The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  Banker Poole applied the J. P. Morgan test. “Is this violinmaker a man of good character? What’s his past reputation?”

  “No one knows much about him,” said Judge Feakins. “He runs a hole-in-the-wall shop in New York—does repair work for a living. Swarthy French-Canadian type. Came from Massachusetts originally.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Stephen.

  “Menton, I believe.”

  “Rafael Menton?”

  “That’s it. Do you know the man?”

  A strange agitation stirred the Archbishop. “I knew him as a boy in my first pastorate. He was about sixteen, very talented. His one ambition was to become a luthier.”

  “He became a luthier, all right.” The jurist’s tone suggested that Rafael Menton might very well have become a crook, too.

  Stephen chose to ignore the application. “Would it help if I appeared for him in court as a character witness?”

  Judge Feakins lighted another cigar. “I’m not the young man’s lawyer, but if I were, I’d consider it a stroke of rare good fortune to have Your Grace appear in behalf of my client.”

  Next morning, as Rafe Menton and his lawyer gloomily waited for court to begin, Stephen volunteered his services as a character witness. There was a moment of joyous recognition, followed by deep emotional release as Rafe grasped the Archbishop’s hand.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance testifying for me?” asked Rafe.

  “What chance am I taking? I knew your mother and father. I know your sister. The Menton character is something this court should hear about.”

  Sitting in a packed courtroom, Stephen listened to Wilhelm Pfundt give expert testimony. “Ja, the violin was a genuine seventeenth-century Cremona, but badly broken,” said the New York dealer.

  The District Attorney put a searching question. “Is it considered good practice in your profession, Mr. Pfundt, to make major restorations of this type—to put a whole new back on a violin—and call it an old master?”

  “Excellent practice—if one has the skill to do it,” said Herr Pfundt. “Natürlich, carpenters cannot shake these things out of their sleeve.”

  Mossel Pola’s testimony followed. “The violin had a voice of amazing purity and power,” said the virtuoso. “I was planning to buy it from the defendant when the accident occurred.”

  The Archbishop of Hartfield, called to the stand as a character witness, said that he had known Rafael Menton for fifteen years, that he came from a good home, and that his sister was head of the Geraldine Order in Hartfield. At this point the Archbishop turned to Judge Feakins. “May I tell the court of a conversation I once had with the defendant on the subject of violinmaking?”

  Because of the distinguished position of the witness, the D.A. made no objection; whereupon the court ruled that such a recounting would be in order.

  Gazing across the years, Stephen re-entered a tar-paper shack clinging to the rocky hillside of L’Enclume. At a workbench cluttered with shavings of spruce and maple, a serious-faced boy was turning the pages of an illustrated folio. That same boy—older now, his face straining with anxiety—listened to the Archbishop’s recollection of things past.

  “When Rafael Menton was about sixteen years old,” said Stephen, “I gave him a book entitled L’Art des luthiers italiens. The more he studied the book, which contained many plates and illustrations of master violins, the more discouraged he became. At the time to which I refer, the boy asked me a question I shall never forget.”

  Stephen paused to give his words the authentic flavor of memory. “‘Do you think, Father,’ the boy asked, pointing to the illustrations, ‘that instruments as beautiful as these will ever be made again?’

  “‘Yes, Rafe,’ I replied. ‘American craftsmen, combining New World materials with Old World designs, will produce violins—and many other things—more beautiful than any yet made by man.’”

  The Archbishop concluded his testimony. “I do not presume to comment either on insurance law or the art of violinmaking. I can only tell the court of my great happiness that Rafael Menton—with single-hearted devotion and under enormous difficulties—has tried to fulfill my prediction.”

  The District Attorney hastily conferred with counsel for the insurance company. There was a nodding of heads; together they approached Judge Feakins and requested permission to settle their differences with the defendant.

  “Step into my chambers,” said the Judge. He beckoned the defendant. “You, too; I want all parties to be satisfied with the final disposition of this case.”

  Case or no case, prior business claimed Rafael Menton. He crossed the courtroom; with reverence and gratitude, he kissed the Archbishop’s hand. “How can I ever thank Your Grace?”

  “By coming to see me often, Rafe. We must never lose track of each other again.” Stephen put his blessing on the younger man’s head. “Now go into that Cremona conference and fight for every penny your violin was worth to you.”

  LEAVING COURT, Stephen felt a tug at his clerical coattail. It was Max Lessau; the arthritis-gnarled teacher was quivering with excitement. He drew the Archbishop into privy conference on the courthouse steps and asked indignantly: “Why didn’t you tell me this violinmaker was a friend of yours?”

  “I had lost track of him for several years, Max. It’s wonderful to find him again. From the fine things that Mossel Pola and Herr Pfundt said, he must be a marvelous craftsman.”

  “Let him be only half so marvelous,” said Max Lessau, “and he is still the man sent by Providence to make a violin for Conrad.”

  “The idea never occurred to me,” said Stephen.

  “It didn’t occur to you, because every day you don’t hear Conrad scraping his heart out—and mine, too—on that cheesebox fiddle of his.” Max came down to business. “A Cremona violin worthy of Conrad’s talent would cost thousands of dollars—too many thousands. But now, while this luthier is aching with gratitude in every joint, why not ask him to make a violin for our protégé?”

  “I couldn’t take advantage of him, Max.”

  “Advantage?” Bargaincraft, born of a peddler’s hagglings, oiled Max’s voice. “Forgive me, Archbishop, but this would be the opportunity your luthier friend is looking for. Arrange a meeting, I beg. Let him hear Conrad play. Will you do that, Your Graciousness?”

  “Yes,” Stephen promised, “I will.”

  A few evenings later, the Archbishop invited a small company to an informal concert in his home. Among the guests was Rafael Menton—ten thousand dollars richer now as the result of his out-of-court settlement with the Columbia Indemnity Company. Scarcely knowing what to expect from the young violinist tuning a quite ordinary German fiddle, Rafe sat back contentedly, his eyes fixed on Stephen rather than on the artist of the evening. He applauded mildly as Conrad Szalay rose to play the Bach Chaconne for unaccompanied violin.

  Neither Rafael, nor Ambrose Cannell, nor anyone else in that small audience had ever heard such music.

  Standing alone near the piano, Conrad, a golden eighteen, intoned the first measures of an ancient ceremonial air. In a series of stately minor chords his bow swept austerely over the strings, seeking but never demanding the source of Bach’s somber purity. Pursuing its almost bleak way, the musical line began to create from within itself a house of many mansions. Broken chords and superlative double stopping supported the temple that Conrad was building with lean, tremendously disciplined fingers.

  Arpeggios invited him to fly a little; he left the ground in a flurry of undulating scales, always returning with gratitude to the opening theme. Rejoicing in its steadfastness, he uncorked a brightly colored phial, scented faintly with incense. Full blown and resonant, the theme mounted a broad triumphant staircase till it reached a high altar where, in cool subdued light, the now-familiar motif chanted in ecclesiastic vestments.

  Stirred by the impact of Conrad’s artistry, Stephen glimpsed St. Cecilia deep in the shadows of a choir loft. The patron saint of music was listening, a smile
of approbation on her face.

  Fourteen-year-old Regina Byrne, sitting beside her uncle, identified herself with the woman-shaped instrument swept by cruciform strokes of Conrad’s bow.

  Ambrose Cannell forgot the young violinist’s technique long enough to marvel at the profundity of his musicianship. This was no gypsy fiddler, dependent on one-fingered slides, vibratos, or left-handed pizzi-cati. Rather, it was musical sensibility of the first order, drawing its power equally from tradition and life. The Bishop glanced at Max Lessau, the strange peddler genius who had endowed his pupil with the fearful ability to transform human experience into the serene beatitude of art.

  Hunched almost double on his chair, Max Lessau grieved as he gloried in his pupil’s performance. “I can teach the lad no more,” Max mourned. “He must study with a greater teacher than I. But first, I will get him a violin.”

  Toward the last section of the Chaconne, Conrad’s contemplative eye turned inward for a moment of ascetic renunciation. Then, as if rebuking himself for this too-facile escape, he described an assertive outgoing gesture that embraced finite and infinite reality. On a strong foundation note of D (Dominus?) he concluded his experience, ending as he had begun, austerely and starkly alone.

  Afterwards, there was applause, cries of “bravo,” “encore,” “Play again, Conrad.” This time, accompanied by Regina Byrne, Conrad began the last movement of Cesar Franck’s Sonata for Violin and Piano.

  An air of quiet serenity descended upon the young musicians, the pianist stating a tranquil, nearly resignational theme, which the violin repeated. Conrad and Regina had found the motif of peace. Having found it, they began interweaving and mingling their voices. The calm reassurance of the canon never left them, except for a short passage in which the violin and piano engaged in a divine questioning. The final episode found them enunciating a strongly punctuated note of triumph with increasing strength in each voice, gathering overpowering momentum in the magical questionings and answerings of the canon.

  More could not be expected. Only one thing more remained to be asked.

  At precisely the right moment, crafty Max Lessau called attention to the wretched inadequacy of Conrad’s fiddle. Standing between the Archbishop and Rafael Menton, the old peddler tapped the instrument with a contemptuous hooked forefinger. “Could Heifetz himself make music on a rattrap like this?” he asked.

  Eagerly, joyfully, Rafe Menton stepped into the gambit. “Let me make a violin for Conrad,” he volunteered. “It will be a Stradivarius model, conceived in the great tradition.” He was looking at Stephen now. “From American spruce and maple, patterned on the Italian design, perhaps we may fashion a violin that will outsing any instrument yet made by man.”

  CHAPTER 4

  IN THE GREAT HALL OF MAPPAMONDO, late in March, 1937, the Prime Minister of Italy sat reading a most inconveniently timed document. Entitled Mit brennender Sorge and addressed to the German people, the document—an encyclical letter—was a scathing indictment of the Prime Minister’s dear friend, Adolf Hitler. It had been written by an ailing, supposedly moribund old mountain climber named Achille Ratti, more widely known as Pius XI. Little evidence of waning energy appeared in the encyclical; phrases, sentences, indeed whole passages, leapt from its pages to chafe II Duce’s sensibilities, especially tender just now because Herr Hitler was about to honor Rome with one of his rare visits.

  Guttural acid would drip from Der Führer at this latest failure to hold the Vatican in line. “In Berlin we manage these things better,” he would sneer. True enough, Der Führer did manage things better. Much better. In a brief four years he had armed his people, remilitarized the Rhineland, threatened Austria, humbled England, intimidated France, and, bitterest of all, thrust Italy under his yoke as the weaker member of the Axis.

  How awkward, how downright galling, to stand before this all-conqueror and apologize for your inability to curb the maunderings of an unarmed old man!

  To discharge some part of his wrath, II Duce had summoned the Vatican Ambassador into his presence for a good dressing down. The victim was in fact being admitted at this very moment through the heavily guarded doors of Mappamondo. For the next sixty seconds his clerical boots would squeak across Mappamondo’s polished acre, an ordeal calculated to shake even the composure of veteran diplomats.

  It so happened, however, that Alfeo Cardinal Quarenghi, Vatican Ambassador to the Quirinal, wore boots that did not squeak. Furthermore, he carried under his scarlet cassock a quite unshakable composure. He knew well enough what he was going to hear, and with equal surety knew what he was going to say. II Duce would bellow: “I.” Quarenghi would murmur: “The Holy Father.” II Duce would thunder: “The Axis.” Quarenghi would say: “The Church.” In a final exchange, II Duce would invoke the dread name: “Hitler.” To which Quarenghi would reply: “God.”

  In much the expected fashion, the interview began. Mussolini greeted his visitor with icicle courtesy, then launched into a tirade against the Holy Father. “Will this tiresome old man never die?” he fumed, waving a copy of the encyclical in Quarenghi’s face. “Or if that is too much to ask, hasn’t he the common decency to stop pouring out these senile effusions against Der Führer?”

  II Duce whipped through the pages, quoting fearful examples of lese-majeste. “Listen to this: ‘Whoever transposes Race or People, the State or Constitution, from the scale of earthly values, and deifies them with an idolatrous cult, utterly perverts and falsifies the divinely created order of things.’” He slapped the encyclical peevishly against his desk. “Divinely created moonshine. Doesn’t the Pope know what’s happening in Europe?”

  “The Holy Father knows very well what is happening,” replied Quarenghi. “That is why he spends his declining strength protesting Hitler’s frightful program of spiritual corruption.”

  “It is not the Pope’s duty to criticize internal arrangements of a foreign government. Herr Hitler has strengthened Germany, unified his people against their enemies.”

  “The Holy Father makes no objection to the unification of the German people. But he cannot remain silent while Christ and His Church are attacked.”

  Having beetled to no purpose, II Duce now attempted the man-to-man wheedle. “When I first entered politics, the Church was content to side with established governments. She was willing to be a sister arm, a supporting prop to the status quo. For my information, Eminence, instruct me in the nature of the change that has taken place. Does the Holy See aspire, perhaps, to a more dominant role in world affairs?”

  II Duce’s seeming frankness failed to cozen Quarenghi. “The Holy See is not concerned with temporal dominance,” he said. “But it does not propose to play a passive role while totalitarianism threatens the immortal soul of man. Twice within the past month the Supreme Pontiff has lifted his voice against the cynic godlessness of leaders who deny that man is a creature made in the image and likeness of God.” Quarenghi pointed to the encyclical on II Duce’s desk. “Mit brennender Sorge warns the German people that Hitler’s crooked cross means death to the soul. In Divini Redemptoris, the Holy Father lays bare the terrible fallacies of atheistic Communism, exposes its false messianic claims, points out that Communism strips man of human dignity and denies his origin in God.” Quarenghi ended his brief demonstration of the Holy See’s attitude toward totalitarianism. “In the coming struggle between the State and the soul, the Church ranges herself on the side of the soul.”

  The Cardinal’s reference to Divini Redemptoris gave II Duce a handle for argument. “If Communism triumphs, there will be no soul. Der Führer is Christianity’s champion against Soviet atheism.”

  Again Quarenghi knew the answer. “At the moment, Your Excellency, it suits Der Fiihrer to play such a role. The Holy See happens to know, however, that Herr Hitler is shipping machinery, tools, and ammunition to Russia in a desperate attempt to arrange a nonaggression pact with Moscow. If it suited Hitler’s purpose, he would melt down the sacred vessels of every church in Europe to b
uy Soviet quiescence while he unleashes war.”

  The Cardinal-diplomat had no need to add: “Your Excellency, being a realist, knows this as well as I.”

  Being a realist, II Duce knew this and a great deal more. He knew he had become the most abject foot swallower in history. Since this is not a pleasant thing to know about oneself, Mussolini tried to forget the whole business.

  “My purpose in inviting Your Eminence here today,” he glowered, “is to inform the Holy See that Herr Hitler will soon honor Fascism with a visit to Rome. I will not permit the visit to be marked by incidents. I must have your assurance that Catholic Youth Societies will refrain from unmannerly demonstrations while my guest is in Rome.”

  The merest whisper of a smile accompanied Quarenghi’s question: “With ten thousand secret police lining the streets, how could anyone demonstrate?”

  “It has happened before,” snapped II Duce. “Fascist honor requires a positive guarantee that it will not happen again.”

  So Caesar has come to this, thought Quarenghi. Aloud, he said, “I shall lay Your Excellency’s request before the Cardinal Secretary of State.” The interview apparently over, Quarenghi rose, bowed, and started to recross Mappamondo’s barren expanse when II Duce called him back.

  “One thing more, Your Eminence.” Mussolini consulted a memorandum on his desk. “I take this occasion to protest the treacherous activities of one Gaetano Orselli. The man is a zealot, a turncoat. He has repeatedly snatched political enemies from my grasp and transported them by airplane to France and England.”

  “Why does Your Excellency bring these activities to my attention?”

  “Why? … Orselli is a papal chamberlain, is he not?”

  The Cardinal shook his head in the negative. “Signor Orselli no longer serves in the Vatican. I am uninformed as to his present whereabouts or activities.”