by Morris West
MORRIS LANGLO WEST was born in St Kilda, Melbourne, in 1916. At the age of fourteen, he entered the Christian Brothers seminary ‘as a kind of refuge’ from a difficult childhood. He attended the University of Melbourne and worked as a teacher. In 1941 he left the Christian Brothers without taking final vows. During World War II West worked as a code breaker, and for a time he was private secretary to former prime minister Billy Hughes.
After the war, West became a successful writer and producer of radio serials. In 1955 he left Australia to build an international career as a writer and lived with his family in Austria, Italy, England and the USA. West also worked for a time as the Vatican correspondent for the British newspaper, the Daily Mail. He returned to Australia in 1982.
Morris West wrote 30 books and many plays, and several of his novels were adapted for film. His books were published in 28 languages and sold more than 70 million copies worldwide. Each new book he wrote after he became an established writer sold more than one million copies.
West received many awards and accolades over his long writing career, including the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the W.H. Heinemann Award of the Royal Society of Literature for The Devil’s Advocate. In 1978 he was elected a fellow of the World Academy of Art and Science. He was appointed a Member of the Order of Australia (AM) in 1985, and was made an Officer of the Order (AO) in 1997.
Morris West died at his desk in 1999.
THE MORRIS WEST COLLECTION
FICTION
Moon in My Pocket (1945, as Julian Morris)
Gallows on the Sand (1956)
Kundu (1957)
The Big Story (US title: The Crooked Road) (1957)
The Concubine (US title: McCreary Moves In) (1958)
The Second Victory (US title: Backlash) (1958)
The Devil’s Advocate (1959)
The Naked Country (1960)
Daughter of Silence (1961)
The Shoes of the Fisherman (1963)
The Ambassador (1965)
The Tower of Babel (1968)
Summer of the Red Wolf (1971)
The Salamander (1973)
Harlequin (1974)
The Navigator (1976)
Proteus (1979)
The Clowns of God (1981)
The World is Made of Glass (1983)
Cassidy (1986)
Masterclass (1988)
Lazarus (1990)
The Ringmaster (1991)
The Lovers (1993)
Vanishing Point (1996)
Eminence (1998)
The Last Confession (2000, published posthumously)
PLAYS
The Illusionists (1955)
The Devil’s Advocate (1961)
Daughter of Silence (1962)
The Heretic (1969)
The World is Made of Glass (1982)
NON-FICTION
Children of the Sun (US title: Children of the Shadows) (1957)
Scandal in the Assembly (1970, with Richard Frances)
A View from the Ridge (1996, autobiography)
Images and Inscriptions (1997, selected by Beryl Barraclough)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Terms used in the text do not always reflect current usage.
This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2017
First published in the United States in 1981 by William Morrow & Co., Inc.
Copyright © The Morris West Collection 1981
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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For
my loved ones
with
my heart’s thanks
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
BOOK TWO
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
BOOK THREE
XIII
XIV
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Once you accept the existence of God—however you define Him, however you explain your relationship to Him—then you are caught forever with His presence in the center of all things. You are also caught with the fact that man is a creature who walks in two worlds and traces upon the walls of his cave the wonders and the nightmare experiences of his spiritual pilgrimage.
Who knows but the world may end tonight?
—ROBERT BROWNING,
“The Last Ride Together”
PROLOGUE
In the seventh year of his reign, two days before his sixty-fifth birthday, in the presence of a full consistory of Cardinals, Jean Marie Barette, Pope Gregory XVII, signed an instrument of abdication, took off the Fisherman’s ring, handed his seal to the Cardinal Camerlengo and made a curt speech of farewell.
“So, my brethren! It is done as you demanded. I am sure you will explain it all adequately to the Church and to the world. I hope you will elect yourselves a good man. God knows you will need him!”
Three hours later, accompanied by a colonel of the Swiss Guard, he presented himself at the Monastery of Monte Cassino and placed himself under the obedience of the Abbot. The colonel drove immediately back to Rome and reported to the Cardinal Camerlengo that his mission was accomplished.
The Camerlengo breathed a long sigh of relief and set about the formalities of proclaiming that the See of Peter was vacant and that an election would be held with all possible speed.
BOOK ONE
I was in the spirit on the Lord’s day and
I heard behind me a great voice, as of a
trumpet, saying:… What thou seest write
in a book and send it to the seven churches.
—Revelation of St. John the Divine 1:10–11
I
She looked like a country woman, stout, apple-cheeked, dressed in coarse woollen stuff, her wispy grey hair trailing from under a straw hat. She sat bolt upright in the chair, hands folded over a large old-fashioned handbag of brown leather. She was wary but unafraid, as if she were studying the merchandise in an unfamiliar market.
Carl Mendelius, Professor of Biblical and Patristic Studies at the Wilhelmsstift, once called the Illustrious College of the University of Tübingen, stretched his legs under the desk, made a bridge of his fingertips and smiled at her over the top of it. He prompted her gently:
“You wanted to see me, madame?”
“I was told you understand French?” She spoke with the broad accent of the Midi.
“I do.”
> “My name is Thérèse Mathieu. In religion I am—I was—called Sister Mechtilda.”
“Am I to understand that you have left the convent?”
“I was dispensed from my vows. But he said I should always wear the ring from my profession day, because I was still in the service of the Lord.”
She held up a large work-worn hand and displayed the plain silver band on the wedding finger.
“He? Who is he?”
“His Holiness, Pope Gregory. I was with the sisters who work in his household. I cleaned his study and his private rooms. I served his coffee. Sometimes, on feast days, while the other sisters were resting, I prepared a meal for him. He said he liked my cooking. It reminded him of home.… He would talk to me then. He knew my birthplace very well. His family used to own vineyards in the Var.… When my niece was left a widow with five young children and the restaurant to keep going, I told him about it. He was very sympathetic. He said perhaps my niece needed me more than the Pope, who had too many servants anyway. He helped me to think freely and understand that charity was the most important of virtues.… My decision to return to the world was made at the time when the people in the Vatican began to say all those terrible things—that the Holy Father was sick in the head, that he could be dangerous—all that. The day I left Rome I went to ask his blessing. He asked me, as a special favour, to come to Tübingen and give his letter into your hands. He put me under obedience to tell no one what he had said or what I was carrying. So, I am here.…”
She fished in the leather bag, brought out a thick envelope and passed it across the desk. Carl Mendelius held it in his hands, weighing it. Then he laid it aside. He asked:
“You came straight here from Rome?”
“No. I went to my niece and stayed for a week. His Holiness said I should do that. It was natural and proper. He gave me money for the journey and a gift to help my niece.”
“Did he give you any other message for me?”
“Only that he sent you his love. He told me, if you asked any questions, I should answer them.”
“He found himself a faithful messenger.” Carl Mendelius was grave and gentle. “Would you like coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
She folded her hands over the bag and waited, the perfect nun, even in her country homespun. Mendelius posed his next question with casual care.
“These problems, this talk in the Vatican, when did they begin? What caused them?”
“I know when.” There was no hesitation in her answer. “When he came back from his visit to South America and the United States, he looked ill and tired. Then there were the visits of the Chinese and the Russians and the people from Africa which seemed to leave him much preoccupied. After they left he decided to go into retreat for two weeks at Monte Cassino. It was after his return that the troubles began.…”
“What sort of troubles?”
“I never really understood. You must know I was a very small personage, a sister doing domestic work. We were trained not to comment on matters which were not our concern. The Mother Superior frowned on gossip. But I noticed that the Holy Father looked ill, that he spent long hours in the chapel, that there were frequent meetings with members of the Curia, from which they would come out looking angry and muttering among themselves. I don’t even remember the words—except once I heard Cardinal Amaldo say: ‘Dear God in heaven! We are treating with a madman!’”
“And the Holy Father, how did he seem to you?”
“With me he was always the same, kind and polite. But it was clear he was very worried. One day he asked me to fetch him some aspirin to take with his coffee. I asked whether I should call the physician. He gave me a strange little smile and said: ‘Sister Mechtilda, it is not a doctor I need but the gift of tongues. Sometimes it seems I am teaching music to the deaf and painting to the blind.’… In the end, of course, his doctor did come and then several others on different days. Afterwards, Cardinal Drexel came to see him—he’s the Dean of the Sacred College and a very stern man. He spent the whole day in the Holy Father’s apartment. I helped to serve them lunch. After that, well… it all happened.”
“Did you understand anything of what was going on?”
“No. All we were told was that for reasons of health and for the welfare of souls, the Holy Father had decided to abdicate and devote the rest of his life to God in a monastery. We were asked to pray for him and for the Church.”
“And he made no explanation to you?”
“To me?” She stared at him with innocent surprise. “Why to me? I was a nobody. But after he blessed me for the journey, he put his hands on my cheeks and said: ‘Perhaps, little Sister, we are both lucky to have found each other.’ That was the last time I saw him.”
“And now what will you do?”
“Go home to my niece, help her with the children, cook in the restaurant. It is small, but a good business if we can hold it together.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Carl Mendelius respectfully. He stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you, Sister Mechtilda. Thank you for coming to see me—for what you have done for him.”
“It was nothing. He was a good man. He understood how ordinary folk feel.”
The skin of her palm was dry and chapped, from dishwater and the scrubbing pail. He felt ashamed of his own soft clerkly palms into which Gregory XVII, Successor to the Prince of the Apostles, had consigned his last, most secret memorial.
He sat late that night, in his big attic study, whose leaded windows looked out on the grey bulk of the Stifskirche of St. George. The only witnesses to his meditation were the marble busts of Melanchthon and Hegel, the one a lecturer, the other a pupil in the ancient university; but they were dead long since and absolved from perplexity.
The letter from Jean Marie Barette, seventeenth Gregory in the papal line, lay spread before him: thirty pages of fine cursive script, impeccable in its Gallic style, the record of a personal tragedy and a political crisis of global dimension.
My dear Carl,
In this, the long dark night of my soul, when reason staggers and the faith of a lifetime seems almost lost, I turn to you for the grace of understanding.
We have been friends for a long time. Your books and your letters have travelled with me always: baggage more essential than my shirts and my shoes. Your counsels have calmed me in many an anxious moment. Your wisdom has been a light to my feet in the dark labyrinths of power. Though the lines of our lives have diverged, I like to believe that our spirits have maintained a unity.
If I have been silent during these last months of purgation, it is because I have not wished to compromise you. For some time now I have been closely watched and I have been unable to guarantee the privacy even of my most personal papers. Indeed, I have to tell you that if this letter falls into the wrong hands, you may be exposed to great risk; more, if you decide to carry out the mission I entrust to you, the danger will double itself every day.
I begin at the end of the story. Last month, the Cardinals of the Sacred College, among them some I believed to be friends, decided by a large majority that I was, if not insane, at least no longer mentally competent to discharge the duties of Pontiff. This decision, the reasons for which I shall explain in detail, placed them in a dilemma both comic and tragic.
There were only two ways to get rid of me: by deposition or abdication. To depose me they must show cause, and this, I believed, they would not dare attempt. The smell of conspiracy would be too strong, the risk of schism too great. Abdication, on the other hand, would be a legal act, which, if I were insane, I could not validly perform.
My personal dilemma was a different one. I had not asked to be elected. I had accepted fearfully, but trusting in the Holy Spirit for light and strength. I believed—and I am still trying desperately to believe—that the light was given to me in a very special fashion and that it was my duty to display it to a world caught already in the darkness of the last hour before midnight. On the other hand, without t
he support of my most senior collaborators, the hinge-men of the Church, I was impotent. My utterances could be distorted, my directives nullified. The children of God could be cast into confusion or misled into rebellion.
Then Drexel came to see me. He is, as you know, the Dean of the College of Cardinals, and it was I who appointed him Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. He is a formidable watchdog, as you have good reason to know. In private, however, he is a compassionate and understanding man. He was at pains to be precise. He was the emissary of his brother Cardinals. He dissented from their opinion but was charged to deliver their decision. They required me to abdicate and retire to obscurity in a monastery. If I refused they would, in spite of all the risks, take steps to have me declared legally insane and placed in confinement under medical supervision.
I was, as you may imagine, deeply shocked. I had not believed they would dare so much. Then came a moment of pure terror. I knew enough of the history of this office and its incumbents to see that the threat was real. Vatican City is an independent state and for what is done within its walls there is no outside audit.
Then the terror passed and I asked, calmly enough, what Drexel himself thought of the situation. He answered without hesitation. He had no doubt that his colleagues could and would make good their threat. The damage, in a critical time, would be great, but not irreparable. The Church had survived the Theophylacts and the Borgias and the debauches of Avignon. It would survive the moon madness of Jean Marie Barette. It was Drexel’s private opinion, offered in friendship, that I should bow to the inevitable and abdicate on the grounds of ill health. Then he added a rider which I quote for you verbatim: “Do what they ask, Holiness—but no more, not by a fraction! You will go. You will retire into privacy. I myself will challenge any document that attempts to bind you to more. As to this light which you claim to have been given, I cannot judge whether it is from God or whether it is the illusion of an overburdened spirit. If it is an illusion, I hope you will not cherish it too long. If it is from God, then He will enable you, in His own time, to make it manifest.… But if you are declared insane, then you will be totally discredited and the light will be quenched forever. History, especially Church history, is always written to justify the survivors.”