The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  In seven years Quarenghi had not changed; his duties might be different, his responsibilities new, but he was still the teacher of the Logos, the utterer of consecrated truth. His purity reminded Stephen of an indestructible substance, capable of dissolving other substances, yet immune itself to dissolution.

  Like distance runners settling down to a comfortable jog, the two friends lengthened out their conversational stride. Quarenghi was fascinated by Stephen’s account of the obscure numberless duties in the life of a parish priest, and sat like a man listening to music while Stephen described his pastorate in L’Enclume. The feeling of the pines and the distribution of the profits on a co-operative basis particularly interested him. And he was visibly moved when Stephen told of Paul Ireton’s setting forth to found a new parish with only a nickel in his pocket.

  “How much is a nickel?” asked Quarenghi.

  “About a lira.”

  “Think of starting a church with one lira! What enormous courage and vitality you American Catholics must have!”

  “I’m glad to hear you acknowledge it, Alfeo.” Stephen spoke with the frankness permitted in any discussion between intellectual equals. “Sometimes we get the impression in the United States that Rome regards America as a sort of stepchild.”

  “Stepchild?” Quarenghi strove gently to correct the implication. “The Church extends her love and solicitude equally to all her children.”

  Stephen dared be dry. “That solicitude wasn’t convincingly demonstrated in the recent conclave—or the one before it.”

  Quarenghi acknowledged the touch. “I can’t blame you for feeling as you do, Stefano.” He arose and paced thoughtfully against the backdrop of his bookshelves. “I am violating no confidence when I tell you that His Holiness is much worried about the clause in the Apostolic Constitution that makes it impossible for American cardinals to reach Rome in time for a papal election. He is eager to remedy that injustice. Has your Cardinal yet had his audience with the Holy Father?”

  “No. It’s scheduled for tomorrow at eleven.”

  “Good. Let him be prepared to mention the matter of the ‘ten-day rule’ when he speaks with the Holy Father in camera.” The cinnabar glow from the brazier threw Quarenghi’s long shadow across bare walls as he strode up and down the monastic room. “I am grateful to you, Stefano, for having opened my thinking on this subject. Never before have I viewed the situation with quite such clarity. It is possible that the Holy See’s preoccupation with the Old World may have been responsible for her seeming neglect of the New. And a certain provincialism in American prelates may have blinded them to the universal nature of the Church.”

  Quarenghi blew the fading charcoal into a brighter glow. “Our governing thought for the future should be—how can Rome and America be brought to a closer understanding of each other’s problems? Adjustments must be made, points of view reconciled. American energy, instructed and guided by Rome, may well be the decisive factor in the difficult years ahead.”

  Quarenghi tempered his vision of the future with a realistic awareness of the tempo at which life travels. “Mind you, this work of regeneration will not happen overnight. Decades, generations—centuries, perhaps—must pass before the task is completed.” He paused at Stephen’s chair as if to measure the younger man’s response to his words. “Would you be willing to dedicate your life to a task that certainly will not be finished in my time—or yours?”

  “Whatever is worth doing,” said Stephen, “is worth doing slowly.”

  “You have the great temperament, Stefano. Universal enough to be Roman; outspoken enough to be American. What a joy it would be to work with you!”

  Moon-blanched clouds were riding above Michelangelo’s mighty dome as Stephen left Quarenghi’s lodgings at midnight. Across deserted courtyards, through shadowy colonnades, he came to the Archway of the Bells. From his heart arose a chorale—echoes of his conversation with Quarenghi—the upper cymbal of aspiration ringing against the realistic metal of fact. The percussion filled Stephen with the sound that life makes at its best, and the reverberations of that sound were triumphant, selfless, slow.

  BY AN auspicious union of faith and architecture, the thousand rooms of the Apostolic Palace lead inevitably to a spacious second-floor chamber overlooking St. Peter’s courtyard. This, the combined library and workshop of the Supreme Pontiff, is the room nearest the tomb of the Founding Apostle. Across its threshold flows a daylong stream of personages, lay and ecclesiastical: rulers and envoys of foreign powers; cardinals prefect and Palatine assistants; heads of tribunals and congregations, chamberlains of the papal household, and canons of the Cathedral chapter—all seeking audience with the unique executive who directs the destinies of the Roman Catholic Church. They state their business, present their pleas to the white-cassocked, red-slippered man who combines in his person the triple powers of legislator, judge, and priest. Though the manner of approach is strictly prescribed, and though the pontiff employs the royal “we” in his locutions, he conducts the interviews with as much human patience and personal tact as God and experience have placed at his command. Infallible only when defining matters of faith and morals, ex cathedra, the Supreme Pontiff is not exempt from the possibility of error in his temporal judgments. It is this latter consideration, perfectly realized by the wearer of the triple crown, that makes his diadem a burden of grievous weight.

  On the morning of February 22, 1922, His Holiness Pope Pius XI, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, and Primate of Italy, sat behind the long table in his private study. The scholarly, spectacled Pope was giving thought between audiences to the multiple cares of his office. Barely ten days had elapsed since the beginning of his pontificate; echoes of the solemn coronation chant, “Tu es Petrus” had scarcely subsided when the groans of a distracted world broke in upon the pontiff’s human ear. From every quarter of the globe, chords of misery were rising. Europe was sunk in a postwar abyss of physical and economic exhaustion; Austria, long a bastion of the Church, lay broken and starving; Ireland grappled in civil strife with England. In the Soviet north, torches of Antichrist were being lighted. In the Quirinal Palace, once the property of the Holy Sec, a discredited king made fumbling attempts to rescue the Italian people from pits of anarchy. And above the clash of parties, a black-shirted demagogue was bellowing his violent prescription for the ills consuming Italy.

  So much for the world. And what of the Vatican itself? Still a prison, and its occupant still a prisoner. It occurred to the pontiff that his life span coincided almost exactly with the Holy See’s refusal to acknowledge the seizure of its temporal domains by the House of Savoy in 1870. Voluntary imprisonment within the Vatican walls was the only weapon the papacy could use against its despoilers. Morally, that weapon had been most effective; the spiritual credit of the Vatican had never been higher than at present. But financially, the Holy See was at its lowest ebb. The Supreme Pontiff had not been surprised, on querying the Apostolic treasurer, to discover that the papal coffers were almost empty.

  Billions of lire were due from the Italian government in settlement of the estates it had torn from the papacy. But not a single centesimo of this bribe had ever been accepted by the Holy See. Sooner or later the vexing Roman question that had plagued the relations between Vatican and Quirinal for fifty years would have to be settled. Meanwhile Pius XI would continue to remain a voluntary recluse within the Leonine Wall rather than be a pensioner of the House of Savoy.

  Dark indeed was the horizon. From one quarter only, a gleam of hope appeared. America! The western star, ruddy with faith, was rising in the heavens. True, Rome had hitherto paid scant attention to that star. Rumors had reached the pontiff’s ear that Vatican indifference to American affairs was beginning to be interpreted as a wanton slight to twenty million loyal Catholics of the English-speaking New World.

  High on the Holy Father’s calendar this balmy spring morning was a program for strengtheni
ng the ties between Rome and its prosperous provinces of the West. In a few moments the prince regnant of one of those provinces—Lawrence Cardinal Glennon of Boston—was scheduled for audience. Pius XI scanned the two sheets of memoranda, refreshing his memory on the subject of the United States in general and the Archdiocese of Boston in particular. One memorandum, containing a vast amount of usefully compressed information, was signed by Quarenghi. The other, touching more intimately upon the personal history of Lawrence Glennon, bore the signature of Merry del Val.

  At the door of the papal study appeared the maestro di camera, traditionally ruffed and veloured. “His Eminence Lawrence Cardinal Glennon, Archbishop of Boston, is in the secret antechamber, Your Holiness.”

  “We are ready to receive His Eminence.” The Supreme Pontiff, like any other executive easing muscular tension before an important interview, adjusted the bibelots nearest him on his desk. He moved a gilt statuette of St. Ambrose, patron of scholars, two inches to the left, and thrust a gold medal awarded him by the Società Alpinista (His Holiness had been in his youth a distinguished mountain climber) a trifle to the right. He leaned forward to bury his face in a bunch of pink and white cherry blossoms on his desk, then felt in the fob pocket of his white cassock for an article much loved but no longer needed.

  As the library door opened to admit the American Cardinal, Pius XI arose to receive the homage of his visitor. From the infallible side of the table he saw the corpulent figure of a man about his own age, sinking to the full kneeling posture prescribed by papal etiquette. Through a pair of high-myopia spectacles, His Holiness watched Cardinal Glennon rise with considerable difficulty and advance to the center of the room. Before the American could begin his second genuflection the Supreme Pontiff came around the end of the table, hands outstretched, myopic eyes tender with pity.

  “Let us dispense with this kneeling, dear Brother. Our joints are too old for that. Take this armchair … I will sit on the sofa.” Pius XI could be affable; he knew every tactic of charm. Observing that Glennon’s short legs dangled an inch or two from the floor, the Pope slid a gold-embroidered hassock under the feet of his guest.

  “We are deeply concerned about your high blood pressure, caro Glennon,” he began. “Did our Italian physicians succeed in lowering the column of mercury that rises in their terrible instrument?”

  The Pope’s solicitude soothed Glennon. The hassock under his feet gave him the double security of touching bottom and of being cared for—feelings quite different from those that Giacobbi aroused. Comfortably he folded his plump hands. Pius XI was a man one could talk to.

  “Your Italian physicians are wonder-workers, Holy Father. The herb tea of Dr. Velletria began my cure, but your kindness in sending Dr. Marchiafava completed it. I am most thankful to Your Holiness.”

  From across a gulf of authority the Pope lifted his hand (the one bearing Peter’s ring) and made deprecatory nothings in the air. “We elders must cherish each other. Can you not imagine how Moses must have grieved when one of his beloved counselors fell ill?”

  The Holy Father’s Biblical reference put the conversation just where Glennon wanted it. The Sacred College of Cardinals was the Roman Catholic counterpart of the seventy elders named by Moses to aid him in governing the tribes of Israel. But the Hebrew elders had this advantage over Glennon: they were not obliged to race across perilous seas in order to attend a council!

  With the delicate tool that the pontiff, consciously or not, had supplied, the American Cardinal proceeded to make his point.

  “The Holy Father is most flattering when he suggests comparison between a Hebrew elder and myself. Unquestionably, Moses grieved when one of his advisers, either through illness—or some other cause”—Glennon was tactfully oblique—“was unable to take part in the councils of Israel.” A winning candor, tinct with dryness, seasoned Glennon’s smile. “But can Your Holiness imagine the disappointment of the absent elder? How luckless, how stricken by God the poor man must have felt when the council met without him!”

  “A Talmudic nicety, dear Brother,” said the Pope. “We are obliged to admire the finesse of your argument. Indeed, you could not have more subtly laid bare a problem that has long troubled us. The Holy See laments the injustice that has hitherto deprived American cardinals from participating in a conclave.” Having acknowledged so much, the Pope paused to consolidate his position with a query. “Have you any thoughts as to how the injustice may be remedied?”

  The question was fair, the answer frank. “Since Your Holiness invites suggestion, may I point out that the ten-day provision of the Apostolic Constitution is the key to the situation. Might not the time be extended, so that American cardinals may enjoy in future conclaves the solemn privilege of casting their ballots in a papal election?”

  Pius XI recognized the justice of the plea. “It is within our power,” he said, “to extend the period between the Pope’s decease and the opening of the conclave. We will do so by altering the Apostolic Constitution. Hereafter fifteen days—eighteen if necessary—shall elapse before the balloting begins.”

  Moved by the generosity of the papal concession, Glennon bowed his head. The heartbreak and humiliation of his voyage had not been in vain. “I am most grateful, Holy Father. Personally and in behalf of twenty million loyal American Catholics, lay and clerical, I thank you.”

  With his forefinger Pius XI tapped Glennon’s skullcap lightly. “And we respond, dear Brother, by thanking you for your straightforward presentation of the matter. Had you failed to speak truthfully”—a teasing note entered the pontiff’s voice—“you would not be worthy to celebrate the birthday of your great countryman, George Washington.”

  The Roman pontiff smiled at Glennon’s amazement. “Did you think us wholly ignorant of American history? We can scarcely blame you. Our knowledge of the United States is slight—too slight perhaps. Yet such as it is, we sometimes find it rewarding.” Pius XI removed his glasses, and polished the thick lenses reflectively. “While saying Mass this morning we were struck by a most unusual coincidence. As you know, today is the Feast of St. Peter’s Chair—the day on which our Lord founded His Church on the rock Peter.”

  “A glorious feast, Your Holiness. May it be celebrated throughout the world till the end of time!”

  The Roman pontiff slipped his gold-rimmed spectacles over his nose, and gazed curiously at Glennon. “Does it not seem a good omen that this date, February twenty-second, should also be the anniversary of your founding father, Washington?”

  “An omen almost prophetic, Your Holiness. The marvel is that no one, either in Rome or America, has ever pointed it out before.”

  Pius XI grasped the teaching ferule of his office. “Many things must be pointed out. Henceforth, Rome and America must vie with each other in discovering elements of common strength. Is it meaningless that one of our most ancient titles is Patriarch of the West? In the time at our command, Lord Cardinal, let us speak of ways and means whereby two great Western institutions can become better acquainted.”

  For an hour they talked, the Italian pontiff soliciting American support in the coming years of his reign, and the full-blooded Cardinal renewing his devotion to Rome by this exchange of views with his Supreme Pontiff. The Pope spoke enthusiastically of the work being done by the North American College in Rome and agreed with Glennon’s suggestion that its buildings should be remodeled. His Holiness expressed pleasure at the splendid organization of Glennon’s Archdiocese, based on the pattern of the Roman Curia. “A model for the New World,” were the Holy Father’s exact words. Whereupon His Eminence sincerely praised the new Codex Juris Canonici as a work of amazing clarity and compression. Which indeed it was. Glennon spoke of Orselli’s kindness in waiting off the tip of Cape Cod, and Pius XI made a note of the Captain’s name.

  With great frankness the pontiff then discussed the finances of the Holy See. “Our treasury was never more depleted,” he sighed. At this point Glennon bade the Holy Father be of good courage. �
�America will carry an increasing part of your burden,” he promised.

  His Holiness, without binding himself by commitments of any kind, sounded Glennon on the subject of increasing the number of American cardinals. “In your opinion,” asked Pius, “should not the Archbishop of Chicago be elevated to cardinalitial rank?”

  “Such an elevation is deeply deserved, and would be warmly applauded by the entire United States,” replied Glennon.

  The hour being almost over, His Holiness turned to more personal matters. “We learn—no matter where or how—that the journey to Rome cost you your sapphire, dear Brother.”

  “Yes, Holy Father. I gave it—”

  Pius XI held up his hand to indicate that details were unnecessary. “Suffice that you gave it away in a brave attempt to reach the conclave.” Like a father rewarding a dutiful son, the pontiff put two fingers into a fob pocket and drew out a beveled sapphire. “We no longer have need of this ring.” He pressed it into Glennon’s plump hand. “It gives us great pleasure to present it to our beloved brother in Christ.”

  Glennon was almost speechless. “Your generosity humbles me,” he managed to murmur.

  “Who humbleth himself shall be exalted.” To indicate that the audience was over, His Holiness arose and escorted Glennon to the door of the library. The pontiff’s left hand was on the American’s shoulder; his right hand was turning the chased bronze doorknob when he remembered something.

  “You have as your secretary a gifted young priest named Fermoyle?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. Father Fermoyle is a valued assistant, tested and proved on many occasions.”

  “We have had golden opinions of him from those closest to us. Monsignor Quarenghi speaks highly of his linguistic powers, and Cardinal Merry del Val describes his personal charm in glowing terms.” His Holiness made a curious remark. “We are also informed that he is singularly without fear in the presence of his ecclesiastic superiors.”