Frederick RolfeBesprekingen

Frederick Rolfe was born in London, the son of a piano-tuner, and left school at the age of 14. Rolfe converted to Roman Catholicism and this conversion became a strongly felt desire to join the priesthood himself. Rolfe went to college in Rome but was eventually thrown out because his inability to concentrate on his priestly studies and his erratic behaviour meaning that his desire to join the priesthood was constantly frustrated and never realised. Instead Rolfe became a free-lance writer relying on benefactors for support but he had a tendency to fall out with those who tried to help and support him. He eventually died in poverty in Venice. 'Hadrian the Seventh' is Rolfe's best known novel and many regard the titular character as the author's alter-ego.

'George Arthur Rose,' having originally been rejected for the priesthood and living in poverty as a free-lance writer, finds himself the object of a highly improbable change of mind on the part of the church hierarchy, who then elect him to the papacy. Rose takes the name Hadrian VII and embarks upon a programme of ecclesiastical and geopolitical reform. Dogged by petty jealousies and scurrilous accusations Hadrian's papacy is relatively short lived.

Rolfe was himself an avowed homosexual and Hadrian like his creator soon surrounds himself with young men and abhors the presence of women and children. Hadrian thus becomes an exercise in wish-fulfilment.

It seems highly unlikely that even back in the early 20th century that the Pope would have had the influence amongst politicians that Rolfe seems to imagine that Hadrian has but in todays world this seems ridiculous. This is a rather quirky novel that has almost been totally forgotten. This wasn't a particularly easy read, the prose is grandiose, there are elements of this book that I rather enjoyed, in particular his dealings with the Socialists who were laughable, but there were also some elements that I found rather tedious. It perhaps deserves to be more widely read but in truth I wouldn't necessarily recommend it to any of my friends.½

A lone man in search of life, "He was for fresh air, open skies, and lovely loneliness". Thus Nicholas Crabbe sets out to find some taste of pleasure on a voyage into the unknown of his imagined future.

Alexander Theroux sent me here.

I’ll be reading everything by Rolfe/Corvo on which I can get my hands.

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 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.½

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 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.½

This truly is a fragment, only a few hundred words, evoking the little world of an artist's work-place in the glory days of the Florentine Rinascimento. The Sandro in question is -- aha! -- Botticelli, but the fragment is cut off before one really gets to see Rolfe describe much of anything about the agreeable but mysterious master. Too bad.

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 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.

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 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?

Idiosyncratic virtuosic wish-fulfillment.

It has been discussed to the point of nausea just how much this book is a reflection of its author, but most of the time these discussions say vastly more about the reader than about the author. Suffice it to say that I find this book an endlessly moving though eccentric search for love, and for the realization of life's purpose. As I write this, I am re-reading HADRIAN for perhaps the tenth time in half a century, and the initial astonioshment at its greatness remains unchanged. A small matter: I am frankly amazed that I had never before noticed the two typos on pp 92 and 93 of the Penguin edition!

Forgive the heresy, ben and geerten, but I found this rather a yawner, though, as can all agree, a slow hour with Rolfe beats a speedy one with almost anybody else. For (comparative) newcomers, let me point-out that most, if not all, of this material -- almost impossibl;e to find when this little volume appeared first -- is available elsewhere. Meanwhile, thanks Uncle Freddy, for introducing me to the lovely word "ossuary".

See my reviewof Rolfe's STORIES TOTO TOLD ME, a coollection published prior to this one, but conceived at the same time, and breathing, so-to-put, the same air. To my taste, this volume is superior to the first.

An Italian country boy tells stories to his padrone, and lo and behold, they turn out to be mostly tales from the lives of the Saints, with an admixture of pre-Chistian mythology -- which is almost redundant, as so much popular piety came from there anyway. Charming, but frankly little better than urbane entertainment reading. I know that will suund like blasphemy to many afficianados of Rolfe, but I number myself among them, indeed in the front ranks, after more than half a century's reading, and suspect that Rolfe himself would be the first to chuckle over the idea that anybody made very much of them after all these years. Actually, there is some unexpected fascination in the shadowy portrait of the padrone, one of the first of Rolfe's many published dream-images of himself, and remarkably free of the bitterness of later such efforts. Those who enjoy this book should find and read the subsequent collection, IN HIS OWN IMAGE, which to my taste was far more enjoyable -- one of the few instances I can recall of a sequel's surpassing the original.

Even when this praiseworthy volume appeared at-last decades ago, it was evident that all the previous decades of flap-doodle about these pitiful documents was just that. Rolfe's sexuality was well-known all along, even if the terms of discussion were not as candid as they are now. But as a writer of erotica, he was a dud. It gives me no pleasure to write that, as I am a big fan of Rolfe; but he is hardly served by dishonesty. Incidentally, Masson Fox, the recipient of the letters deserves a good biography.

Baron Corvo was an apologist for the Borgias and not to be taken too seriously. He thinks their crimes too monstrously inhuman to be true. The murders attributed to Cesare and Rodrigo Borgia (Pope Aexander VI) fail of proof, he argues. If they happened at all they were committed by someone else. He admits that Cesare Borgia ordered the murder of Lucretia's second husband, but excuses it as self defense. This is preposterous, according to contemporary accounts. The victim was convalescing in bed when he was strangled. Corvo admits that people who wrote epigrams about Cesare were punished by losing their tongues and right hands. Was this also excusable behavior?

He admits that Pope Alexander fathered at least seven bastard children but this was permissible, he says, according to the moral standards of the day. Other than that, he was a great man and beyond reproach. He argues that Pope Alexander did not cause the failure of Lucretia Borgia's first marriage. That Cesare Borgia brought law, order, and prosperity to the Papal States. That simony also was the norm. Why not leave the sins of the Borgias to the recording angel? he asks.

There is a lot of uncertainty about the Borgias, but this book is a snow job. At times it is racist. Is it worth reading? It is original. Some of this material is not available elsewhere. How else would we know that Lucretia's mother was known as "Big Jenny"? Some of its claims might even be true, but I wouldn't count on it. It too often conflicts with other histories of this family, in dates and in more important matters.

This book seriously disappointed me. I really should have liked it – it was published by NYRB, one of my favorite publishers, has a bizarre premise – obscure Catholic reject George Arthur Rose is elected pope – and is set in a parallel reality, all of which appealed to me. Unfortunately, all the characters are horribly, horribly flat and the wish-fulfillment aspect becomes extremely grating. I can’t recommend it as a good read – more of a curiosity. Still, it is odd enough that it’s good NYRB published it. That’s how I’ve felt about other books that they published but that I disliked – it’s good that they’re out there but not for me.

The book starts out well. George Arthur Rose relates at length his persecution out of the Catholic hierarchy then the choosing of the new pope is described. The author is able to describe all the inanities and labyrinthine process that goes into both. This still might not appeal to other people, but sometimes I like things like that – to land in the middle of a scene with all its jargon. After he becomes pope, there is still some fun to be had – mostly with the new pope Hadrian going rogue. Some of the side stories of his surrounding advisors and cardinals are interesting also. The style throughout is very idiosyncratic, but I generally like that rather than being annoyed by it.

After that, the book starts to become irritating. The other cardinals/Catholic officials who oppose Hadrian are obviously jealous and corrupt – there’s really no complexity to those characters – they’re just bad. For some reason, a Socialist group in England opposes him and becomes obsessed with him, instead of not giving a shit about the pope, as one might expect – though in this reality, England apparently cares about Roman Catholics, as opposed to the toleration to prejudice usually seen towards them around that time. Again, the representative they send to bother Hadrian is just a venal, uncultured asshole. To add to that, a slutty woman - who threw herself at Hadrian when he was Rose - goes along with the asshole. Needy, whiny, vain – she’s a whole bunch of stereotypes tossed together. Of course anyone who opposes the pope has horrible motives and is just a jealous toady. Other wish fulfillment parts are seen in the plot – the new pope forgives all his former enemies – so magnanimous! – and helps a seminary student who is obviously supposed to be a younger version of himself – the boy is being picked on by stupid bullies for being aloof and above the petty politics.

There are some deeply distasteful plot parts that the author couldn’t have imagined. The pope seems a little too obsessed with the attractive young son of Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy in this reality. Also, the pope supports the German ruler in taking over territories in the rest of Europe. Or something like that – wasn’t paying too much attention at that point. The end is also really irritating. Ugh.

1145 Hadrian the Seventh, by Frederick Baron Corvo (Frederick William Rolfe) (read 31 Dec 1971) Rolfe was born in London on July 22, 1860, and died in Venice on Oct 23, 1913. He, obviously, was a nut. The concept of this book--a rejected seminary student ordained and elected Pope--is silly and the events of his pontificate--of one year's duration--are even sillier. Wish fulfillment dreaming by a neurotic.

Quite a remarkable book. On one level, it is wishfullfillment for the rather shabby and occasionally sleazy life of Frederick Rolfe --what if a failed priest was suddenly elected pope? But Hadrian VII is a much nobler character than his author, and I often find myself remembering the last line "Pray for his soul. He was so tired." Incidentally, it also plays out a quite remarkable alternate history in which Victor Emmanuel III of Italy and Wilhelm II of Germany are the redeemers of Europe from Bolshevism etc.

My favorite self-delusional novel. A young religious is chosen to be pope - an amazing notion. I think that "Frederick Baron" was the author's legal name and he tacked "Corvo" on the end as part of his megalomania. It's good reading. Actually, I have an old Penguin edition which has held up. It's worth somebody's time. Good beach reading since it's not that long.½

Out of the context of the author's life I'm not sure how appealing a proposition Hadrian the VII is as a book. Stand the protagonist shoulder to shoulder with Rolfe, however, and you have an extreme and touchingly pathetic example of wish fufillment. He's dreamed every move he'll make as Hadrian, but when it comes to the first great leap, the matter of his election to the Papacy, Rolfe bitterly struggles for any further justification than the pleasantly vague "deserving it".

"To the Divine Friend, Much Desired" ...so Rolfe dedicated one of his books - ideal reader, confere et semblable. Ah well, Caligula - not an entirely off the wall association - wanted the moon.

Who reads books like this today - rhetoric, of course - the thing is already out of print (doubly poignant as Alexander Theroux... and I will go on about him elsewhere, wrote the singular introduction)?

The book will not outshine (in the sense of shininess) Dan Brown, but it is full of, at this writing, topical stuff of interest: papal conclaves, Vatican ritual and skullduggery (a redundancy?) - but this is not dry historical terrain. Like the Vatican itself this is a distinctly autonomous and armed entity within and often at odds with a sovereign state (here I mean, the singular "Baron Corvo" versus the world and everyone in it); it is a solipsist manifesto, a gorgeously strange decadent piece - concerned with aura, decor, style and personality and has nary a trace of agape or religion in it.

Its greatest quality is that its influence is felt in Alexander Theroux's Darconville's Cat.

1/28/23

Brought to the BC-meeting in Castricum for me :-)