Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  According to the wish of Boniface VIII, one hundred years should pass between one Jubilee and the next. Such an interval of one century was a warning to all sinners that one could not and should not abuse the patience of the Most High. However, seeing the success of the initiative, and its not unwelcome economic effects, the solemn interval of one hundred years was at once reduced to a half-century by Pope Clement VI who in fact announced the next recurrence in 1350 (without himself celebrating it in person, since he was then in Avignon, which was at that time the seat of the papacy, while Rome was soiled with bloodshed in internecine warfare between noble families, exhausted by the plague and perturbed by the dark misdeeds of the lawless plebeian Cola di Rienzo).

  Boniface IX later shortened the interval to forty years and proclaimed a new Jubilee in 1390, and then another barely ten years later in 1400. Martin V celebrated one in 1423, while Nicholas V even went so far as to proclaim two consecutive ones in 1450 and 1451.

  The next popes were more orderly, increasing the interval between one Jubilee and the next to 25 years: Sixtus IV held one in 1475, Alexander VI in 1500 and Clement VII in 1525. There then followed yet another intense acceleration: both Paul III and Julius III celebrated three Jubilees in four years.

  The pace grew more and more breathless: Pius IV celebrated no fewer than four Holy Years during his pontificate (including two in the same year) while Clement VIII proclaimed three. Paul V marked up six, at an inexorable rate: 1605, 1608, 1609, 1610, 1617 and 1619. All of which was as nothing compared with the performance of Urban VIII who, in twenty years decreed no fewer than twelve of them.

  Seeing their signal success, the popes who followed did not feel like changing course: Innocent X fitted five Jubilees into ten years, Alexander VII another five into nine years, while Clement IX even managed to compress four Holy Years into two years.

  Coming to more recent popes, while it is true that Alexander VIII and Innocent XI proclaimed only two and one Holy Years respectively, Clement X had three, in quick succession (in 1670, 1672 and 1675) and even the present Holy Father, Innocent XII, could not restrain himself from celebrating four in eight years.

  It is quite true that these extraordinary celebrations did not always draw great masses of pilgrims to Rome. It is also true, moreover, that the intervals, initially subject to the severe hundred-year cycle, had in the course of time become subject to steadily more and more contingent motivations, which often ran the risk of perplexing posterity, and sometimes even contemporaries.

  Some extraordinary Jubilees came to be granted on a limited basis to certain nations or groups (Peru, Armenia, India, the Maronites of Lebanon, the Christians of the Aethiopic Empire) who, in the community of the faithful, especially the Italians and Europeans, did not perhaps always evoke sentiments of immediate, universal, overwhelming fraternity.

  The Council of Trent, the struggle against heresy, the ransoming of prisoners in the hands of Mahometans, the peace between France and Spain, or else, fairly frequently, the enthronement of a new pope, provided other occasions (obviously called pretexts by the malign), which did not always have a character of absolute urgency and gravity.

  It was striking that no fewer than nine times the proclamation of a Holy Year had been determined by the needs of the Church, or rather of its coffers, and for that very reason, Urban VIII (subsequently accused of gravely dissipating the money of the Apostolic Chamber) had proclaimed four Holy Years in 1628, 1629, 1631 and 1634.

  And if many Holy Years had been granted to the faithful against the Mahometan menace, which was ever lively in the Orient, it was more difficult to understand what stringent necessity had in 1560 induced Pope Pius IV to choose as the reason for opening the Extraordinary Holy Year, the raids of a certain pirate named Dragut.

  Be that as it may, in exactly four centuries, from the first Jubilee in 1300 until that opened by His Holiness Pope Innocent XII in 1700, there should, according to the original plans of Pope Boniface VIII, have been five Jubilees. The total had, however, reached thirty-nine.

  So I wondered with anguish and doubt, coming to the end of my reflections, whether such a cavalier attitude did not risk weakening in the sight of the Most High, or even rendering vain, the power of the supplicants' prayers. This doubt was reinforced by the consideration that the Jubilee attracted dishonest persons and gave occasion for so many sad occurrences (theft, cheating, rapine) like that which I had just witnessed.

  But such pressing questionings had at last to make way for sleep. I had reached home. I promised myself that I would later ask for the guidance of Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, the chaplain of Villa Spada.

  Cloridia, as I expected, was not there. She had certainly stayed behind at the Villa Spada to watch over the confinement of the Princess of Forano. Just as well: I'd have died rather than let her see me in that horrible stinking state. The first thing I did was to fill the bathtub and to immerse myself entirely in it, in an endeavour to rid myself of the pestilential odour of which I had become the carrier. While I rinsed my head with bucketful upon bucketful of water, I shivered more from the memory of the perils which I had faced than the icy and unpleasant ablution. By the time I had dried myself, it was already full daylight. The diurnal luminary shone splendid and implacable, awakening the senses and inviting mortals to action.

  Indifferent to that radiant call, I dragged myself to my bed, worn out, and already halfway between waking and sleep I prayed to thank the Blessed Virgin for having saved my life.

  My hands were still joined when I saw the note. The handwriting was somewhat tremulous, but determined. It was easy to guess the author:

  All night up waiting. I expect your report.

  I dedicated one last irate thought to Abbot Melani. Because of him I had almost lost my life - and for nothing. Did he want my news? He would have it in good time, no sooner.

  I slept for over two hours: not enough to recover all my strength, but sufficient at least to be able to walk, think and talk.

  I was almost thinking of staying at home waiting for someone to come and summon me, caring not for the wrath of Don Paschatio or that of Abbot Melani. Suddenly, like a blow from a whip on my naked back, a memory caused me to wake up with a jump: it was the great day, the wedding day of Cardinal Spada's nephew!

  On my arrival at the villa, I found the air dense with euphoric frenzy. Not only workmen, porters, lackeys and scullions were moving busily along the drives, through the kitchen gardens and among the rooms of the great house. Today, there was also a gay and colourful troop of artists who would be bringing joy to the hours following the nuptial banquet: the musicians of the orchestra.

  I at once requested tidings of Cloridia. I interrogated more than one servant, but was told that she was still confined to the apartments of the Princess of Forano, nor had she ever left there during the night. Well, I thought, if she was so busy, she would have had no time to worry about the author of these notes.

  I then made my way to the little wood and continued to the chapel in which that afternoon the august nuptials were to be celebrated between Clemente Spada, nephew of His Eminence

  Cardinal Fabrizio, and Maria Pulcheria, niece of Cardinal Bernardino Rocci.

  Among the servants of Villa Spada, all were exceedingly curious to see the bride. Of her, we knew only that she was no great beauty. Surely, the preparations were worthy to provide a setting for the nuptials of Venus. The sacristy and the little wall running around the chapel had been exquisitely ornamented with arrangements of the freshest flowers in terracotta vases and wicker cornucopias, set about with garlands of fresh cut blooms and baskets garnished with lemons, apples, golden apples of the New World (or tomates, which nature has created beautiful but unpleasant to the taste), ears of corn and generously displayed fruit. Commodious armchairs in the first row and chairs of gilded intaglio wood in the successive ones had been arranged harmoniously in a semicircle, so that no guest's vision should be disturbed by the person in the row in front.

  In a c
orner, standing against the wall and delicately covered with a damasked cloth, were the bundles of decorated sticks, bound together with coloured ribbons and culminating in crowns of flowers, which we servants, apparelled in festive dress for the occasion, were to wave with festive exultation at the end of the ceremony. The little arena with armchairs and seats was crowned with marvellous open vaulting, all built in wood and papier mache and composed of pairs of quadrangular columns surmounted by gracefully ornate capitals, among which lovely rounded arches leaned out, garlanded with flowers, heather and mad bunches of wild herbs.

  In like manner, the other nuptial decorations (hangings of blood-red velvet, draperies of golden silk, curtains with the family arms of both the spouses) had been completed and skilfully arranged. Two maids were about to finish placing the soft plush cushions on the chairs; from the chapel I heard the paternal voice of Don Tibaldutio giving the little servers their final instructions. I took heart: at least for the nuptial rite all arrangements were on time.

  I felt the need to kneel before the altar and recite yet another prayer of thanksgiving for having my life saved. Wthin the chapel, there was a statue of the Madonna of the Carmel, the same to which Abbot Melani had for all those years confided my little pearls as an ex voto this had evoked even more in me the desire to turn to that apparation of the Holy Virgin and Mother and to confide the fate of us all during the coming days to her safekeeping. I entered, sought a discreet corner, and knelt.

  A short while later, Don Tibaldutio emerged from the sacristy and saw me. He set to work making final touches and putting the liturgical instruments in order, all the while keeping an eye on me. I knew why. Don Tibaldutio was a good-humoured and rubicund Carmelite who lived in a little room behind the sacristy which had been designated as the presbytery. Isolated thus from the rest of the villa, he often felt lonely and so would take advantage of my presence (when I went to the chapel to pray or was in the immediate vicinity, busied with some gardening chores, or with the aviary) to chat with me. His living as chaplain to the Spada family was no mean distinction and many of his fellow priests would have gone on hands and knees to have such a post. He, however, rather than take advantage of his position to receive petitions and forward them to his master, restricted his role to the care of souls, and nothing else. And his flock consisted not so much of the Spada family (who were often absent on business) as of the humble servants' household, a community living at the great house all the year round and changing little from one year to the next.

  Now, celebrating the nuptials of Cardinal Fabrizio's nephew and heir was indeed a great honour for Don Tibaldutio, but one which he would gladly have done without.

  When, after my prayers at the foot of Our Lady of the Carmel, I rose once more, Don Tibaldutio came to me with the usual open and consoling smile. He placed a hand paternally on my head, as he always did, and asked after my Cloridia.

  "You do well to entrust yourself to Our Lady. Have you the special prayers for the Jubilee? If not, I can lend you a little book. If you wish, I can go and fetch it at once: I have just completed my duties in preparation for this afternoon's happy event, so I have a little time to myself."

  "Don Tibaldutio," said I, at once seizing my opportunity to calm the doubts which had arisen in my mind about the validity of the Jubilee indulgence, "'twas precisely on that account that I was thinking of coming to you for enlightenment and counsel. . ."

  So it was that I told him briefly of the laceration of the soul which had been mine a few hours before. I did, however, employ expressions more prudent and less direct than those of my solitary cogitations; had I bluntly apprised him of how deeply I was repelled by the unworthy manner in which the Holy Years were conducted, I would have spoken the truth, but then I might perhaps have risked scandalising that honest and temperate churchman. I therefore used various expressions and turns of speech which danced around and touched lightly upon the kernel of my doubts, without ever mentioning such concepts as "cupidity", "corruption" or "simony".

  "I see," interrupted Don Tibaldutio and, raising his hand sagely and lowering his eyelids with a seraphic smile, he invited me to take a seat beside him on one of the pews at the side of the chapel.

  "You too, like so many, wonder what difference there might be from plenary indulgences, and whether the Holy Jubilee indulgence might not in some way be a pretext, as it may seem to profane eyes."

  "Really, Don Tibaldutio, that is not what I meant. .. The fact is that I doubted the efficacy of cases in which. .."

  "Efficacy, efficacy. But that depends upon us believers," he replied, expressing the obvious. "In order to gain the indulgence it is sufficient to carry out each of the works enjoined on us, which, as you well know, are alms, visits to and prayers at the four basilicas, all in a single day, plus visits to and prayers at thirty churches for Romans and fifteen for outsiders, who have the disadvantage of the journey. But take care not to try to cheat Jesus! Our Lord Innocent XII has laid down that, for the purposes of this Jubilee, the ecclesiastical day is to be counted from Vespers to Vespers. It is therefore within that period of time that the basilicas are to be visited in a single day; in case of need, one can also do it from midnight to midnight, as used to be the case, but never from midday to midday, as too many Romans do, out of concern for their own comfort! Nor may one go to church too early or too late; 'tis not good enough to practise one's adoration through a closed door and, on that pretext, to spare oneself from giving alms to the priest!"

  He began once more to scrutinise me, while I, with my eyes fixed on the ground, waited for a suitable moment to take my leave and return disconsolately to work with the same doubts as when I had entered the chapel.

  "Why, my son," he added unexpectedly in a murmur, suddenly laying aside his didactic manner, "if the Apostolic Chamber enriches itself with the Holy Years beyond the power of words to describe, do not imagine that there remains one single scudo for poor parish priests."

  I raised my eyes and my regard, crossing that of Don Tibaldutio, asked at last what my tongue could not express in plain language: what, in the eyes of the Most High, was the value of believers' prayers raised to heaven as a result of Jubilees which had, alas, been organised for shady lucrative ends?

  "Very well," he replied, satisfied with that mute request.

  I understood. Hitherto, Don Tibaldutio had answered me in the same terms as my questions, that is, without the virtue of clarity. He gestured that I was to follow him into the sacristy.

  "God is merciful, my son," he began, even as we were making our way there. "He is certainly not that severe and vindictive deity of whom we read in the Old Testament and with whom the Jews still remain involved. Consider this little precept: if one is not in a state of mortal but only venial sin, Confession is not even a necessary prerequisite for obtaining the Jubilee indulgence; it is enough to make an act of contrition within one's own heart - the so-called Confession in Voto which I mentioned to you a few moments ago. Not only that: even in a state of mortal sin, it suffices to accomplish the required acts in order to obtain the Jubilee indulgence, so long as the final action was accomplished in a state of grace, or after repentance and Confession. Would all that make any sense if the Lord were not infinitely merciful?"

  Indeed, I thought, 'tis as in the gospel parable of the husbandmen in the vineyard: those who come last receive full wages, as though they had worked the whole day. Does that not perhaps mean that God greatly recompenses our little deeds, our nothings with wholeness?

  "The actions of visiting churches are morally good: even he who does this in a state of mortal sin moves towards reconciliation with God. And that is what counts," continued the chaplain.

  We had meanwhile entered the sacristy, where Don Tibaldutio offered me a seat, taking care to close the door behind us. I imagined that he was on the point of revealing to me who knows what great and secret truth.

  "The God of the Christians, my son, sacrificed his only-begotten son for the redemption of our sins,"
he said at last, speaking plainly. "The Holy Virgin and Mother bestowed upon Saint Dominic the sacred gift of the rosary to recite for the salvation of our souls; likewise with her own hands she made the scapular of the Carmel, of which I myself am a votary, and when we wear this, we can be certain that Our Lady Queen of the World will come with her crown of stars to fetch us from purgatory on the first Saturday after our death. Do you believe that we poor mortals deserve all that? Of course not, my boy, 'tis only the infinite grace and mercy of God that so decree, and certainly not the merits we gain from reciting a few Ave Marias or wearing an extra piece of material, gestures which in themselves are quite worthless; least of all are they worthy of obtaining eternal life. The Lord knows how petty and slothful we are, and that is why He offers us paradise on a golden platter, in exchange for vile copper coin. In His infinite love for us His children, He is satisfied by our little act of faith and goodwill: we make a small, wavering step towards Him and lo, the Merciful Father runs to us and gathers us up in His arms."