The Cathedral’s location secretly troubled Cardinal Glennon, but in public he made eloquent rationalizations of the matter. Many famous cathedrals, he was fond of pointing out, bordered on the poorer sections of their cities. Even St. Peter’s in Rome rose out of the squalor of the Borgo slums. It was fitting and proper, declared Glennon, that the feet of God’s loftiest temples should be laved by streams of the living poor. These high pulpit utterances had not prevented His Eminence from diligently canvassing possible sites and probable costs of a new cathedral. Tucked away in his confidential files were sketches of a structure that would dwarf the poor dimensions of Chartres and Strasbourg, not to mention Manning’s Anglican effort on Morningside Heights.
The cost of such a temple would run into millions of dollars. Estimates varied: Cornelius Deegan’s figure of fifteen million was conservative; the Cardinal himself, specifying the finest of Rutland marble and twin spires fifty feet higher than Bunker Hill Monument, believed that the cost might be nearer twenty. But whatever the new cathedral might cost, the money could be had. Two millions in cash were already on deposit in various Boston banks; another four million lay in gilt-edged securities registered in the name of the Archdiocese of Boston, a corporation sole. Assuredly, it was not lack of cash that stayed the builder’s hand. No, there were other brakes that operated powerfully whenever the Cardinal’s fancy played too wantonly among the groined ceilings, Gothic lily-work, and soaring spires of his marble dream.
The nature of these brakes was demonstrated one March afternoon in 1920 as His Eminence presided at a meeting of the Congregation for Archdiocesan Affairs. Privy and high, the council was being held in the directors’ room of the Cardinal’s residence. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Lawrence Glennon in the cassock of a working priest; at the Cardinal’s right hand was the Most Reverend Vincent Mulqueen, Auxiliary Bishop of Boston (sometimes mentioned as the Cardinal’s successor), a man of glacial mien whose temperature had been known to rise from zero to freezing point during a particularly warm discussion. At Glennon’s left sat Monsignor Timothy Blake, Vicar-General of the Archdiocese, a sanguine, hearty cleric onto whose shoulders the Cardinal slipped many an administrative burden. And beside the Vicar-General sat Chancellor Michael Speed, as efficient an executive as ever escaped the clutches of corporate big business. These three acted as archdiocesan consultors to Glennon in matters of large policy; by canon law they possessed an ancient, inalienable right to be heard. The Cardinal in turn was obliged to listen and give proper weight to their opinions. But the final decision always rested with the Cardinal alone. From his person, and his divine office of Bishop, emanated supreme authority in all matters affecting the Archdiocese of Boston.
Down the table, four other clerics ranged themselves according to rank. And at the foot of the table, reading the minutes of the last meeting, sat the Reverend Stephen Fermoyle, secretary to His Eminence these last ten months or more.
“Any objections to the minutes as read?” asked Glennon with nice parliamentary deference. There being no objections, the Cardinal swung his head on the pivot of his short neck and addressed his Vicar-General. “Have you anything ready for us on the college business, Tim?”
“I think Father Gorman’s report will cover the matter, Your Eminence.”
Halfway down the table, a priest with the cheekbones of an ascetic unlimbered a sheaf of notes. David Gorman, president of Regis College, was by temperament a scholar (he had studied philosophy under Mercier at Louvain). Events had placed Father Gorman at the head of a Catholic college in an era of physical expansion. The task of raising a huge building fund lay like a galling yoke on shoulders too delicate, perhaps, for the job. But implicit obedience to the rule of his superior denied David Gorman even the luxury of a wince. He began speaking now in longish periods as though translating from a rather dull passage in Cicero.
“Our estimates, based on the bids of primary contractors, and augmented tentatively by the addition of figures from subcontractors, indicate that our envisaged program of erecting two new buildings at Regis College—a library and a science laboratory—will require a sum not less than one million, nine hundred thousand dollars, and not greater than”—Father Gorman consulted an outlying note—“two million one hundred thousand dollars.”
The Cardinal nodded approval. “The figures seem not unreasonable, Father Gorman.” (Good-by to lily-work dreamery a while, thought Glennon.) “And how do you propose to raise the money?”
Father Gorman took a header into another Ciceronian period. “Recognizing, as we do, that the public has become indifferent, if not calloused, to campaigns for large sums we—our committee, that is—nevertheless see no alternative to launching another drive, provisionally to be known as ‘A Greater Boston Fund for a Greater Regis College.’” Father Gorman took a breather. “With the aid of the Knights of Columbus and other Catholic organizations we propose to raise half the money in this manner.”
“And the other half?” asked Glennon.
Father Gorman dropped his translator’s manner. “Frankly, Your Eminence, we are counting upon your personal interest in the College for the rest of the money.”
Glennon frowned. “You are quite right, Father, in counting upon my personal interest in Regis College. It nourished my early studies, bent my youth toward the priesthood. More importantly, the college carries on the most essential of activities—Catholic education.” The Cardinal paused in the manner of a judge setting a respected barrister to rights on a point of law. “But these are not reasons for saddling the archdiocesan treasury with obligations of a million dollars. I think you must raise your campaign sights, Father. The college has many wealthy alumni. Reaching them is merely a matter of organization.”
The educator shook his head doubtfully. “It would be overoptimistic to expect our volunteer committees to raise more than a million, Your Eminence.”
“Then call in professionals. We must make use of all available means to raise at least four fifths of the money by popular subscription.” Glennon’s tone was absolute. “You may count on me for a balance not to exceed four hundred thousand.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” said David Gorman with an exhalation of mixed relief, gratitude, and obedience that Stephen could not transcribe into the minutes.
The Cardinal turned again to his Vicar-General. “What progress on the children’s wing of St. Joseph’s Hospital?”
“Slow but sure, Your Eminence.” The Vicar-General’s heartiness evaporated somewhat as he explained the “slow” part of the progress. “Looking back on it now,” he concluded, “I think we counted rather too heavily on local support.”
“What do you mean by ‘local support’?” asked Glennon. “You didn’t expect contributions from China, did you?”
“I should have said ‘nonsectarian support,’ Your Eminence. Since St. Joseph’s takes in patients of all creeds, we had hoped that a larger share of the money would be forthcoming from Protestant and Jewish sources.”
“The Protestants won’t give it, and the Jews take care of their own,” said Glennon. “But what about the South Boston rectors themselves? Why don’t they run bazaars, raffles? Sixty thousand is not an impossible sum to get from two prosperous parishes.”
Vicar-General Blake put a frank face on the matter. “The truth is, Your Eminence, a feud is boiling up between the two South Boston pastors. McConickey of the old Sacred Heart claims that Melanson at the new Star of the Sea is drawing people away in droves. …”
“Which is precisely the reason I put Melanson there,” barked His Eminence. “Tell McConickey for me that unless he simmers down and—and comes across—there’ll be a scrawling of transfer papers and much loud gnashing of dental plates in outer darkness. How much have they actually raised over there?”
“Twenty-five thousand, give or take a few hundred.”
“Build a fire under them, Tim. Get some steam up. Advise McConickey and Melanson that I’m giving them thirty days to collect the re
st of the money.” Glennon consulted a small calendar at his elbow. “Tell them I’ll lay the cornerstone myself on April fifteenth.”
His Eminence was really administering now. In quick order he pulled the Cathedral Home for Foundlings out of the red by making a personal contribution of ten thousand dollars; displaced an incompetent supervisor of the Working Boys’ Institute; gave his permission to use photographs in The Monitor (quite a departure), and assigned Bishop Mulqueen to inspect the new convent of Poor Clares in West Newton. “Rake it from attic to cellar, Vincent; I want the whole story on the furnace, plumbing, and kitchen facilities. Piety isn’t enough; we’ve got to be sure that these nuns take care of their health.”
The agenda seemed clear when Chancellor Michael Speed lifted a document rolled up like a diploma. “Another petition from the Sons of Assisi,” he said.
“The old tune?” asked Glennon.
Chancellor Speed nodded. “With a couple of new verses. Pretty scurrilous.”
“Read it. No, never mind. I can give it to you backwards: ‘We, the undersigned Italian Americans known as the Sons of Assisi, hereby protest for the twenty-fifth’—or is it thirty-fifth?—‘time against the highhanded attitude of Lawrence Cardinal Glennon in refusing us permission to hear Mass on the premises of 25 Prince Street, a decent edifice purchased by the above-mentioned Sons of Assisi.’” The Cardinal’s diagonal mouth slipped into a wry grin. “Isn’t that the way it runs, Michael?”
“To the dotting of the i’s, Your Eminence. Except that they’ve added a couple of new threats about taking the matter directly to the Minister-General of the Franciscans.”
“Let them take it to the Holy Father himself,” snapped Glennon. “They’ll get no permission to hear or celebrate Mass at 25 Prince Street until they hand over the property—lock, stock, and warranty deed—to the Archdiocese of Boston.” His forefinger shot out in a directive to Stephen. “Write their president, that troublemaking malcontent, Bozzi; send him a stiff letter. Draw his attention to our previous correspondence and state that our position is unchanged.”
His Eminence circled the table with querying eyes. “Is there any further business?” No one spoke. The Cardinal got up, inclined his head; the members of the Congregation for Archdiocesan Affairs rose, bowed back. Stephen opened the door.
“No appointments for the next hour,” said the Cardinal. “I shall be in my chapel.”
In the arch-episcopal stall of his private chapel, Lawrence Glennon knelt gratefully. He was not praying; he was not meditating. The mere act of kneeling always soothed him, relieved the high blood pressure generated by executive tensions. Refreshed by ten minutes on his knees, he sank back into his cushioned stall, cinctured his large abdomen with plump hands, and gave himself up to sweet sedative thoughts of an American Chartres built on a commanding promontory (exact site unknown), with twin spires higher than Bunker Hill Monument.
Yesterday he had seen the tops of those spires quite clearly, but today a cloud of mist enwound the upper part of the structure—and somehow it seemed a little further off. Then too, other buildings had sprung up in front of it—a library, a hospital wing for children, a science laboratory, a convent heated by a modern furnace—buildings lower in stature but more pressingly needed by the Archdiocese.
The Cardinal picked up his crushed-morocco Douay Bible and turned to the Old Testament. He was looking for a certain passage in the Book of Kings, and when he found it, the words were strangely comforting.
And it came to pass … that Solomon began to build a house to the Lord.
And the house which King Solomon built to the Lord was threescore cubits in length, and twenty cubits in breadth, and thirty cubits in height.
And the house when it was in building, was built of stones hewed and made ready, that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building.
So he built the house and finished it; and he covered the house with roofs of cedar.
And the word of the Lord came to Solomon saying:
This house, which thou buildest, if thou wilt walk in my statutes, and execute my judgments, and keep all my commandments, walking in them, I will fulfill my word to thee. …
In the quiet of the chapel, the promises of the Lord seemed very real to His Eminence. He nodded, dozed, dreamed of a temple with ceilings of beaten gold and lily-crowned columns of rich jasper. He snored a little, and was still snoring when Stephen woke him up an hour later.
DAILY, Stephen’s education went forward. As secretary to the Cardinal, he gained a knowledge permitted to few men: the inner workings of a great archdiocese, and the complex operations of Lawrence Glennon’s mind.
The Cardinal’s day began at seven-thirty with Mass in his private chapel, followed by a substantial breakfast of fruit, eggs, toast, marmalade, and coffee—during which His Eminence riffled through the Boston Globe and L’Osservatore Romano, the official Vatican newspaper. At nine, Stephen brought in the mail, already opened and sorted according to Glennon’s stated preference. Contributions, if any, came first; a check for five thousand dollars was a pleasant eye opener; anything larger meant a delightful day. Next came letters from personages lay or clerical. Stephen always tried to top this department with a laudatory puff from some senator or college president, felicitating His Eminence on a nice turn of phrase in a recent episcopal utterance (Glennon, a brilliant pulpit orator, was humanly fond of praise). Official correspondence with rectors and congregational heads came next in order. To some of these Glennon might dictate detailed replies; usually, however, he indicated the line to be taken and let Stephen frame the actual letter. The Cardinal’s rule was that every piece of mail must be acknowledged on the day of its arrival—a task that often kept Stephen and two typists at their desks till late in the evening.
Appointments and conferences began at ten A.M. and went on till four P.M., with a brief halt in mid-flight for a cup of bouillon, a cracker, and an apple. The dark-wainscoted antechamber was always full of pastors, architects, contractors, politicians, erring curates, and assorted favor-beggars. It was Stephen’s job to shuttle them tactfully in and out of the Tower Room or the study with the two pianos, depending on the Cardinal’s mood or the nature of the interview.
Stephen discovered that His Eminence kept three moods in fairly constant rotation. His prevailing tone was abrasive—gritty enough to flick a chunk of skin off an unlucky victim. In this mood, usually induced by high blood pressure, Glennon addressed Stephen as “Father Fermoyle,” and put a caustic edge on the title. (“Your thumbs are curiously prominent today, Father Fermoyle.”) The Cardinal’s second manner was impersonally executive: at such times he called Stephen “Father.” (“Search the archives, Father, for the records of that nineteen-ten Diocesan Synod.”) The third and deepest layer of Glennon’s temperament was fatherly affection, indicated by the use of Stephen’s first name. (“Get me a couple of tickets, Stephen, for the Kreisler concert next Monday. We’ll take a night off together.”) Sometimes His Eminence was jocular. (“Cast your eye over this menu, Stephen,” he would say. “Lowell of Harvard is dining with me tonight. Do you think that escargots à la marseillaise and filet of sole amandine will persuade the Prex that our custom of not eating meat on Friday has its advantages?”)
It was at dinner and afterwards that Glennon laid aside his official personality and emerged as the man of taste, lover of high company, and amateur of the arts. His Eminence had a gourmet’s palate that he gratified not too sparingly at his evening meal. Sometimes he dined alone at a long table gleaming with silver and napery. Two or three times a week he would invite dinner guests—a visiting governor or bishop, a novelist on a lecture tour of New England, the publisher of the Globe or Herald, a soloist appearing with the Boston Symphony—or just an assortment of old friends and clerical colleagues. After the pleasures of table and cellar, His Eminence would lead the way to his music room, where, with little or no encouragement, he would sit down at one of his Steinways and
play Bach and Beethoven with the flair of a superb amateur.
Stephen’s notes, personal observations, and the carbons of his letters might have served as source material for a diocesan history of this period. Boston was expanding, and the volume of Glennon’s affairs was expanding with it. His huge building program was merely one aspect of the ecclesiastic province that he administered with viceregal fidelity to Rome. Yes, to Rome, for despite Glennon’s personal differences with the papal Secretary of State, he preserved a broad outlook on the Universal, Apostolic Roman Catholic Church ruled by the Sovereign Pontiff, Christ’s Vicar on earth. In conformity with the new Codex of Canon Law promulgated by Benedict XV, Glennon had established in Boston a complete Curia modeled on the Roman design. The Archdiocesan Chancery handled matters legal and disciplinarian; the Marriage Tribunal was a first-rate domestic court; the Bureau of Charities, the Auditing Division, and the Office for the Propagation of the Faith—though cut on the Roman pattern—were oriented to American needs and tempo. Only gradually did Stephen realize how vast, intricate, and efficient was the ecclesiastical machine that Glennon kept in motion.
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