The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  “I can do the disclaiming all right,” said the Brown Derby. “It’s the fallacy-chopping part that bothers me.”

  George came in with a practical suggestion. “Suppose the Governor dictates an opening paragraph or two—just to set the tone of the piece. Then you, Stephen, could take it from there. After you finish your draft, the Governor could give the whole thing his personal touch.” George was up to his old trick of pleading, not arguing, his case. “It would be such a lift, Stuffy.”

  Al Smith neither presumed nor thought it politic to second George’s urging. There was a dead silence while the Governor looked at Stephen, Stephen looked at the Governor, and everyone looked at each other.

  The Bishop of Hartfield broke the silence. Genuine regret was in his voice as he addressed the Brown Derby: “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, that I can’t fall in with the suggestion George has made. In the first place, I’d be overstepping ecclesiastic bounds. Second, I lack the ability to cast theologic material into popular form. The only help I can offer is my unofficial opinion on matters touching the relationship between Church and State.”

  Al Smith met Stephen’s frankness with candor of his own. “I understand perfectly, Bishop Fermoyle. My reply to Whiteman, whatever form it finally takes, must be the product of my own conscience. I wouldn’t want your help—and I know you wouldn’t give it—on any other terms.”

  SIX WEEKS LATER, Al Smith’s reply to Dr. Whiteman told the American people exactly what a great Catholic officeholder felt about his religion, his country, and his duties as a public servant. In forthright colloquial language, very much his own, the Brown Derby met every point in the “Open Letter.” Reading the article, Stephen was proud of Smith’s logic and dignity. In particular, the last three paragraphs struck him as being the perfect statement of a man who had kept faith with the ideal of free worship in a democratic State.

  “I summarize my creed as an American Catholic. I believe in the worship of God according to the faith and practice of the Roman Catholic Church. I recognize no power in the institutions of my Church to interfere with the operation of the Constitution of the United States. I believe in absolute freedom of conscience for all men and in equality of all churches, all sects, and all beliefs before the law as a matter of right and not as a matter of favor. I believe in the absolute separation of Church and State and in the strict enforcement of the provisions of the Constitution that Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.

  “I believe that no tribunal of any church has any power to make any decree of any force in the law of the land other than to establish the status of its own communicants within its own church. I believe in the support of the public school as one of the cornerstones of American liberty. I believe in the right of every parent to choose whether his child shall be educated in the public school or in a religious school supported by those of his own faith. I believe in the principles of noninterference by this country in the internal affairs of other nations and that we should stand steadfastly against any such interference by whomsoever it may be urged. And I believe in the common brotherhood of man under the common fatherhood of God.

  “In this spirit I join with fellow Americans of all creeds in a fervent prayer that never again in this land will any public servant be challenged because of the faith in which he has tried to walk humbly with his God.”

  AL SMITH’S forthright reply to Whiteman was a decisive factor in his winning the Democratic nomination. Higher the Brown Derby could not go. In the presidential campaign that followed, he was frightfully smeared. The nation became a wallow of prejudice and partisanship; Protestants revived the old libel that if Smith were elected, he would set up a Vatican annex in Washington; Republicans warned that he would pitch a Tammany wigwam on the White House lawn. The drys screamed that Smith was a creature of the whisky ring. All three—Protestants, Republicans, and drys—said he was a drunk.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the campaign fence, nothing but long-stemmed American beauties, thornless and deliciously scented, were growing. Herbert Hoover had only to cut the choicest blooms and offer them in armfuls to the voters. His speeches were nosegays of complacent prophecy. “The poorhouse is vanishing from among us,” he said in his speech of acceptance. “Given a chance to go forward with the policies of the last eight years, we shall soon be in sight of the day when poverty will be banished from this nation.”

  Hoover believed it; the people believed it, too. On November 6, 1928, the voters, beguiled by promises of two-car garages and a chicken in every pot, gave the Republican party a mandate to continue the policies of the last eight years.

  Eleven months later a dazed people watched their golden dreams of prosperity dissolve in the sizzling acids of panic. The bell that announced the cessation of trading on October 24, 1929, tolled the knell of an era departed forever. The circus philosophy that national well-being could be achieved by jumping through paper hoops of margin came to an abrupt end, and the clowns who had believed it lay stunned and bleeding on the tanbark floor.

  CHAPTER 4

  NOW began the long and tragic travail of depression, lightened only by the fortitude and forbearance of the American people. As the extent and nature of the disaster grew slowly upon the nation, it became apparent that many innocent bystanders were going to be hurt.

  Over the Diocese of Hartfield the blight ran its typical course. Banks began to fail, factories slowed down, workers were laid off, sales dwindled, mortgage foreclosures and evictions turned people out of their homes. Torments of hunger and cold ravaged the country; the pallor of underfed children, and the despair of jobless fathers, deepened. Middle-class families, having spent their savings, drew their curtains and starved with genteel resignation; men and women tramped the streets in search of work, crowded into churches and police stations, seeking relief; stood in lengthening bread lines or begged at the doors of charitable institutions. Instead of two-car garages, Hoovervilles of tin and tar paper rose outside industrial cities.

  On the basis of sheer humanitarianism, the President was urged to make Federal appropriations for relief. Such proposals ran counter to Hoover’s economic philosophy. “I am opposed,” he said, “to any direct or indirect government dole.” Then he added:

  This is not an issue as to whether people shall go hungry or cold. It is solely a question of the best method by which hunger and cold shall be prevented. It is a question as to whether the American people will maintain the spirit of charity and mutual self-help through voluntary giving and the responsibility of local government, as distinguished from appropriations out of the Federal Treasury. My own conviction is strongly that if we break down this sense of responsibility, of individual generosity and mutual self-help, and if we start appropriations of this character, we have not only impaired something infinitely valuable in the life of the American people but have struck at the roots of self-government.

  Admirable as political theory, Hoover’s pronouncement put no bread in hungry mouths. Although the President sincerely believed that the sum of individual effort would overcome the depression, he did not realize that the individual, no matter how rugged, was powerless to combat the cumulative and gigantic disaster that had overtaken society. Individualism had caused the damage, but individualism could not cure it.

  Like every other American community, Hartfield tightened its belt and attempted to combat the depression by local charities and institutional care of the needy. The first winter was a time of hit-or-miss distribution of cash, food, and fuel, as religious and municipal agencies tried to take care of their own. The resulting waste and inefficiency was so deplorable that the Honorable Aloysius P. Noonan, Mayor of Hartfield, summoned a civic conference to remedy the evils of piecemeal welfare.

  Around the Mayor’s table rallied Hartfield’s community leaders; State and Church, bench and bar, banking and commerce—all the buttresses and ornaments of society were there. In cutaway, piped vest, and gray-s
triped tie came Governor Webster Turnbull; as candidate for U. S. Senator the Governor thought it possible that a political plum or two might lurk in the welfare pie. Beside him sat the silver-haired dean of Hartfield’s clergy, the Right (and truly) Reverend Tileston Forsythe, a Methodist-Episcopal in doctrine, a very great Christian in practice. Next down the table was Public Layman Number One—Harmon I. Poole, president of the Hartfield Trust Company, whose initials HIP on a ninety-day note told the borrower exactly who had him—and where. Between Banker Pool and Major Tom Overbaugh, state commander of the Salvation Army, sat the Most Reverend Stephen Fermoyle, D.D., Roman Catholic Bishop of Hartfield.

  Stephen nodded to other community figures ranged about the table. Justice Rigg of the appellate court bowed in acknowledgment of the Bishop’s cordial headshake; Courtney Pike, chairman of the Excelsior Bolt and Screw Corporation, did likewise. No such response, however, came from Mrs. F. Dennison Towle, president of the Planned Motherhood League, who appeared to be polishing a mote in her pince-nez every time Stephen glanced in her direction.

  His Excellency expected trouble from Mrs. Towle before the meeting ended. So did His Honor Mayor Noonan, who rapped for order and opened the meeting with a brief exposition of the dangers boiling up from the vat of hit-or-miss relief. “We must pool our resources in a community fund,” said the Mayor, “otherwise, to mix a figure, this thing will cut us to pieces.”

  A civic babel rose from the conferees. Governor Turnbull wanted to know who’d administer the funds. “Will it become”—he minted a phrase—“a political football?” Harmon I. Poole made a pointed inquiry: “What bank will get the deposits?” Reverend Gilbey Dodds, rector of St. Alfred’s, offered the suggestion (tentative, to be sure): “Shouldn’t proof of church affiliation be required of all persons applying for aid?” Industrialist Courtney Pike took the position that no union member had the right to expect public relief while the union treasuries were loaded—“yes, and I mean loaded.” Mrs. F. Dennison Towle asked beamingly, “Isn’t this a good time to intensify our birth-control activities among the poor?” These and other questions embroiled the meeting; friction threatened the bearings of the community machine. Honest warmth was degenerating into spitting bad temper when Bishop Stephen Fermoyle rose in his place.

  “No one at this table,” he began dryly, “can accuse my Church of lightly regarding her prerogatives in matters of faith or doctrine.” A humorous grunt from Banker Poole and an appreciative smile from Tileston Forsythe greeted his remark. “In ordinary times I would take the position—with all humility and great firmness—that my Church should not yield one iota of her spiritual primacy, or suspend for an instant her right to extend that primacy in every legitimate manner.” Bishop Fermoyle paused to freight his words with emphasis. “I feel, however, that in this hour of common peril, no religion, no civic group, should think in terms of creed or preferment. We must lay aside our sectarian differences. Help must be extended to human beings on the simple basis of need. As Bishop of the Roman Catholic Church in this Diocese, I shall require no proof of religious affiliation from any man or woman who requires assistance. And I pledge, further, that no attempt at proselytizing will be made by any individual or agency under my control.”

  Stephen’s eyes circled the table. “If the members of the committee can make similar guarantees, I shall be glad to contribute one hundred thousand dollars from diocesan monies to the Hartfield Community Fund.”

  The committee loosed its collective breath in a sigh of relief. This was the kind of leadership—backed by the kind of cash—that everyone at the table was waiting for. Everyone? Not Mrs. F. Dennison Towle. The president of the Planned Motherhood League, who had been gunning for Stephen ever since his birth-control letter, planted her pince-nez firmly on the bridge of her nose and aimed a battery of exceptions at her powerful foe.

  “I’m sure we all appreciate Bishop Fermoyle’s generous offer,” she began. “What he says about laying aside religious differences is just splendid. But since the Planned Motherhood League is a nonsectarian organization, I must insist—I really must—that it be allowed to carry on its program, especially among the deserving poor.”

  Mayor Noonan slapped his forehead with a despairing hand. That woman was in again! Webster Turnbull adjusted his gubernatorial cravat: “Now look here, Imogene,” he began placatingly. The Governor had to use that tone in speaking to Imogene Towle because she pulled a hefty oar in the Republican committee boat. Others at the table used other tones, according to their private convictions or theories of public welfare. When the fracas subsided, they all found themselves waiting for Bishop Fermoyle’s verdict. Would he withdraw his offer, excoriate Mrs. Towle, or—as so many others had done in the past—knuckle under to her demand that the Planned Motherhood League be allowed to continue its work?

  Stephen fingered an assortment of barbed answers—any one of which would have destroyed Mrs. F. Dennison Towle. The ugliest retort might have been: “Madame, since your Planned Motherhood League is operating in defiance of law, your hands, legally speaking, are not quite clean. One more peep out of you, and I’ll slap criminal charges against you and your outfit.” Such a remark would have embarrassed both Governor Turnbull and Mayor Noonan; Stephen rejected it. Again he might have said: “Since Mrs. Towle cannot find in her pocketbook enough cash to match the contribution of the Catholic Church, won’t she try in the goodness of her heart, to match its forbearance?” But this smacked too much of the Pharisee. Adroitly, Stephen chose the one argument that would take the most skin off Mrs. Towle’s patrician nose and at the same time apply soothing unguents to everyone else’s.

  “Is it possible,” he asked, “that so distinguished a citizen as Mrs. Towle has forgotten the most salient lesson of our American tradition? May I remind the lady member that when her Pilgrim ancestors signed their mutual-safety pact in the cabin of the Mayflower, no one claimed special rights or exemptions? The common welfare was uppermost then; it is my belief that the common welfare is uppermost now.” Stephen turned to the Mayor. “I am willing, however, to abide by the majority decision in this matter. I move, Mr. Chairman, that we put the lady member’s proposal to a vote.”

  “Second the motion,” said Appellate Justice Rigg.

  In the vote that followed, the lady member’s proposal was defeated, eight to three.

  Briskly now, the committee proceeded to set a goal of $1,500,000 for the Community Fund, to be administered by a nonsectarian, non-political board consisting of the Mayor, the Reverend Gilbey Dodds, H. I. Poole, president of the Hartfield Trust Company (who had to be satisfied with half the deposits), Major Overbaugh of the Salvation Army, and the Bishop of the Roman Catholic Church. A firm of professional fund raisers offered their services gratis. In the door-to-door campaign that followed, the giant thermometer on Hartfield Common climbed from zero to boiling point in ten days. A sum of $1,650,000 was collected, every penny of which went into food, fuel, and clothing for the needy citizens of Hartfield.

  Mrs. F. Dennison Towle continued privately to bring jellied broth, concert tickets, and contraceptive devices to the deserving poor.

  IN FEBRUARY, 1930, Stephen learned that unauthorized nuns were begging in the factory towns of his Diocese. The method and scale of the begging suggested that a resourceful mind was behind the operation. On payday in various cities, two or three gray-habited nuns would stand at factory gates, basins in hand, soliciting alms of the workers. After skimming off a thin collection of dimes and quarters, the nuns would disappear, only to pop up next week in another town.

  From several sources Stephen got the same details: gray-habited nuns, agate basins, quick fadeaway, and sudden reappearance at some distant point. He wrote letters to all the convents in his Diocese, requesting further information, but no one knew anything about the gray nuns. The mystery came down to this: who was begging, and for what purpose?

  Stephen determined to investigate the matter personally. Knowing that Thursday was payday in one of the la
rge electrical plants near the Rhode Island border, he drove out alone in his Buick one sleety afternoon and sat in his car, waiting for the mendicant nuns to appear.

  Ten minutes before closing time, a trio of gray-habited women took their places at the factory gates; as the workers streamed out, Stephen saw the sisters holding out their basins in dumb, piteous appeal. The sight of holy women standing in the snow was too much for the workers; from thin pay envelopes everyone dropped a small coin into the basin. The whole procedure was beautifully timed and staged. When it was over, the nuns dumped their coins into a canvas bag carried by their leader, and caught an outgoing bus by the handles.

  In the sleety twilight, Stephen followed the bus several miles through a semirural section lying between Lancaster and Hopedale. It was dusk when the nuns alighted and started walking down an unplowed road. Stephen parked his car at a gas station and trailed them on foot until they disappeared through an arched gateway. He approached the gate and read a small sign bearing the single word: Misericordia.

  Pushing open the gate, he entered a desolate courtyard. A low rambling house, dormered and wide-verandaed in an outmoded style of architecture, stood under melancholy pines. Unshoveled snow clogged the steps. The falling sleet, a low wind moaning through the trees, and a single dimly lighted window on the second floor created an almost sinister atmosphere. What was going on in this gloomy house? Stephen opened the front door and walked in. Stale deodorants lay on the cold air. A candle stuck in a baking-powder tin threw flickering shadows on a number of closed doors on the drafty lower floor. Listening at the first door, Stephen heard a sepulchral groan. From the second came a gasping low cry; from the third, frightened whimpers.