Frederick Rolfe (1860–1913)

Hadrian the Seventh is a megalomaniacal fantasy in which a struggling writer (frequently taken as Rolfe’s alter-ego) is inexplicably made Pope. The book succeeds because both the fictional George Arthur Rose and the actual Frederick Rolfe are better than their respective doubles. Rose as Hadrian constructs a persona “immense, intangible, potent, detestable—and most desirable.” He masters the Roman curia with his remarkable rhetorical prowess, and very nearly secures the peace that show more would have avoided the Great War. And because we are made to feel how much Hadrian is a creation of Rose, we see that Rolfe was capable of artistic feats that Rose could only dream of. Rolfe’s prose is poignant, grandiose, hilarious and sad. I’m glad I read this. Rose’s guileless, exculpatory nine-page confession before he is appointed to the Chair of Peter is a small masterpiece.

p.s. The introduction by Alexander Theroux in the NYRB edition gives away the ending. It should be an Afterword. show less

George Arthur Rose is a staunch Catholic and a wannabe-priest, but for twenty years all his efforts to have his vocation made official have been torpedoed either by bad luck, or by bishops disinclined to put up with his difficult character and his erratic behaviour. As a result, Rose, eking out an existence as a freelance writer, has become bitter and easy (and very eager!) to take offence; he takes pride in rubbing his misfortunes in the face of those responsible precisely by ostentatiously show more not rubbing them in their face. He’s got several magnanimous monologues prepared, for when his tormentors finally see the light and apologize to him. He’s also an inveterate cat person.

So far, the story is really that of the author himself: Frederick Rolfe, the self-styled Baron Corvo, who abbreviated his first name Fr. so as to give the impression of being a priest. But then, one day, Rose gets elected pope. He takes it in stride, and sets out to become the best, most memorable, and most innovative pope ever. Also, he mews occasionally.

Hadrian the Seventh is a fun romp of a book. It’s Roman-Catholic fanfic, a delightful what-if tale that takes its silly premise and runs with it, emphatically not caring about what anyone may think. Rolfe’s pope, scrupulously exact and sternly megalomaniacal, is what the entire book hangs on, lavishing well-deserved attention on him, letting him shine in all his contradictory glory; as such, he joins my pantheon of memorable characters that transcend their book.

And it isn't just the main character -- it’s the entirety of Hadrian the Seventh that so fascinatingly walks that fine line between sincerity and satire. It is written in an elegantly baroque style that is so full of its own aloofness it almost parodies itself; its central character, so impossibly smug, is treated with the utmost gravity; and its attitudes towards women, socialists, non-Catholics and assorted nationalities are ridiculous, yet presented as such self-evidencies and taken so far that it’s hard to take them entirely seriously.

I'm not quite sure just how tongue-in-cheek this book is: is it mostly self-aware over-the-top wishful thinking with an honest desire at its core? Or does it aim to create an exaggerated but mostly honest attempt at what-if? Or was the author unaware of how self-aggrandizing the book is? Or perhaps he was and he intended it so. From what I've read, all of these are possible. (Incidentally, I've also purchased Symons' The Quest for Corvo, a biography of Rolfe (which appears to be a fêted classic in its own right), and will certainly read it.)

Whatever the case may be, Hadrian the Seventh was enormous fun to read, endlessly entertaining and more whimsical than any other book I read this year. show less

Was there ever such an example of the futility of LT's star-system? Yet, full of the love which casts-out fear (and giggling), I'm giving it a rating, because some attention needs to be paid to the multiple interests of this quirky volume. The vast majority of English-language readers, of-course, know Omar through the hundred or so quatrains of Edward Fitzgerald. That in-turn is far less a translation than an original work of English verse inspired by the Persian original. On a parallel show more track, Rolfe -- as "Frederic [sic] Baron Corvo" -- offers his take on the little-known French version by J. B. Nicolas. Nicolas knew Persian, Rolfe didn't, but that didn't prevent his creating a set of almost four-hundred brief prose pieces in praise of an Epicurean life-vision, not surprisingly coloured by his well-known homosexuality.
As philology, this volume is by no means without merit, not leastwise thanks to Edward Heron-Allen's informed comment. As an example of the art of translation from the French, it is marginal, simply because that wasn't Rolfe's intention. As prose-poetry, it's in class by itself, less for Rolfe's thought and imagery -- which are fine -- than for Rolfe's bizarre English, with his love for words of his own confection. From the very outset, we know we're in Rolfe's realm. Recall Omar/Fitzgerald's straightforward invitations and exhortations to drinker. Rolfe by contrast commits a line like "come, hilarious Philopots, enter, hybrist Youths". As I said: in a class like itself. For some of us, it's a joy. Why else would I have two copies? show less

A curiously light-hearted book. Of-course, with Rolfe, "light-hearted" is bound to have quite a rather different flavor, and so it does here. Within the first pages we are told that the original text appears to have been the diary of a priest who was stabbed in the top of the head; then follows an accidental death and a public execution. Even so, this book is power-packed with Rolfe's infectious love for the High Renaissance in Italy, and is illuminated with Rolfe's characteristic erudition show more and goofy vocabulary. There is no question that Rolfe loved this book more than most of his few completed works, and it is appropriate that he adorned it with a lovely and inventive cover-design which appears in this posthumous edition. show less