The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  Sister Superior whirled sharply. “Who is jingling bells here?” she challenged. No answer. No need of one. The source of the unholy tinkling was clearly evident as Regina knelt at the rail.

  Sister Superior approached the suspect. “Regina Byrne,” she asked grimly, “are you shaking any bells?”

  Innocence itself creamed Regina’s voice. “No, Sister.” (They certainly were all looking at her now.)

  “Then where did that jingling sound come from?” Sister Superior laid hold of Regina’s shoulder and shook her experimentally. A muffled carillon emerged from somewhere under Regina’s clothes. The sound was so unbelievably shocking that Sister Superior did not shake the child again.

  “Step into the sacristy,” she said. “I propose to find out where this indecent noise is coming from.”

  With a proud little swagger Regina walked toward the sacristy, tinkling her bells as she went. Walking past Charlie Dunne, she smiled; big-eyed, he stared at her, grinned back.

  Regina floated into the sacristy in a haze of triumph. She was glad of all that had happened, and only slightly afraid of the consequences. “They won’t dare do anything to me,” she told herself. “My Uncle Stephen’s a bishop—he’ll ostracize them.”

  Sister Superior and Sister Marcella, a pair of wimpled inquisitors, stalked into the sacristy.

  “Where are the bells, Regina? Are they on your dress?”

  “No, Sister Superior.”

  “On your—petticoat?”

  “No, Sister Marcella.”

  Deeper than this, the nuns were not prepared to plunge. They glanced at each other as if to gain strength for the next step. Then Sister Marcella bent over swiftly, and thrust her hand under Regina’s clothes. There was a faint jingle, and the amazed nun straightened up as if she had touched a charged wire.

  “Sister Superior,” she reported, “Regina Byrne has sewn bells onto her garters!”

  JAMES SPLAINE, better known to his intimates as “Gillette” (Gillette me have a ciggie? … Gillette me have two bits?), nipped at his dwindling pint and addressed a scrawny bay gelding tethered to a near-by tree. “Sarge,” he said, “we gotta start now with the bandages. You done your part O.K. Now, hol’ still an’ I’ll do mine.”

  Gathering up some handfuls of steaming manure, Jimmy Splaine applied it like a poultice to the bay gelding’s knee. “01’ vetinary trick, Sarge. Never fails. Jes’ eases lil’ ol’ osselet back into place.” He bound the poultice with a piece of burlap and admonished the mangy beast. “They’d a shot you, Sarge, sure’n Christmas—you’d be soap by now, on’y I said: ‘Look, here’s a sawbuck I made on the third race.’ For that dough, Sarge, them crum-bums’d stop makin’ soap out of their gran’- mother.”

  Jimmy Splaine fumbled compulsively at the neck of his pint. “You ain’t no Man o’ War, but if that popped osselet pops back, we’ll play the county fairs all summer. … Clean up at Marshfield, Barnstable, yeh, ’n maybe Rockingham. Win, place, or show. Settle f’r anything.”

  Gargling for the relief of his chronic dryness, Jimmy Splaine went on. “On’y one thing we hafta do first. Gotta change your name. Never liked sergeants in army. All basserds, same as cops. Basserds! We’ll latch onto a name with class to it … sump’n people can trust … depew’able.” Jimmy Splaine aimed his empty bottle at a rock and burst into laughter. “Sa-ay, how ’bout namin’ you after my brother Jeremy? Then there’d be two monsignors in the Splaine family—one a cardinal’s seketary ’n the other—ha-ha-ha—a bay gelding! Ominus nabiscum. Didn’ know I was an altar boy once, eh, Sarge, I mean Monsignor? … Plenny Latin. Hominy nonsum dinkus. Whoa, boy. Oats, is it?” The owner-trainer of Monsignor surveyed a dime, two nickels, and a penny, drawn from his pocket. “Sorry, pal, hafta feed you grass awhile. Jes’ pop that osselet an’ you get plenny of oats. On’y make it so’s I don’t have to kneel down when I feed ’em to you, Monsignor.”

  IN THE VATICAN PALACE a hook-nosed Secretary of State gathered up his parrots and prepared to retire.

  Pietro Giacobbi’s work was done. The old matador, who by a species of homeopathic magic had taken on the burly truculence of the thousand bulls he had vanquished, was leaving the arena. Never had the fame of Vatican diplomacy stood higher than in Giacobbi’s hour of retirement. As Secretary of State under two Popes he had guided the foreign policy of the Church through the mine field of a world war; in the turbulent decade following Versailles he had swept away, by means of concordats and treaties, every visible or suspected danger swimming in the dark waters of European affairs. The last and greatest of his triumps had been the Lateran Treaty, a prolonged and delicately balanced negotiation with the Duce, hailed at the time as the diplomatic coup of the century.

  By the Lateran Treaty the Pope renounced all claims to the temporal powers and properties seized from him by the House of Savoy in 1870. In return he received a cash indemnity of seven hundred and fifty million lire, plus another billion in government bonds. The papacy was to enjoy sovereignty over Vatican City—a tiny state of one hundred and ten acres. Religious societies were to be recognized; the sacramental nature of marriage was reaffirmed; Catholicism was to be taught in the schools. God had been restored to Italy, Italy restored to God. Having brought the estranged parties together, Cardinal Pietro Giacobbi retired.

  His successor, Eugenio Pacelli, was probably the only man in the world whose diplomatic skill and experience matched Giacobbi’s. From earliest childhood the new Secretary of State had dedicated himself to the service of the Church. Sprung from a family of canon lawyers—Eugenio’s father was a consistorial advocate, his grandfather had served as Undersecretary of the Interior to Pius IX—the Roman-born youth had at the age of ten declared his intention to become a priest. At fifteen he entered Capricana College in Rome, the oldest and most distinguished ecclesiastical school in the world. After precocious triumphs in scholarship (doctorates in philosophy, theology, and law were his at twenty-two), Eugenio Pacelli received the sacrament of Holy Orders on April 2, 1899. The next day—it was Easter Sunday—he celebrated his first Mass in the basilica of St. Mary’s Major, then accepted the chair of law in the Pontifical Institute of the Apollinaire at Rome.

  A career in canon law seemed to be indicated for Eugenio Pacelli. But destiny had other plans for the young priest. Monsignor Pietro Giacobbi, then Secretary of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, persuaded Father Pacelli to resign his chair of law, and give all his time to the Vatican Secretariat. The future Pope became Giacobbi’s protégé and pupil; he assisted the Cardinal Secretary in the prodigious feat of recodifying the entire body of canon law. In World War I he had become Apostolic Nuncio to Bavaria—a post of utmost importance, for Germany was at that time the diplomatic pivot of Europe. Unmatched political insight, the gift of tongues, and extraordinary personal charm made Cardinal Pacelli at fifty-five a power in the chancelleries of Europe. What more natural, when Giacobbi decided to retire, than that his brilliant protégé should succeed him as papal Secretary of State?

  Scarcely had Pacelli taken up his new duties when ominous birds, winging from Mussolini’s headquarters in the Palazzo Venezia, began lighting on St. Peter’s dome. In two short years the Lateran Treaty had broken down. II Duce, who had beamed triumphantly for world cameras when the treaty was signed, began to scowl when its provisions went into effect. His promise that Italian children should receive religious education clashed violently with the Fascist program of giovanezza—State control of youth from cradle to combat training. Black-shirted police began roughing up Catholic Youth Clubs as they marched to church on feast days. Street fighting between Catholic student societies and armed Fascist bands became commoner, rougher. When II Duce declared that despite the Lateran Treaty, the Church was subject to the State, Pius XI branded him as an oath breaker.

  Shortly thereafter, the Fascist press accused the Vatican of plotting to assassinate Mussolini. Cardinal Pacelli denied the charge; demanded proof. The only answer was official silence and squads of Fascisti
crying: “Death to the Pope,” as they clubbed schoolboys belonging to Catholic Youth Societies. Again Pacelli protested. His protests were ignored; worse, they were strangled when Mussolini seized all telegraph and cable stations communicating with the outer world.

  Such was the melancholy posture of events when Bishop Stephen Fermoyle arrived in Rome, by special dispensation, for his ad limina visit in June, 1931.

  Five years had wrought noticeable changes, seemingly for the better, in the Italian scene. There was a spanking new pier at Naples; the train for Rome left on the dot and arrived on time. Driving from the modernized central station to his hotel, Stephen noted the face-lifting improvements on the public buildings and felt the accelerated tempo of a city trying to regain imperial status. Because it was a great feast day, Stephen expected to see the usual processions—flower-decked statues and banners being carried to church. Not a sign of holiday-making anywhere!

  “Where are the processions?” he asked the taxi driver.

  The man lifted a “How should I know?” shoulder, glancing from side to side as though the curbstones had ears. Mystified, Stephen saved the question for someone who wouldn’t be so obviously afraid to answer.

  At the Hotel Ritz-Reggia a new manager greeted him with a Fascist salute. Behind the desk, where formerly a bucolic painting of Lake Maggiore had hung, a portrait of Mussolini glowered. The porters, once so leisurely, moved with exaggerated military bearing; they wheeled Stephen’s modest luggage to his suite as though they were manning a gun caisson.

  It was all very bewildering, and became more so when Stephen phoned his old superior, Monsignor Giuseppe Guardiano, to learn the time of his audience with the Pope. The telephone service was excellent; Monsignor Guardiano’s voice came through clearly, but with puzzling caution. In response to Stephen’s joyous salutation, the Undersecretary’s tone was almost brusque:

  “Greetings, Your Excellency. The Holy Father will receive you tomorrow at ten.”

  “Fine, Seppo. Thanks for arranging things. How’ve you been, old fellow? What goes on, generally?”

  “Tomorrow at ten, Your Excellency.” The telephone clicked.

  What does go on? Stephen wondered.

  Weary with travel, he dined alone in his room that evening. Finishing his coffee, he was momentarily tempted to phone Princess Lontana and hear her exclaim: “Come over at once, Your Excellency; but now, immediatamente! My party needs a good-looking Bishop.” No, that phase of life was past—buried with Roberto Braggiotti and Ghislana Falerni. Dangerous to awaken sleeping echoes; even a single reed-thin vibration might bring the avalanche of memory roaring down.

  To discipline himself, Stephen pulled out a white-and-gold bound copy of the ad limina report that he would present to His Holiness on the morrow. Leafing through its pages, he became slightly apprehensive. Set down in bald pica, the five-year record of his Diocese was not particularly impressive. His cash position, itemized in Schedule A, was woefully weak; of the quarter-million-dollar legacy left him by Bishop Qualters, barely fifty thousand dollars remained. To offset this slender balance, Stephen could point to three new churches and four new schools he had built during the depression. On the credit side also were the farming co-operatives he had helped finance in rural areas. Among the intangibles not appearing in the record was his curial organization staffed with energetic young men.

  Troubled by misgivings, Stephen laid the report aside. How would the Pope comment on his servant’s stewardship? With filial resignation, tinged by the knowledge that he had done the best he could, the Bishop of Hartfield went to sleep on a trusting prayer.

  NEXT MORNING, entering the Vatican Palace through the familiar courtyard of San Damaso, Stephen presented himself to a plumed maestro di camera in the papal antechamber. There was a period of waiting, a ceremonious progress to the Pope’s study—then the opened double door and the sight of the Holy Father seated at his long worktable. Emotion welled up in the American Bishop as he beheld his spiritual leader, terribly worn by the burdens of his office. Stephen dropped to his knees, arose, advanced, knelt again. For some inexplicable reason, his eyes were moist. Now the pontiff’s arms were around him, and the Holy Father was murmuring:

  “Caro figlio, Stefano. Five years … such a long time!”

  Stephen dashed his tears away. “Forgive me, Holy Father,” he said. “I didn’t come all the way from America to weep on your shoulder. Just a sudden case of lachrymae rerum.”

  The tears of things! Through the fog in his spectacles Pius XI gazed clinically at Stephen. “What was this famous surgery we heard of?” (Achille Ratti, conqueror of Monte Rosa, knew the value of a leg.) “Are you quite recovered? Sit down, dear son. Take this armchair.”

  Settling himself on a damask sofa, the Pope cheerfully waved aside Stephen’s inquiry about his health. “The entire matter,” said His Holiness, “is summed up in a Neapolitan proverb. ‘A century from now, we shall all be bald.’” The pontiff pointed to his white skullcap. “As you see, we are still blessed with a few hairs.” Sunlight, bouncing off the tessellated pavement of St. Peter’s Square, twinkled along the gold rims of Achille Ratti’s spectacles. “You yourself have grown gray at the temples, Stefano. Pastoral cares?”

  “No more than my share, Holy Father.” The Bishop of Hartfield placed his ad limina report in the Pontiff’s hand. “Here is the detailed account of my episcopate. Not exactly a chaplet of roses—as Your Holiness probably knows.”

  Pius XI fingered the document thoughtfully. “We have studied the copy sent us by Archbishop Quarenghi. Considering the state of the world, it is an encouraging report. We are particularly proud of your pastoral letter condemning the sin of birth control, and are deeply honored that you buttressed your argument by quoting from our encyclical on marriage.”

  The Holy Father leafed through the pages till he came to Schedule A. “We are pleased, also, that you gave so generously to the community fund in your diocese—even though, you—ah—depleted your reserves to do so.”

  The pontiff commended Stephen for the churches and schools he had built during the depression. “That took courage,” he murmured. “But even more courageous, in our opinion, is the establishment of the farming co-operatives in your rural areas. As you may recall, this is a matter stressed by us in Quadragesimo anno”

  “I undertook the venture, Holy Father, because—as you pointed out in Quadragesimo anno—rural dwellers have been fearfully neglected in this industrial age. I must confess that results in Hartfield have not, thus far, come up to my expectations.”

  Pius XI leaned forward to give his words emphasis. “Do not be disheartened by a meager harvest, dear son. The fruit will ripen slowly. Meanwhile, the Church must encourage young priests to forgo brilliant urban careers in order to serve neglected millions who spend their lives tilling the earth. Will you carry back to your country and your diocese our special prayer for Catholic action in rural parishes?”

  “I shall do everything in my power, Holy Father, to further the teachings of Quadragesimo anno,” said Stephen.

  “Thank you for that promise, dear son.” The Pope gazed broodingly through a tall window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. “We are much moved by the filial constancy and obedience of our children in the New World. It is the eldest of our daughters, Italy, who causes us most pain. Treaties signed in good faith are disregarded. Our zeal for the Christian family is scorned. God Himself is subordinated to the pagan notion of State.”

  The pontiff’s agitation mounted. “With the House of Savoy, we at least knew where we stood. But in this stucco Caesar—this self-idolater”—Achille Ratti spat the words out like fishbones—“there is neither constancy nor truth. His throat is an open sepulcher, his tongue traffics in deceit.”

  Pius XI strode to his worktable and snatched up a fistful of handwritten sheets. “II Duce thinks to dislodge us by his bullying.” The old Alpinist dug the soles of his red slippers into the carpet like a mountain climber feeling for a firm foothold. “He forg
ets that we are part mountain goat, and that our pou sto is the Rock of Peter.”

  Pou sto. A place whereon to stand! The foothold that Archimedes sighed for—and that Pius XI possessed!

  “We are preparing an encyclical, Non abbiamo bisogno, which will condemn II Duce’s errors, expose his broken promises.” As Pius XI read aloud from his manuscript, Stephen realized that the Pope’s message was a mighty pry bar, a moral lever capable of moving the world.

  Thou art indeed Peter, thought Stephen, and the gates of a totalitarian hell shall not prevail against you.

  LEAVING the Holy Father, Stephen was in a state of tonic exhilaration. He scarcely heard the maestro di camera saying to a chamberlain: “Escort Bishop Fermoyle to Cardinal Pacelli’s apartments.” He followed a ruffed chamberlain through a series of antechambers to the Cardinal Secretary’s suite on the floor below. Descending a grand staircase, Stephen was awakened from his cloud trance when his guide thrust out a sturdy leg in a mimic attempt to trip him flat on his face.

  “Furfantino!” cried the chamberlain. The voice was oddly familiar. It was, in fact, the voice of Captain Orselli.

  “Gaetano!” Stephen flung his arm around the velvet-caped shoulder of his old friend. “What blaggardry goes on here? Trip me, would you?” He clapped a headlock onto die ex-captain. “Your ruffs and capes fooled me, you false-bottomed Florentine.”

  Gaetano Orselli’s beard—oiled, perfumed, but grizzled now—was brushing Stephen’s cheek. “Most Excellent Excellency—most airtreading Prince of Clerics! Fooled you, did I? Ha-ha-ha. You were walking on clouds coming out of the Holy Father’s presence. Had I been a coalhole you’d have fallen into me. Gesù, but I’m glad to see you, Stefano.”

  Stephen laughed. “How did a fearful Ghibelline like yourself ever break into these sacred precincts? Don’t tell me my prayers got you here.”

  Orselli blessed himself like a pious cutpurse standing before a magistrate. “I am the victim of a woman’s heaven-storming wiles, Stefano. Novenas, rosaries, tons of the finest beeswax candles, all have ascended in my behalf. Did I know this would happen? Could one believe that a pirate Turk would be converted into a papal gentleman—veloured, caped, easy about the knees”—Orselli bounced in and out of a genuflection—“and like it? It is a miracle, Stefano, performed by that most beautiful of creatures, Ghislana, my wife.”