The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  The name still hurt. Stephen covered the wound with a question. “Did she convert you from Fascism, too? When we last met you were showing me starry marvels in the constellation II Duce.”

  Orselli’s beard was a drooping burgee. “I was gulled, like so many others, by his promises of a greater Italy. He dazzled us with trinkets of brass and glass. Ah, the misery this false leader has poured over our people. Corruption, murder, degradation—these are his stock in trade.” Orselli shook a disillusioned head. “Among my friends who dared protest, some are rotting in Sardinian dungeons; others, luckier—are dead.”

  Stephen was genuinely puzzled. “Why do we hear so little of this in America, Gaetano? Almost everyone there thinks of II Duce as Italy’s smiling benefactor.”

  “Is it news that a man can smile and still be a villain?”

  “Hamlet suggested that it wasn’t news.”

  Orselli’s snort was the Italian equivalent of “faugh.” “What would an English-speaking Dane know about such matters? In the art of double-dealing, we Florentines lead the world. Our methods are classic—yes, but adaptable, too. In Lorenzo’s time we affected the cloak and dagger”—Orselli gave his cape a Borgia flourish. “Today—we merely add airplanes.”

  “What’s so devilish stealthy about an airplane?”

  From heights of pity, the Florentine smiled down. “Of itself, a plane is a fairly obvious piece of machinery. It is the deployment of the pieces that counts. Remember our little game of Mühle, Stefano? A feint here—an ambush there? Well, so it is with our planes.”

  “Whose planes?” asked Stephen.

  Hand at mouth, Orselli whispered: “A company of patriotic gentlemen with whom I am leagued—incidentally, I assure you that neither the Holy Father nor anyone in the Vatican knows of our undertaking—decided some time ago to take countermeasures against Mussolini. We operate, in our small way, a kind of air ferry to whisk out poor devils that II Duce would like to get his hands on.”

  Relishing the sauce of his own duplicity, Orselli went on. “We have two planes. One, a single-engine De Havilland, stands fair and free in the Municipal Airport for all to behold. The other, a ten-seater Caproni, lies hidden under a hedge on the Campagna. While Ovra agents nose about the cockpit of the De Havilland, the Caproni is over the Alps and far away.”

  “Devious chaps, you Florentines. And where do you land your passengers?”

  “Paris, Brussels—London in a pinch.”

  Approaching the entrance to Cardinal Pacelli’s suite, Orselli suddenly realized that official custody and private enjoyment of his old friend must soon end. He begged for a renewal of their loves. “So much to talk of, Stefano—so little time left in life. Can you not dine with us this evening? There will be just the three of us. You and Ghislana may chat, while I drowse en pantoufles before the fire.”

  The permissive-proprietary quality of “you and Ghislana may chat” put a barb in Stephen. “Thanks for the invitation, Gaetano. If I am free …”

  At the Cardinal Secretary’s door, a chamberlain bowed. “His Excellency the Bishop of Hartfield,” Orselli announced to a fellow functionary, who now led Stephen into the presence of the Cardinal Secretary of State.

  MEETING Eugenio Pacelli was one of the outstanding experiences of Stephen’s life. In physical appearance the Cardinal Secretary of State resembled an El Greco version of Abraham Lincoln. Lanky, almost gaunt, he combined the asceticism of a greater Quarenghi with the charm of a shrewder Merry del Val. At fifty-six his flesh stretched with taut virility over the bony structure of his face and body. Stephen had never seen eyes quite like Pacelli’s. They had the uncompromising quality of a surveyor’s transit; when they fixed on an object, that object had better be in plumb.

  The Cardinal had heard many favorable things about his American visitor, and now proposed to test with eye and intellect everything he had heard. His outstretched hand said, “No protocol, please. More important business awaits us.” Pacelli had learned of Stephen’s operation. “Was there a miracle or not?” he asked smilingly.

  “Et mihi mirum est” (I wonder myself), said Stephen. His light play on the Latin root of “miracle” delighted Pacelli. Neither his position as Archpriest of the Vatican Basilica nor his responsibility as Secretary of State had blunted his Roman love of wit. Himself a maître d’escrime, he valued a quick wrist in another.

  Leading Stephen across the priceless tapestry carpet covering the floor of his workroom, the Cardinal Secretary paused at his desk. He had intended to bestow on his visitor some gift at the end of the interview—a medal, rosary, or precious relic—but the foil-like quality of his first exchange with Stephen demanded a gift more edged and instant. From among the many objects on his desk, Pacelli selected an especially beautiful letter opener. The handle was ivory, carved in the Byzantine manner; the shaft of the instrument was damascened steel; a delicate basketry of silver wire formed the guard. The letter opener was part poignard, part cross. Laying it across his wrist, handle toward Stephen, Pacelli said:

  “We shall be writing often to each other in the future, dear Brother. When you open my letters with this gift, (which contains a relic from the pectoral cross of Gregory VII), let it remind you of our first sparkling passage at arms.”

  Stephen accepted the accolade humbly. “I shall treasure this gift, Your Eminence. It is curiously, beautifully made”—he flexed the blade—“and your words give it a special temper.”

  Smiling, the Bishop of Hartfield reached into his pocket. “In my country when one is presented with a sharp-pointed gift, we give in return—a penny.”

  Pacelli took the coin, smiled gratias, then, placing the penny in the fob pocket of his cassock, led his guest to a luxurious divan. Pacelli’s curiosity concerning American affairs was insatiable; the coming presidential election particularly fascinated him.

  Seated against a backdrop of Pinturicchio’s murals, Pacelli began: “I am always amazed,” he said, “at the fury of your political campaigns and the peaceful manner in which your people accept the decision at the polls. How do you account for this seeming contradiction?”

  Actually, the Cardinal Secretary was asking for a nutshell explanation of the American character. Not an easy assignment! How clarify, without taint of chauvinism, the secret of democratic government? How demonstrate to this European-trained diplomat the unique mintage of faith and energy struck off in the United States?

  Inspiration served the Bishop of Hartfield. “If I may have my penny back for a moment, Your Eminence, I think it will help me answer your question.”

  Two heads bent over the penny in the Bishop’s open palm. “This, our commonest coin, is a whole gallery of Americana,” said Stephen. “As Your Eminence will note, one side bears the image of Abraham Lincoln and the word ‘Liberty.’ Image and word are synonymous. Both serve to remind my countrymen that government of, by, and for the people is their heritage—and responsibility.”

  “A noble conception,” said Pacelli. “But is it not commonly misinterpreted? Do not many Americans hold that democracy derives its authority from the people rather than from God?”

  “Doubtless such error exists in some minds, Your Eminence. But may I call your attention to the four words over Lincoln’s head? ‘In God We Trust’ Deeply—unconsciously, perhaps—Americans know that God is the source of our trust in democracy.”

  Eugenio Pacelli was beginning to understand why the Holy Father regarded the Bishop of Hartfield so highly. He listened attentively as Stephen went on: “Your Eminence asks why Americans struggle so violently to elect a candidate, then accept the popular decision with so much composure.” Stephen turned the penny over. “I think the answer is to be found in the motto on the reverse side of the coin.”

  “‘E pluribus unum,’” mused Pacelli. “Out of many—one. Why, the words are open to mystical interpretation!”

  “True, Your Eminence—though I think few understand it that way. In actual practice it means that out of many conflicting views, o
ut of deep and grievous differences, springs our hard-won ideal of unity.”

  The talk lengthened out. Pacelli, guiding the conversation, led it inevitably to the subject that was disturbing all Rome.

  “As the Holy Father has doubtless told you,” he said, “we are confronted by a breakdown of negotiations between the Quirinal and the Holy See. It is, I must confess, a painful situation. No honorable solution presents itself. Our protests are ignored … diplomatic measures have been exhausted.”

  Stephen ventured a question. “Is there no way of enlisting the support of the people? Surely the majority of Italians must disapprove of Mussolini’s tactics.”

  Pacelli’s fingers nursed a bony jaw. “Police methods have terrorized the population. Every medium of communication is controlled. Strange as it may sound to an American, there exists no means of sounding opinion inside Italy.”

  “II Duce is sensitive to world regard. Might not foreign correspondents report the Vatican’s plight to their papers?”

  “Fascist censorship is ironclad,” said Pacelli. “Several courageous men are now in prison for trying to break it. The only dispatches emanating from Italy are what my journalist friends call ‘sugar pieces.’”

  Both men knew that the encyclical lying on the pontiff’s desk on the floor above was no sugar piece. Pacelli’s ingrained sense of diplomacy prevented him from mentioning the encyclical; Stephen, on his part, did not feel at liberty to disclose his knowledge of the manuscript. Instead, he chose to ask a hypothetical question:

  “Suppose the Holy Father were to frame a vigorous indictment of the Fascist regime? Would Mussolini dare block its publication?”

  Pacelli, recognizing Stephen’s tact, acknowledged it with a smile. “I can inform Your Excellency that His Holiness is preparing such a statement. And I may add that II Duce has threatened to execute the chief of his secret police—a creature named Maranacci—if a syllable of the Pope’s protest reaches the outer world.”

  “Suppose someone were entrusted with the task of delivering the Pope’s message to the London Times or Le Soir in Paris?”

  Pacelli had heard much of American resourcefulness; now he saw it personified in the Bishop of Hartfield. “The person carrying such a document would run certain risks. If caught, he’d be tied to a chair and shot in the back.”

  “A macabre touch,” said Stephen, “but one that wouldn’t particularly frighten two men of my acquaintance.”

  For the next five minutes the Bishop of Hartfield outlined a course of action—simple, swift, and reasonably certain—that would enable the Pope to present his case to the court of world opinion. The end of the interview found Pacelli’s lanky figure leading the way, without benefit of papal chamberlains, to the Holy Father’s study. There was another conference, at which Gaetano Orselli found himself surrounded by highranking prelates. That night, and for three nights thereafter, lights burned late in the pontiff’s workroom.

  At dawn, four days later, a double-engined Caproni took off from a lonely spot on the Roman Campagna. It crossed the Alps, landed at Le Bourget. At noon, an American bishop handed a copy of Non abbiamo bisogno, to the managing editor of Le Soir. English copies of the text were wired to the London Times and The New York Times. Next morning, newspapers of the world published Pius XI’s stinging condemnation of a Fascist philosophy that exalted the State above God, the Christian family, and the individual soul.

  II Duce, reading all about it at breakfast, sent for the head of his secret police, and watched the man grovel till shot. Fourteen Ovra agents were banished to Sardinia. But the damage had been done. World protests crashed so violently against the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia that negotiations were reopened between Quirinal and Vatican. The last act of the diplomatic drama saw II Duce and King Victor Emmanuel riding in state to the Vatican. The King knelt, and II Duce uncovered to a red-slippered figure standing on an invisible rock.

  II Duce never learned, and Victor Emmanuel never cared, that a link existed between the publication of Non abbiamo bisogno and the new honors bestowed by Pius XI upon Bishop Stephen Fermoyle. Possibly no such link did exist. Perhaps the Holy Father, talking matters over with his brilliant Secretary of State, thought that the See of Hartfield, with its teeming cities and resourceful leader, should become an Archdiocese. At any rate, Stephen Fermoyle was named Archbishop of Hartfield on January 2, 1933. The appointment was announced to the nominee by a papal brief dated the eighth and preconized in the consistory of January eighteenth.

  At forty-four, Stephen found himself the youngest Archbishop in the United States.

  CHAPTER 2

  MERELY TO BE ALIVE in the spring of 1933 was, for most Americans, a gloriously exciting business. An inspired leader was telling his people: “We have nothing to fear but fear. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and prosper.” Demoralized young men who had rarely seen a pay check were taken off street corners and put to work clearing forests, building dams and levees. There was an upsurge of creative energy as musicians, painters, and writers exercised talents that had been crumbling to decay. Some called it “boondoggling,” but the President defended these projects on the simple ground that they kept human beings—American citizens—from economic and moral ruin.

  While hope fermented throughout the nation and juke boxes played Happy Days Are Here Again, the Archbishop of Hartfield—ineligible for New Deal aid—watched his cash reserves dwindle to the vanishing point. Temperamentally Stephen was not given to worries about money. His training as a curate under Ned Halley had inoculated him against the financial cares that infest the days (and ruin the nights) of many priests. Yet as overseer of an important ecclesiastical domain, and as co-ordinator of some three hundred parishes, Stephen could not ignore the fact that some parts of his Archdiocese were more prosperous than others. Rectors of industrial parishes had comparatively large sums at their disposal, while many rural pastors existed on a hand-to-mouth basis. How might these economic peaks and valleys be leveled off into a somewhat fairer plane?

  Feeling the need of counsel, Stephen made a flying visit to Alfeo Quarenghi. At dinner, and during the long discussion that followed, the Apostolic Delegate made many helpful recommendations but steadfastly refused to cast a deciding vote. “The problem is yours, Stefano. By canon law you have the authority to make whatever financial arrangement will most benefit your Archdiocese. Why not thrash the matter out in a diocesan synod?”

  Quarenghi’s suggestion was the one that Stephen followed. He returned to Hartfield, and in the manner prescribed by Church law convoked a synod for the purpose of adjusting the financial inequalities that were hampering his Archdiocese.

  As defined by Benedict XIV, a diocesan synod is “a lawful assembly convoked by the bishop, in which he gathers together the priests and clerics of his diocese for the purpose of doing and deliberating on matters concerning the pastoral care.” On the feast of the Epiphany—January 6, 1934—Stephen’s decree of convocation was affixed to the doors of the Cathedral, and thereafter published on three successive Sundays in the parish churches. Early in February, some two hundred rectors assembled in the Cathedral to hear Mass and prepare themselves spiritually for the deliberative councils about to take place.

  Although the decrees of a synod are proposed by the bishop and receive their authority from him alone, it is in consonance with the mind of the Church that all interested voices be heard. And at this synod they were heard—so thumpingly that the chandeliers in the auditorium of St. Joseph’s Seminary (where the business meetings took place) tinkled like glass mobiles in a high wind. Aided by Ambrose Cannell, Stephen had prepared comprehensive agenda. Minor business opened the meeting; there was to be a new architectural advisory board with powers of reviewing all building plans. Because Hartfield had no Catholic newspaper, a committee canvassed ways and means of establishing one. All was harmonious until the reorganization of diocesan finances came up for discussion. Whereupon, touched in their pocketbook nerve—probably
the most sensitive part of their anatomy—several prosperous rectors emitted screams of genuine pain.

  Stephen was far too clever to go into open synod without holding some preliminary talks on the new bookkeeping system he had in mind. At an informal meeting in his study he frankly laid the problem before a picked goup of diocesan leaders. “We are all aware,” he began, “that serious inequities exist in distribution of diocesan monies. Under the present system, the Bishop receives from individual parishes a cathedral tax amounting to less than ten per cent of their total income. Under this arrangement, some of the older, more financially favored parishes have accumulated sizable bank balances, while in other parts of the Diocese, actual poverty cripples the work of the Church.”

  The rectors listened, each in character. Dan O’Laughlin, pastor of the richest parish in Fairhaven, pulled his ear lobe pugnaciously; the wattles under Michael (“Cozy”) Kernan’s chin quivered perceptibly. What was the Archbishop about to propose?

  “The time has come,” continued Stephen, “when the overall welfare of the Diocese must be our guiding consideration. At tomorrow’s meeting I plan to introduce a resolution which I trust will not seem too arbitrary.” He turned to Ambrose Cannell: “Will the Vicar-General please read the proposed decree?”

  Amby Cannell’s Oxford intonation never fell more gratingly on Hibernian ears. “On and after July 1, 1934,” he began, “all parish revenues from whatever sources shall be payable on a monthly basis to the diocesan treasury. …”

  “Payable—where?” Dan O’Laughlin went gray about the gills.