by Morris West
Early the next morning, all the Cardinals assembled in the Sistine Chapel for the first ballot. For each there was a throne and over the throne a silken canopy. The thrones were arranged along the walls of the Chapel, and before each was set a small table, which bore the Cardinal’s coat of arms and his name inscribed in Latin. The Chapel altar was covered with a tapestry upon which was embroidered a figuration of the Holy Ghost descending upon the first Apostles. Before the altar was set a large table on which there stood a gold Chalice and a small golden platter. Near the table was a simple potbellied stove whose flue projected through a small window that looked out on the Square of St Peter.
When the voting took place, each Cardinal would write the name of his candidate upon a ballot paper, lay it first on the golden platter, and then put it into the Chalice, to signify that he had completed a sacred act. After the votes were counted, they would be burned in the stove, and smoke would issue through the flue into the Square of St Peter. To elect a Pope, there must be a majority of two-thirds.
If the majority were not conclusive, the ballot papers would be burned with wet straw, and the smoke would issue dark and cloudy. Only when the ballot was successful would the papers be burned without straw, so that a white smoke might inform the waiting crowds that they had a new Pope. It was an archaic and cumbersome ceremony for the age of radio and television, but it served to underline the drama of the moment and the continuity of two thousand years of papal history.
When all the Cardinals were seated, the Master of Ceremonies made the circuit of the thrones, handing to each voter a single ballot paper. Then he left the Chapel, and the door was locked, leaving only the Princes of the Church to elect the successor to Peter.
It was the moment for which Leone and Rinaldi had waited. Leone rose in his place, tossed his white mane, and addressed the conclave:
‘My brothers, I stand to claim a right under the Apostolic Constitution. I proclaim to you my belief that there is among us a man already chosen by God to sit in the Chair of Peter. Like the first of the Apostles, he has suffered prison and stripes for the faith, and the hand of God has led him out of bondage to join us in this conclave. I announce him as my candidate, and dedicate to him my vote and my obedience…Kiril Cardinal Lakota.’
There was a moment of dead silence, broken by a stifled gasp from Lakota. Then Rahamani the Syrian rose in his place and pronounced firmly:
‘I too proclaim him.’
‘I too,’ said Carlin the America.
‘And I,’ said Valerio Rinaldi.
Then in two and threes, old men heaved themselves to their feet with a like proclamation until all but nine were standing under the canopies, while Kiril Cardinal Lakota sat, blank-faced and rigid, on his throne.
Then Rinaldi stepped forward and challenged the electors. ‘Does any here dispute that this is a valid election, and that a majority of more than two-thirds has elected our brother Kiril?’
No one answered the challenge.
‘Please be seated,’ said Valerio Rinaldi.
As each Cardinal sat down, he pulled the cord attached to his canopy so that it collapsed above his head, and the only canopy left open was that above the chair of Kiril Cardinal Lakota.
The Camerlengo rang a small hand bell and walked across to unlock the Chapel door. Immediately there entered the Secretary of the Conclave, the Master of Ceremonies, and the Sacristan of the Vatican. These three prelates, with Leone and Rinaldi, moved ceremoniously to the throne of the Ukrainian. In a loud voice Leone challenged him:
‘Acceptasne electionem? Do you accept election?’
All eyes were turned on the tall, lean stranger with his scarred face and his dark beard and his distant, haunted eyes. Seconds ticked away slowly, and then in a dead flat voice, they heard him answer:
‘Accepto…Miserere mei Deus! I accept. God have mercy on me!’
EXTRACT FROM THE SECRET MEMORIALS OF KIRIL I PONT. MAX.
No ruler can escape the verdict of history; but a ruler who keeps a diary makes himself liable to a rough handling by the judges…I should hate to be like old Pius II, who had his memoirs attributed to his secretary, had them expurgated by his kinsmen and then, five hundred years later, had all his indiscretions restored by a pair of American blue-stockings. Yet I sympathize with his dilemma, which must be the dilemma of every man who sits in the Chair of Peter. A Pope can never talk freely unless he talks to God or to himself – and a Pontiff who talks to himself is apt to become eccentric, as the histories of some of my predecessors have shown.
It is my infirmity to be afraid of solitude and isolation. So I shall need some safety valves – the diary for one, which is a compromise between lying to oneself on paper and telling posterity the facts that have to be concealed from one’s own generation. There is a rub, of course. What does one do with a papal diary? Leave it to the Vatican library? Order it buried with oneself in the triple coffin? Or auction it beforehand for the Propagation of the Faith? Better, perhaps, not to begin at all; but how else guarantee a vestige of privacy, humour, perhaps even sanity in this noble prison-house to which I am condemned?
Twenty-four hours ago my election would have seemed a fantasy. Even now I cannot understand why I accepted it. I could have refused. I did not. Why?…
Consider what I am: Kiril I, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State …Gloriously reigning, of course…!
But this is only the beginning of it. The Pontifical Annual will print a list two pages long of what I have reserved by way of Abbacies and Prefectures, and what I shall ‘protect’ by way of Orders, Congregations, Confraternities and Holy Sisterhoods. The rest of its two thousand pages will be a veritable Doomsday Book of my ministers and subjects, my instruments of government, education and correction.
I must be, by the very nature of my office, multilingual, though the Holy Ghost has been less generous in the gift of tongues to me than he was to the first man who stood in my shoes. My mother tongue is Russian; my official language is the Latin of the schoolmen, a kind of Mandarin which is supposed to preserve magically the subtlest definition of truth like a bee in amber. I must speak Italian to my associates and converse with all in that high-flown ‘we’ which hints at a secret converse between God and myself, even in such mundane matters as the coffee ‘we’ shall drink for breakfast and the brand of petrol ‘we’ shall use for Vatican City automobiles.
Still, this is the traditional mode and I must not resent it too much. Old Valerio Rinaldi gave me fair warning when an hour after this morning’s election he offered me both his retirement and his loyalty. ‘Don’t try to change the Romans, Holiness. Don’t try to fight them or convert them. They’ve been managing Popes for the last nineteen hundred years and they’ll break your neck before you bend theirs. But walk softly, speak gently, keep your own counsel, and in the end you twist them like grass round your fingers.’
It is too early, Heaven knows, to see what success Rome and I shall have with one another, but Rome is no longer the world, and I am not too much concerned – just so I can borrow experience from those who have pledged me their oaths as Cardinal Princes of the Church. There are some in whom I have great confidence. There are others…But I must not judge too swiftly. They cannot all be like Rinaldi, who is a wise and gentle man with a sense of humour and a knowledge of his own limitations. Meantime, I must try to smile and keep a good temper while I find my way round this Vatican maze…And I must commit my thoughts to a diary before I expose them to Curia or Consistory.
I have an advantage, of course, in that no one quite knows which way I shall jump – I don’t even know myself. I am the first Slav ever to sit on the Chair of Peter, the first non-Italian for four-and-a-half centuries. The Curia will be wary of me. They may have been inspired to elect me but already they must be wondering what kind o
f Tartar they have caught. Already they will be asking themselves how I shall reshuffle their appointments and spheres of influence. How can they know how much I am afraid and doubtful of myself? I hope some of them will remember to pray for me.
The Papacy is the most paradoxical office in the world; the most absolute and yet the most limited; the richest in revenues but the poorest in personal return. It was founded by a Nazarene carpenter who owned no place to rest His head, yet it is surrounded by more pomp and panoply than is seemly in this hungry world. It owns no frontiers, yet is subject always to national intrigue and partisan pressure. The man who accepts it claims Divine guarantee against error, yet is less assured of salvation than the meanest of his subjects. The keys of the kingdom dangle at his belt, yet he can find himself locked out for ever from the Peace of Election and the Communion of Saints. If he says he is not tempted by autocracy and ambition, he is a liar. If he does not walk sometimes in terror, and pray often in darkness, then he is a fool.
I know – or at least I am beginning to know. I was elected this morning, and tonight I am alone on the Mountain of Desolation. He whose Vicar I am, hides His face from me. Those whose shepherd I must be do not know me. The world is spread beneath me like a campaign map – and I see balefires on every frontier. There are blind eyes upturned, and a babel of voices invoking an unknown…
O God, give me light to see, and strength to know, and courage to endure the servitude of the Servants of God…!
My valet has just been in to prepare my sleeping-quarters. He is a melancholy fellow who looks very like a guard in Siberia who used to curse me at night for a Ukrainian dog and each morning for an adulterous priest. This one, however, asks humbly if my Holiness has need of anything. Then he kneels and begs my blessing on himself and his family. Embarassed, he ventures to suggest that, if I am not too tired, I may deign to show myself again to the people who still wait in St Peter’s Square.
They acclaimed me this morning when I was led out to give my first blessing to the city and to the world. Yet, so long as my light burns, it seems there will always be some waiting for God knows what sign of power of benignity from the papal bedroom. How can I tell them that they must never expect too much from a middle-aged fellow in striped cotton pyjamas? But tonight is different. There is a whole concourse of Romans and of tourists in the Piazza, and it would be a courtesy – excuse me, Holiness, a great condescension! – to appear with one small blessing…
I condescend, and I am exalted once again on wave after wave of cheering and hom-blowing. I am their Pope, their Father, and they urge me to live a long time. I bless them and hold out my arms to them, and they clamour again, and I am caught in a strange heart-stopping moment when it seems that my arms encompass the world, and that it is much too heavy for me to hold. Then my valet – or is it my jailer? – draws me back, closes the window and draws the drapes, so that, officially at least, His Holiness Kiril I is in bed and asleep.
The valet’s name is Celasio, which is also the name of a Pope. He is a good fellow, and I am glad of a minute of his company. We talk a few moments and then he asks me, blushing and stammering, about my name. He is the first who has dared to raise the question except old Rinaldi, who, when I announced that I desired to keep my baptismal name, nodded and smiled ironically and said, ‘A noble style, Holiness – provocative, too. But for God’s sake don’t let them turn it into Italian.’
I took his advice, and I explained to the Cardinals as I now explained to my valet that I kept the name because it belonged to the Apostle of the Slavs, who was said to have invented the modern Cyrillic alphabet and who was a stubborn defender of the right of people to keep the faith in their own idiom. I explained to them also that I should prefer to have my name used in its Slavic form, for a testimony to the universality of the Church. Not all of them approved since they are quick to see how a man’s first act sets the pattern of his later ones.
No one objected, however, except Leone, he who runs the Holy Office and has the reputation of a modem St Jerome, whether for his love of tradition, a spartan life, or a notoriously crusty temper I have yet to find out. Leone asked pointedly whether a Slavic name might not look out of place in the pure Latin of Papal Encyclicals. Although he is the one who first proclaimed me in the conclave, I had to tell him gently that I was more interested in having my encyclicals read by the people than in coddling the Latinists, and that since Russian had become a canonical language for the Marxist world, it would not hurt us to have the tip of one shoe in the other camp.
He took the reproof well, but I do not think he will easily forget it. Men who serve God professionally are apt to regard Him as a private preserve. Some of them would like to make His Vicar a private preserve as well. I do not say that Leone is one of these, but I have to be careful. I shall have to work differently from any of my predecessors, and I cannot submit myself to the dictate of any man, however high he stands, or however good he may be.
None of this, of course, is for my valet, who will take home only a simple tale of missionary saints and make himself a great man on the strength of a Pontiff’s confidence. Osservatore Romano will tell exactly the same tale tomorrow, but for them it will be ‘a symbol of the Paternal care of His Holiness for those who cleave, albeit in good faith, to schismatic communions…’ I must, as soon as I can, do something about the Osservatore…If my voice is to be heard in the world it must be heard in its authentic tones.
Already I know there are questions about my beard. I have heard murmurs of a ‘too Byzantine look’. The Latins are more sensitive about such customs than we are; so perhaps it might have been a courtesy to explain that my jaw was broken under questioning and that without a beard I am somewhat disfigured…It is so small a matter, and yet schisms have begun over smaller ones.
I wonder what Kamenev said when he heard the news of my election. I wonder whether he had humour enough to send me a greeting.
I am tired – tired to my bones and afraid. My charge is so simple: to keep the faith pure and bring the scattered sheep safely into the fold. Yet into what strange country it may lead me I can only guess…Lead us not into temptation, O Lord, but deliver us from evil. Amen.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THE white marble lounge of the Foreign Press Club, George Faber stretched his elegant legs and delivered his verdict on the election:
‘To the East a stumbling block, to the West a foolishness, to the Romans a disaster.’
A respectful laugh fluttered around the room. A man who had spent so many years on the Vatican beat had a right to make phrases – even bad ones. Sure of the attention of his audience, he talked on in his calm, confident voice:
‘Look at it any way you like, Kiril I means a political mess. He’s been a prisoner of the Russians for seventeen years, so at one stroke we wipe out any hope of rapprochement between the Vatican and the Soviets. America is involved too. I think we can expect progressive abandonment of neutralist policies, and a gradual lining up of the Vatican with the West. We are back again to the Pacelli–Spellman alliance. For Italy—’ He flung out eloquent hands that embraced the whole peninsula. ‘Beh! What happens now to the Italian miracle of recovery? It was created in co-operation with the Vatican – Vatican money, Vatican prestige abroad, Vatican help in emigration, the confessional authority of the clergy holding the Left in check. What happens now? If he starts making new appointments the links between the Vatican and the Republic can be broken very quickly. The delicate balance can be tipped—’ He relaxed again and turned on his colleagues a smile of charm and deprecation, the smile of kingmaker. ‘At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. You may quote me with acknowledgements, and if anyone steals my lead lines, I’ll sue!’
Collins of the London Times shrugged fastidiously and turned back to the bar with a German from Bonn. ‘Faber is a mounte-bank, of course, but he does have a point on the Italian situation. I’m quite staggered by this election. From all I hear most of the Italians were in favour of it – th
ough none of them gave any hint of it before they went into conclave. It’s a wonderful weapon for Right or Left. The moment the Pope talks about any Italian business they can label him a foreigner, interfering in local politics…That’s what happened to the Dutchman – who was it, Adrian VI? The historical evidence shows him a wise man and a sound administrator, but when he died, the Church was in a bigger mess than before. I’ve never liked the kind of baroque Catholicism which the Italians hand out to the world, but in affairs of state they have a great political value – like the Irish, if you understand what I mean.’
‘…for a picture story the beard is wonderful’ – this from a hungry-mouthed brunette at the other end of the bar. ‘And it might be fun to have a few Greek and Russian ceremonies at the Vatican. All those odd robes and those lovely dangling ikons on their chests. One could start a craze with those – pendants for the new winter fashion! Quite a line, don’t you think?’ She gave a high-pitched braying laugh.
‘There’s a mystery about it,’ said Boucher, the fox-faced Frenchman. ‘A complete outsider after the shortest conclave in history! I talked with Morand and with some of our own people. The impression was of desperation – as if they saw the end of the world and wanted someone special to lead us towards it. They could be right. The Chinese have gone to Moscow and the word is that they want a war now, or they split the Marxist world down the middle. They may get it too, and then there is an end of politics, and we had all better begin to say our prayers.’
‘I heard an odd one this morning.’ Feuchtwanger the Swiss sipped a coffee and talked in a whisper with Erikson the Swede. ‘A courier arrived in Rome yesterday from Moscow, by way of Prague and Warsaw. This morning a personage from the Russian Embassy called on Cardinal Potocki. Of course nobody is saying anything, but I wonder if Russia expects something from this man. Kamenev is in trouble with the Chinese, and he has always seen a lot farther than the end of his nose…’