eccentric, reveals a character who imposes his sensory aversions on his surroundings. The setting is never neutral; it is always filtered through the protagonist's fastidious, irritable consciousness.
The Texture of Objects and Animals
Rolfe lavishes attention on physical objects that might seem trivial. The protagonist's writing materials include 'Publishers' Dummies' filled with his archaic handwriting, a metal clip, and a drawing-board. His cat Flavio is 'the only living creature to whom he ever spoke with affection as well as with politeness.' These details do not merely establish atmosphere; they function as indices of character. The cat's presence, and the protagonist's tenderness toward it, contrasts sharply with his misanthropic pronouncements. Similarly, the 'little tables' with 'tea, goat's milk, triscuits and raisins' in the papal garden create a domestic, almost absurd, setting for high theological debate. Rolfe's eye for the concrete and the odd gives his satire a tactile immediacy.
Readers should attend to the way Rolfe's prose oscillates between lofty abstraction and petty specificity. The narrator's voice—archaic, irritable, learned—is the book's central engine. The excerpts suggest a work that is less a straightforward novel than a performance of erudition and grievance. Approach 'Hadrian the Seventh' as a satire that uses ecclesiastical settings to explore personal obsession, and be prepared for a style that demands patience and rewards attention to its peculiar rhythms.
There’s something about Rolfe’s sharp, lonely voice that stays with you long after closing the book—that ache of a man utterly convinced of his own vision. I felt a similar quiet pull with Inspector French's greatest case — Text and Context, where every careful detail seems to whisper its own hidden weight. Both linger oddly, like a half-remembered conversation.
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