The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  He returned to Rome on October 29 to find the city ominously quiet under the hand of Mussolini. II Duce had marched on Rome at last, not with flashing banners but in a sleeping car. The dictator who was to lead the Italian people through an era of seeming triumph, and fearful degradation, had descended on the Eternal City while its citizens were all asleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NEXT THREE YEARS were for Stephen a time of tempering and growth. He weathered that critical period in the mid-thirties when a man discovers that either he must generate new energies or lie down in the living grave of mediocrity. He reorganized his life on a basis of rigid economy. Attitudes and activities that did not buttress the temple of his priesthood were ruthlessly lopped off. He refused all social invitations, smiled less often, lost some of his fresh coloring; for impact he depended not so much on personal charm as on his basic deposit of character. In spite of an ascetic way of life (his only indulgence was an occasional after-dinner cigar), he became heavier about the neck and shoulders: at thirty-eight his hair began to show rafters of gray. Three years in Rome transformed Stephen into a stern, unglittering administrator of the Universal Church.

  Gradually, the wisdom of Ghislana Falerni’s proverb began to come true. “Time makes love pass.” Under the rasp of day-to-day duties, Roberto’s faunlike profile became less sharply etched. Occasionally Stephen would turn to share a transport of happiness, only to find a fading ghost where once a living friend had stood. He added Roberto’s name to the list of people for whom he prayed. Ghislana Falerni’s name was on the list also, but he saw or heard from her no more.

  Stephen’s relations with his Vatican colleagues and superiors had long ago passed through the apprentice phase. He was firmly entrenched now in the confidence—and confidences—of Quarenghi and Guardiano. Even Giacobbi changed his matador tactics in dealing with the American Monsignor. The Cardinal Secretary’s brusque manner could never entirely disappear, but, after Stephen had completed several difficult assignments, Giacobbi began to put brakes on his peevishness. In its place, a twitting humor emerged. It pleased the Sicilian to rally Stephen on the subject of American dollar diplomacy. When, in 1924, the United States lent Germany two billions under the Dawes Plan—hailed at the time as a great marvel of finance—Giacobbi burst into guffaws:

  “The Vatican’s monetary troubles are over,” he roared. “This very day I shall advise His Holiness to declare war on the United States. Then, after our Household Guard takes its trouncing, we shall apply to our conquerors for a fat loan. How much do you advise us to ask for, Monsignor Fermoyle?”

  “As much as the traffic will bear. Don’t hold back on my account, Your Eminence.” Two years ago Stephen would have flushed with anger; now he could let the barb bounce off harmlessly. Giacobbi noted the difference and murmured something about a thick skin being one of the ultimate gifts of the Holy Ghost.

  From his tiny cubicle Stephen was summoned with increasing frequency into the presence of Pius XI, either to brief the Holy Father on some aspect of the American scene or to act as interpreter for distinguished English-speaking visitors. The Pope was actively seeking to strengthen the ties between Rome and the United States; as an earnest of his purpose, he bestowed red hats on Archbishop Mundelein of Chicago and Patrick Hayes of New York, thus increasing to four the number of American cardinals in the Sacred College. His Holiness laid himself out to be particularly gracious when bishops from the United States made their ad limina journeys to Rome. In long, cordial audiences Pius XI would question the visitor about his administrative problems and American affairs generally. What was the seating capacity of the parochial schools in the bishop’s jurisdiction—the number of beds in his hospitals? Were the seminaries and religious orders thriving? Had the bishop noticed any falling off in the number or quality of candidates for the priesthood? Consulting a memorandum, His Holiness might inquire: “Do the foreign-language minorities in your diocese appear to be contented with their English-speaking pastors?”

  At the end of the audience the visiting prelate would be deeply impressed by the pontiff’s precise and specific information. “How does the Holy Father know so much about my diocese?” was a question the bishop would inevitably ask when he found himself alone with Stephen after the interview.

  “His Holiness has many sources of information,” Stephen would say, tactfully omitting to add that he himself had drawn up the memorandum for the pontiff’s guidance.

  Increasingly close contacts with the Holy Father’s person and office gave Stephen a profounder insight into the organization of the Universal Church. He was amazed by the volume and variety of business that flowed across Vatican desks; by every instrument of communication—telegraph, telephone, air post, and wireless (not to mention dog sled, dory, kayak, shank’s mare, and word of mouth)—reports flowed in from every part of the world. The baptism of an obscure African tribe by Dominican missionaries, the laying of a convent cornerstone in Wales, or a squabble between an Australian bishop and his cathedral chapter, were reported as soon as they occurred. Twelve major congregations, each governed by a Cardinal Prefect, acted as nerve ganglia relaying impulses from all parts of the mystical body to the visible head of the Church. Each congregation sent voluminous reports to the Holy Father; no matter how carefully the chaff was sifted out, or how fine the good grain was milled, a huge stack of documents—involving delicate matters of faith, diplomacy, and finance—always lay awaiting the final disposition that only the Pope could give. Merely to read the material was a crushing labor that kept a light burning till long past midnight in the Pope’s private apartment on the third floor of the Vatican.

  The core of the pontiff’s character, Stephen discovered, was his unyielding stubbornness in matters affecting the spiritual prerogatives of the Holy See. He regarded as basic and inalienable the right of the Church to teach, extend, and conserve the faith. In bull after bull he proclaimed this position; by means of concordats with Germany, France, and Poland, he secured spiritual rights for Roman Catholics in those countries. And with Mussolini, Pius XI arrived at a modus vivendi guaranteeing freedom of worship and religious education to Roman Catholics in Italy.

  Under the robes and ritual of his office, Pius XI emerged clearly as a human being. Stephen found him to be wonderfully patient about long-range objectives but apt to be flash-tempered on the short haul. Stupidity, slowness of speech, or carrying water on both shoulders irked the Holy Father. He liked men who could crack the nut of a problem quickly and serve up its meat without shells. Stephen once heard him exclaim irritably: “Must we spend our life listening to things we already know!” Yet he made no claim to omniscience and could be on occasion quite humorous about the gaps in his knowledge. Once during an audience with Bishop John T. Spraker of Indiana, His Holiness became expansive on the physical grandeur of the United States. “Your snow-spiked Rockies—how I should love to see them! What a challenge for climbing! And those enormous stretches on which you grow your wheat”—he turned to Stephen—“how do you call them—pampas, savannas?”

  “We call them prairies, Your Holiness.”

  “Prairies, of course. ‘Pampas schooner’ wouldn’t sound quite right, would it?” The pontiff beamed myopically on Bishop Spraker. “You see, dear Brother, how geography limits our infallibility.”

  In his strictly mortal aspects Achille Ratti was a man who ate sparingly of fruits, cheese, and vegetable soup, drank nothing stronger than cocoa (which he liked), and slept about five hours a day. His schedule began with daily Mass in his private chapel at six-thirty A.M., followed by breakfast consisting of a buttered roll and a bowl of cocoa. From eight to ten he handled his enormous correspondence. Then followed a series of conferences with his chief cardinal advisers; later came audiences with bishops, abbots, and distinguished personages lay or clerical. At two P.M. the Pope lunched alone (by tradition he was never permitted to break bread at the same table with others). Then came a short siesta and more official business till five. After a solit
ary walk in the Vatican gardens, he took a supper of consommé Romana—a broth enriched with eggs—followed by pears, cheese, and more cocoa. He then picked up the Osservatore Romano, the Vatican newspaper, and read every word in its pages. Around nine P.M. he entered his private study and began on the pile of documents and reports on his desk. Feast days added a tremendous weight of religious ceremonial and public blessings to this man-killing schedule. Under the burden of his office, Pius XI developed the gnarly strength found in lone firs that have plunged their roots into some rocky cleft at the edge of the snow line. No man could have been higher in personal asceticism, deeper in devotion to his Vicarate, lonelier, more isolated as a human being.

  EASTER MONDAY, 1924. The Paschal feast had been marked with services of extraordinary beauty at St. Peter’s; now in green vestments both Church and nature entered upon the joyous cycle of resurrection. Stephen sat at his inlaid desk, examining a petition of certain French-Canadian fishing parishes—alleging invasion of their lobster-trapping rights by an American syndicate. The matter was complicated: a dozen international treaties had been broken, and Stephen was preparing to study the law covering the subject when his telephone rang.

  It was Gaetano Orselli; the Captain’s voice gurgled with excitement. “I must see you, Stefano. There is news of the first importance—news that can be related only over a bottle of wine. Meet me for dinner tonight at the Café Sorrento on the Via delle Botteghe Oscure. You’ll recognize me by the flower in my mouth!”

  The flower in Orselli’s mouth was a blossoming grin that spread uncontrollably over his face as he greeted Stephen. They sat down to a tureen of excellent soup, and a cutlet parmigiana. The first bottle of Falerno had disappeared before Stephen had a chance to ask:

  “What’s your news? Political? Have you been offered the Navy portfolio in II Duce’s government?”

  “Portfolio? Il Duce? Trivia! Stephen, my news is of the heart. I am Romeo, and you are Friar Lawrence.” Orselli lifted a glass, struck his breast in a mock mea culpa. “Shrive me, Father, that I may be worthy to touch the hem of an angel become woman.”

  “Riddling confession gets but riddling shrift. What’s this Romeo business? The last time we talked, you were off women for life.”

  “Women in the plural, yes. You now behold a man who thinks and speaks only of the Woman—singular and unique. Stephen, I’ve found her!”

  “Not the ‘impossible she’ with the town house, the country house, the title, the income, and—oh yes, I almost forgot—the star dust in her hair?”

  Orselli was dead sober. “You have every right to be skeptical, Stefano. I admit I’ve sailed a zigzag course; my love log is full of lying entries written in a careless hand. But now I know how the compass needle feels when the polestar grips it. Compulsion, surrender, peace. And not the peace of passivity!” Orselli chose a marine simile: “It is like the dreaming quietness at the center of a turbine whirling at full speed.”

  “You’re in sad shape, Captain. Where did you meet this female turbine?”

  “At Capri, barely a month ago. At the first exchange of glances I felt my soul slipping out of me. At the next exchange, it was returned to me doubly charged. I was almost prostrated. Until I met Ghislana Falerni I could not believe that such intensity of emotion existed. You stare? You doubt me?”

  “Am I staring? I … I happen to know the Contessa Falerni.”

  “How you clerical rogues get about! Then you can understand what I’m trying to say. Don’t you agree that she resembles a Corneille heroine—Phèdre, perhaps?”

  “She is a woman of unusual charm.”

  “Come, this is lukewarm, Stefano. Speak freely; you have taste and judgment in these matters. Did you ever hear such a voice? A brook, silver-pebbled. And where but on an Attic frieze could one find such a torso? Forgive me, my friend, for mentioning such matters—but she is mortal flesh, this promised bride of mine. Do you wonder at my happiness? Congratulate me, Stefano.”

  An inward agony was beginning in Stephen as he clasped Orselli’s hand. “Has the marriage date been fixed?”

  “We are to be wed early in June. I would ask you to perform the ceremony, but Cardinal Merry del Val is an old friend of the family. You understand how these things are?”

  “Quite.”

  “But you’ll come to the nuptials, of course? The privilege of kissing the bride is being limited to a few trusted friends.”

  Stephen’s agony was mounting. Am I still not free of her? Must I go bound forever? He felt cornered as Orselli went into lyrical transports about Ghislana Falerni’s person and accomplishments. How can I get out of here without exposing myself? If this gloating libertine continues to smack his fat lips …

  Orselli nipped an after-dinner Havana between his fine square teeth, lighted it leisurely. Its oily fragrance drifting across the table suggested a plan of escape.

  “I’ve acquired a new vice,” Stephen heard himself saying. “If your cigars are very mild, I’ll celebrate the occasion by smoking one with you.”

  “Forgive me, dear friend.” The Captain extended his case. “Try this Vuelta. I recommend it for body and aroma. Ah, the solace of tobacco. As your Kipling says—‘A woman is only a woman. …’”

  Stephen lighted up, simulated the appreciative puff of the connoisseur. “Tell me your plans, Captain. Will you give up the sea?”

  “Yes, my sailing days are over. My bride is a land creature; hereafter, her element will be mine. Fortunately, I have been offered a shore berth, the post of Examiner-General for the Italian Line.”

  “I suppose you’ll entertain a great deal.” (Keep the talk impersonal.)

  “I dare say. Ghislana is a born hostess. Her services should be valuable in bringing Quirinal and Vatican closer together. How do you like that cigar?”

  “Excellent. It seems a trifle strong.”

  “You are burning the tobacco too fast. Most Americans smoke that way. Of course we shall manage to steal away for a summer of honeymooning at Capri. Ghislana has an estate there. An estate—what am I saying?—an Eden, rather.” Orselli’s tongue caressed the Vuelta. “Doesn’t it seem a miracle to you, Stefano, that after my lifelong furrowing of the sea, I should find this perfect haven in marriage?”

  “Miraculous, as you say.” Drops of sweat began to form on Stephen’s forehead. He wiped them away ostentatiously with his handkerchief. “Am I imagining, or is it warm in here?”

  “No, it’s rather cool.”

  Stephen took an enormous drag at the Vuelta. “Perhaps it’s this cigar.”

  “Relish it more slowly. Your ash is an inch longer than mine already. Here, drop it in this tray.” Orselli picked up the ash tray at his elbow, and slid it across the table. It was a common enough piece of native Roman pottery—pink clay, cheaply kilned and bordered with an egg-and-dart design. Dizzied by the fumes of his cigar, Stephen leaned forward to flick its ash when his eye caught the motto painted on the tray.

  L’AMORE

  FA PASSARE

  IL TEMPO;

  IL TEMPO

  FA PASSARE

  L’AMORE

  Love makes time pass; time makes love pass!

  “Tell me now,” Orselli was saying, “when and where did you meet my Ghislana?”

  Napkin to his lips, Stephen rose limply. “Sorry, Gaetano, I’ll have to get out of here. Your cigar has made me feel greenish.” Unsteadily he started for the door. Outside, in the Street of Dark Shops, he leaned against a brick wall and was wretchedly sick.

  Orselli, all solicitude, hovered near by. “Shall I take you home, Stefano?”

  “No, no. Just call a cab. I’ll be all right soon as I can lie down quietly.” He attempted a sickly grin. “I guess I’m not the cigar smoker I thought I was.”

  Convulsions of nausea racked Stephen all the way home. Between seizures, the egg-and-dart design on the ash tray whirled like a pinwheel pivoting on a cruel nail:

  Il tempo fa passare l’amore. …

  BY IMMEMORIAL cu
stom and papal decree, the Holy Door in St. Peter’s Basilica is opened every twenty-five years. The origins of this ancient tradition go back to the times of Boniface VIII, who, in 1300, caused a section of St. Peter’s wall to be broken open as a token of sanctuary to men of all faiths. The custom persists. At quarter-century intervals the reigning pontiff taps a certain brick (previously loosened by stonemasons), and the brick tumbles to the ground. Other bricks are removed; the door remains open all during the Holy Year, and through its portals a multitude of the faithful—shawled, kilted, hooded, caped, sandaled, and veiled—pours into the great basilica.

  During the Holy Year 1925, one million two hundred thousand pilgrims journeyed to Rome for the festivities, solemn and joyous, that mark the opening and closing of the Holy Door. They came to obtain the Jubilee indulgence granted to all who fulfilled the prescribed conditions. Rather mild conditions they were. The pilgrim was required only to visit each of the four major basilicas in Rome: St. Peter’s, St. Paul’s Without the Walls, St. John Lateran, and St. Mary’s Major, reciting in each three Our Father’s, three Hail Mary’s, and three Glory Be’s. Then having made a good confession and received Communion, he received a plenary indulgence.

  In 1925 the streets of Rome were thronged with pilgrims bearing flowers and statues to their favorite shrine. Among them was Celia Fermoyle. Five years of scrimping on her “house money,” together with a few sundry oddments wheedled out of Florrie, plus a hundred dollars sent by Stephen, had enabled her to buy a round-trip ticket from Boston to the Eternal City. She wanted to see, particularly, the building in which her priest-son worked, and to hear the Sistine Choir singing High Mass. Celia’s other ideas concerning Rome bordered on the shadowy side—as Stephen discovered when calling upon his mother at the Cenacle of the Blue Sisters, where he had made a reservation for her two weeks’ sojourn in the Holy City.