The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

I have a mixed bag of news for you. The Holy Father is again quite ill; his latest heart attack frightened us terribly. Yet stricken as he was, he rose from his bed when he learned that Hitler was coming to Rome. “I cannot remain in the same city with Antichrist,” he said, and took off for Castel Gandolfo, where he remained all during Hitler’s stay.

  Since your last ad limina visit, the Holy Father asks for you constantly in tones of longing and affection. He refers to you as his “American Benjamin,” a term of endearment that shows by chapter and verse the Old Testament nature of his affection for you.

  The Cardinal Secretary of State is immensely pleased by the results of your discussions with the President, which have served admirably to achieve a closer rapprochement between Vatican and White House. Your phrase “parallel endeavors for peace” expresses with great exactness the thought that we hope will govern the President’s appointment of a personal representative to the Vatican. Your suggestion that the appointee be a Protestant has been warmly received here. We all agree that sectarian considerations must be subordinated to the greater purpose that the President and the Supreme Pontiff hold in common: the avoidance of war, if humanly possible.

  Although the Holy See addresses all its prayers and actions toward this end, it is our conviction here that we are dealing with a paranoiac in the person of Herr Hitler. That he wants a war of extermination, and intends to force it upon the world, becomes increasingly clear. No one here knows exactly when it will come; the precise date depends wholly upon the nonaggression pact that Ribbentrop is arranging with Molotov.

  Brace yourself now for hard personal news, Stefano. The body of your friend GaetaAo Orselli was found under a hedge in a lonely spot on the Campagna. When discovered, he had been dead for some time. He had been shot in the back—clearly the work of Ovra assassins. His death is one of a thousand murders that will go unpunished so long as the colossus of Fascism bestrides this unhappy country. …

  STEPHEN dropped the page and covered his face with both hands to blot out the image of his friend lying alone on the desolate Campagna. Orselli dead! Living images and echoes returned in a whirring montage of sight and sound: Orselli as Stephen had first seen him, pointing out the stars on the bridge of the Vesuvio; his ringed forefinger, scented beard, and rakish cap; his haughty arrogance in blasting a British warship off the ocean with a cool: “It is I, Gaetano Orselli, who defy your orders.”

  Other pictures, other phrases. “Astronomy is a science, not an aphrodisiac.” “Furfantino, are you a Bishop yet?” Orselli nipping a cigar between his strong white teeth. “Relish it more slowly, my friend.” “Ah, she is an angel, Stefano.” “L’amore fa passare il tempo. …”

  How Gaetano’s throat had thirsted for life! “The corkscrew, Torino. We must drink as we talk.” Slaked now that thirst. Dust-dry forever those passionate, generous lips. “Il tempo fa passare l’amore.”

  Tears streamed from Stephen’s eyes as he prayed for the repose of Orselli’s soul.

  His private mourning continued throughout the joyous season of Christmas, and weighed heavily upon him as he embarked for Rome with Owen Starkey early in mid-January, 1939.

  A double motive underlay Stephen’s journey. He wished to inform Cardinal Pacelli of his most recent discussions with the President. And with filial sadness, “the American Benjamin” yearned to look on Jacob’s face for the last time.

  CHAPTER 5

  NO LONGER able to hold audiences in his study, Pius XI lay propped up by pillows on a four-poster bed in an upper room of the Vatican Palace. The pacemaker of his heart (that mysterious node which normally sends seventy-two electrical impulses a minute across the cardiac muscles) was failing. Yet, through his wasted body the flame of intellect and resolve still burned fiercely. In daily conferences with Cardinal Pacelli, the pontiff kept an unyielding grip on the policy of the Holy See—a policy that sought, now as always, the primacy of God in the affairs of man. The only concession His Holiness would make to Dr. Marchiafava, his attending physician, was to limit each conference to a half-hour, then take fifteen minutes of rest before plunging into the next interview.

  Pausing at these little oases of refreshment, he would close his eyes, and drink from springs of memory. Sometimes these springs were fed from conscious sources: he would recall his long quiet years in the Ambrosian Library, or his youthful ascents of snow-capped mountains, when no cliff was too steep, no path too rugged, for his alpenstock. Sometimes he would plunge into deeper reveries. Here, in the shadowy region where dream and wish meet in confluent streams, he became the shepherd king leading his flock through green pastures. Old Testament identifications colored these patriarchal fantasies; on Sinai’s peak he heard Jehovah’s great commandment: “I am the Lord thy God: thou shalt not have strange gods before me.” With Jacob he dreamed of a ladder standing upon the earth, the top thereof touching heaven.

  Once, opening his eyes to see Dr. Marchiafava bending over him, the pontiff murmured inaudibly: “Has Benjamin come yet?”

  The physician, unable to catch his patient’s words, said soothingly: “He is here, Your Holiness.” Turning to Stephen, the doctor whispered: “Try not to prolong the audience, Your Grace. Conversation overtaxes the Holy Father.”

  Stephen nodded and knelt beside the pontiff’s bed.

  “Benjamin … I have been waiting for you,” murmured the Pope. The dream mist cleared. Reality disclosed an equally welcome presence. “Why did you not come sooner, my son?”

  “I did not wish to burden you, Holy Father. Grave bulletins reached us in America.”

  Wan humor flickered across the Pope’s face. “How could doctors gain a reputation unless their bulletins kept a patient in extremis? We have twice contributed to the fame of our physician. With God’s help, we shall do so again.”

  “Many prayers bear you up, Holy Father.”

  “And heavy malice bears us down, Stefano. How desperate, how bitter is the constant struggle in the world between the forces of love and the powers of destruction! When we were younger, better armed with strength, the battle seemed not at all hopeless.” Pius XI made tired pluckings at the coverlet of his bed. “The final test of faith is to believe, in moments of weariness, that the powers of darkness will not triumph in the world.”

  “Your Holiness has no fear that they will?”

  Onset of energy vibrated in the pontiff’s voice. “Our remaining task is to make certain that they do not! It is for this reason we have summoned you, dear son. In the struggle soon to begin, the Vicar of Christ will be called upon to vindicate his great title. To do so, we must fortify ourself with the strength of fresh minds and younger hearts.”

  Metaphor framed the Pope’s thought. “Old trees cast a noble shade, but when the uragano rages, tough heartwood, deep tap roots, are needed.” The forest image branched out toward the New World. “Ah, how I should have loved to see America, climb its magnificent mountains, hear the wind stampeding across its prairies!” His smile had mischief. “Do you remember, I once called them ‘pampas,’ Stefano?”

  “I remember, Holy Father.” Tears welled into Stephen’s eyes.

  The Pope’s breathing was stertorous; he struggled for each word. “We were not fated to visit America, but it is within our power to draw upon its magnificent strength for the greater glory of God and His Church. It is our desire that you stay in Rome, Stefano, to add New World strength to Vatican councils.”

  “Your wish commands me, Holiness.”

  Allegory and dream had quite vanished from the Pope’s mind. “Your duties will consist chiefly of liaison work between the Holy See and the White House. You have opened new doors of understanding for all of us, Stefano. To provide you with the necessary authority to carry on your noble work”—Pius XI sat up among his pillows—”and as a sign of our limitless confidence in you, we have named you Cardinal in our recent secret consistory.”

  Had Stephen been standing, he would have dropped to his knees. But because he was already kneeling by the Pope�
�s bedside, and because the Holy Father’s words, “We have named you Cardinal,” lamed his tongue, Stephen could neither move nor speak. No words could discharge his feelings of astonishment and unworthiness. Involuntary mechanisms far below the level of consciousness took possession of him. A fine sweat broke from the roots of his hair; the blood momentarily withdrew from his face, then climbed again in a hot tide. He knew that if he spoke he would stammer; if he continued to gaze at the wasted, propped-up figure on the pillows, he would dissolve in tears.

  There was only one thing for Stephen Fermoyle to do—a common thing that he had already done ten thousand times in his life. He folded his hands, right thumb over the left, bent his head in the manner of one who had just partaken of the Blessed Sacrament, and murmured: “Domine, non sum dignus.”

  “Your humility is pleasing, Eminent Son. But come now,” Pius XI rallied his newest Cardinal affectionately, “you must really begin assembling a vestiary. We bestow only the red hat, you know. Everything else—scarlet cassock, ermine cape—you must find for yourself. You will barely have time to piece together a wardrobe for our public consistory, to be held, God willing, a week from tomorrow.”

  On January 25, 1939, Pius XI added fresh luster to the fame of his physician by rising from his bed to bestow red hats on three new cardinals. In the presence of the Sacred College and the entire papal court, the cardinals-elect prostrated themselves before the papal altar in St. Peter’s, then arose to receive the ceremonial red hat with its tassels of gold, signifying that the wearer is a prince of the Church.

  Ermine-caped, his long train borne by attendants, Stephen knelt before the Vicar of Christ and kissed the Fisherman’s ring in token of submission. Then descending the altar steps he embraced one by one the members of the Sacred College, henceforth to be his spiritual brothers. With the eminent lords Pacelli and Quarenghi, with the Palatine Prelates Pignatelli di Belmonte and Caccia-Dominioni, Stephen exchanged the kiss of fellowship. Afterwards, at a formal reception held in the Chigi Palace, he was greeted by ambassadors and envoys of world powers. Listening discreetly, saying little (little, that is, which might lend itself to misconstruction or distortion), Stephen moved among them, newly conscious of—but not overcome by—the hazards that a cardinal-diplomat encounters in ordinary conversation.

  On February 10, 1939, Stephen had his audience de congé with the Holy Father. “Against our will, we are permitting you to leave us for a little while,” said the Pope. “We realize that the affairs of your Diocese must be set in order before you return to take up your duties in Rome. Go quickly that you may come back sooner. Will you travel by boat or plane?”

  “By plane, Your Holiness. My reservation is made for tomorrow. I shall return within the month.”

  Pius XI seemed wretchedly worn when Stephen left him. Later that day the pontiff took to his four-poster and, unable to add further glory to Dr. Marchiafava’s reputation, sank into a coma from which he never awakened.

  Next morning, just as Stephen was starting for the airport, a papal chamberlain appeared at the door of his hotel suite. The chamberlain’s mien was melancholy as he made his announcement:

  “Eminent Lord, the Holy Father passed away last night. The chair of Peter is vacant. It is the wish of Cardinal Pacelli that Your Eminence remain in Rome for the approaching conclave.”

  THE NOVENDIAL, the nine days of mourning for a deceased Pope, now began. While the body of Pius XI lay in state, daily Masses were celebrated; incessant litanies arose as high prelates kept constant vigil at his bier. The government of the Roman Catholic Church passed into the hands of a “particular Congregation,” composed of three senior Cardinals, headed by Eugenio Pacelli as Camerlengo. This committee now set in motion the machinery for the assembling of a conclave.

  From all corners of the globe, cardinals began their pilgrimage to Rome. Among the ecclesiastical princes to receive notification of the Pope’s death was the octogenarian Archbishop of Boston, Lawrence Cardinal Glennon. In the tower room of his residence, he read over and over again the cablegram placed in his hands by his secretary, Monsignor Jeremy Splaine. By an almost incredible combination of longevity and fate, His Eminence was about to fulfill an unsatisfied ambition. He was going to Rome to participate in the election of a Pope! After humbling His Eminence on two previous occasions, God was giving his aged servant another chance.

  Lawrence Glennon addressed his secretary in a voice that, though it still bit like an emery wheel, was not the old double-forte organ it used to be.

  “Jeremy, round up my diocesan consultors. Flush them out of their cubbyholes, or wherever they hide themselves when important business is afoot. While they’re in here palavering, I want you to arrange for a letter of credit—make it ten thousand—then get a couple of reservations on the Transatlantic Clipper. Tell the press that ‘Gangplank Larry’ is flying this time.”

  Monsignor Splaine absorbed the first barrage of orders. The second salvo caught him unprepared.

  “Run over to the chancery office, and pick out a good smart priest who can write English with a crunch to it,” said Glennon. “Instruct him in the details of your job here. I’m taking you to Rome with me as my conclavist.”

  As Monsignor Splaine withdrew, His Eminence called after him. “Send a cablegram to Cardinal Fermoyle at the Ritz-Reggia Hotel. Tell him to get me a suite adjoining his own.”

  Seventy-four hours later, an exultant old Cardinal was letting himself be hugged by a still more exultant young one.

  “You made it, Eminence,” cried Stephen. “After fifty years you managed to reach Rome in time for a conclave.”

  “Conclave! Why, that’s two weeks off,” said Glennon. “I came for the Novendial, Steve. When a man reaches my age he likes to feel the grandeur of death’s wing as it brushes past.”

  Except for a loss of ruddiness and the natural tissue shrinkage that takes place after eighty, Glennon seemed almost as hale as ever. He turned to his secretary. “Jemmy, let me present you to Cardinal Fermoyle. Study him, Jeremy—he’s a compass for American prelates to steer by. What? … You two know each other?”

  “From long ago,” said Stephen. “Monsignor Splaine was my first altar boy. Remember that performance you gave with the Book and bells, Jemmy?”

  “I’ll never forget it, Your Eminence. Or how kind you were afterwards.”

  “And I’ll never forget the lacing I got from Dollar Bill Monaghan.” Stephen imitated his old pastor’s disciplinary voice and manner. “ ‘I hear that you and your server did some fancy juggling with the Book this morning. Is that the latest thing with the American College crowd at Rome?’”

  To Glennon’s way of thinking, his juniors were having too good a time. Never the one to take a scene downstage, Glennon reclaimed Stephen’s attention. “Will any of my old friends be at the conclave?”

  A diligent racking of memory produced not a single name of Glennon’s contemporaries. Giacobbi, Merry del Val, Mourne, Vannutelli—all departed. Next to Cardinal Pignatelli di Belmonte, Glennon would be the oldest member of the conclave. The realization saddened Number One.

  “All of them shall grow old like a garment; and as a vesture Thou shalt change them,” was the sustaining wisdom that he took with him into the obsequies of Pius XI and the ensuing conclave that began on March 1, 1939.

  On the morning of that day, sixty-two cardinal-electors attended a Missa Solemnis sung by Cardinal Pignatelli di Belmonte in the Pauline Chapel, the “parish church” of the Vatican. Attentively they listened to an eloquent sermon delivered in Latin by Monsignor Antonio Bacci, Undersecretary of Letters to Foreign Rulers. Begging the sufferance of his listeners, Monsignor Bacci stressed the solemnity of the occasion, the mournful state of the world, and the fearful responsibility that rested upon the electors of a new Pope. He exhorted his hearers to bear in mind that the man they were about to choose as Keeper of the Pontifical Keys must be the ablest, most saintly among their number.

  “You must ask yourselves, Most Eminent Lo
rds,” said the speaker, “which among you has the character to resist the new paganism of State that is even now preparing to engulf the world with blood and force? You must search your hearts to discover which of your noble fellowship is best fitted by knowledge, experience, and God’s grace to bring the Church—nay, civilization itself—through the hazardous pass ahead.”

  Monsignor Bacci paused for rhetorical emphasis. “Do I say ‘hazardous pass’? Permit me, Most Eminent Lords, to employ an apter figure drawn from the art of navigation. The man elected by you will be called upon to pilot St. Peter’s bark through seas infested by ice floes that even now are breaking loose from the fearful glacier of barbarism.”

  Ornate? Perhaps. Yet when the orator rounded into his peroration, Stephen thought that Monsignor Bacci’s sermon was as fine a combination of form and substance as he had ever heard.

  In the afternoon, the cardinal-electors again assembled—this time in the Sistine Chapel—to take the customary oath governing their actions in the coming conclave. One at a time they swore to safeguard the best interests of the Church and permit no coercive factor to sway their judgment. Then, “with minds free and consciences bare” (as Gregory XV had prescribed), they retired to their cells for meditation and prayer.

  At eight o’clock that evening, a hushed bell rang thrice in the courtyard of San Damaso. Inside the conclave, completely walled off from the outer world, Swiss Guards walked through tapestried corridors, crying: “Extra omnes”—All out. Now, with lighted torches, a committee of three cardinals, led by the tall, pallid Camerlengo, searched the conclave for the presence of unauthorized persons. None were found. Whereupon, the task of officially closing the heavy bronze gate of the conclave fell upon two men. Three outer locks were turned by Prince Chigi, hereditary marshal of the conclave, who had already taken his ancestral oath to watch over the Vatican Palace during the election of a new Pope. Through a wicket, the Camerlengo watched Prince Chigi turn three outer bolts and place the key in an embroidered purse. Then, in the presence of Cardinals Glennon and Pignatelli di Belmonte, the Camerlengo turned a key controlling the three inner bolts. Thus locked up, from within and without, the cardinal-electors partook of a light supper and retired to their cells for prayer and rest.