The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  Stephen was awakened next morning by a guard crying outside his door: “In capellam, Domini” (Into the chapel, Lords). He arose, celebrated Mass at one of the portable altars that had been set up in the Sala Ducale. Then, after a light breakfast of coffee and rolls, he summoned Owen Starkey to assist him in robing for the conclave. He put on a violet-colored cassock fastened by a hook and eye across the chest, the train caught up in back. Over this was placed a lace rochet; on his breast lay the pectoral cross, openly exposed as a symbol of his authority as a papal elector.

  Owen Starkey’s hand trembled slightly as he handed Stephen his biretta; the trembling ceased when the Cardinal gripped his hand. “Pray for me, Owen,” said Steve, then took his place in the silent procession filing into the Sistine Chapel.

  Overnight, Vatican architects had transformed the chapel into a sacred polling place. Along both sides of the vaulted chamber stood a row of thrones, a canopy over each. In front of every throne was a desk, green-covered for cardinals created by earlier Popes, violet-covered for those named by Pius XI. Pens, inkwells, blotters, sealing wax, and a small pile of ballots had been placed on each desk by secretaries. On the altar at the further end of the chapel stood a huge gilded chalice into which the cardinal-electors would deposit their ballots. Beside the altar a small stove had been set up, its long pipe extending upward through the roof. In this stove, the ballots would be burned at the conclusion of every vote.

  The older cardinals, Glennon among them, sat nearest the altar. Stephen, youngest of the electors, took his place near the door. Gazing obliquely down the row of thrones opposite him, he could see Cardinal Faulhaber of Bavaria, destined to suffer for his outspoken opposition to Hitler. Beside the German Cardinal sat Kaspar of Czechoslovakia, whose country had already been trampled by the Nazi boot. There was Verdier of Paris, his face a worn ledger carrying tragic entries soon to be balanced against his country. Halfway down the row of thrones sat Pacelli, heir, by pre-election consensus, to the triple tiara. From a purple-covered desk almost opposite Stephen, Alfeo Quarenghi smiled.

  “Most Reverend Lords,” Cardinal Pignatelli di Belmonte was saying, “we shall proceed to the scrutiny.”

  Stephen examined the ballot on his desk. It was an oblong sheet of vellum, divided into three sections. At the top was printed in Latin:

  I, Cardinal_________

  In this blank space Stephen wrote his own name. On the middle section appeared the words:

  I elect Cardinal________as Sovereign Pontiff

  Stephen knew that on the initial ballot a certain number of votes would be cast for purely honorary reasons. Faulhaber of Bavaria and Kaspar of Czechoslovakia would doubtless receive such tributes of regard from a scattering of the assembled electors. How Lawrence Glennon’s heart would dilate with happiness if even a single ballot bore his name! Moved by a love that contained no trace of political or nationalistic significance, Stephen wrote the name “Lawrence Glennon” on his first ballot.

  The lowermost section of the ballot was completely blank. Here, each elector was supposed to write a brief scriptural text for purposes of identification should his vote be challenged or questioned in any way. In this section, to commemorate the last words of Dennis Fermoyle, Stephen wrote the fourth verse of Psalm Eighty-nine:

  “A thousand years in Thy sight are as yesterday, which is past. And as a watch in the night”

  He folded this section under and away from himself, sealing it flapwise over the top section, so as to conceal his own name. Then he awaited his turn to deposit the ballot in the gilt chalice on the altar.

  One by one, in order of seniority, the cardinals walked to the altar and placed their ballots in the uncovered chalice. Presiding at the altar were three cardinal-scrutineers. When all the ballots had been cast, the senior scrutineer placed a silver paten over the chalice, shook it thoroughly, and deposited it again on the altar. He now drew the ballots from the urn one at a time, and handed them to a second scrutineer, who placed them face upward on the altar, counting aloud as he did so. Meanwhile a third teller counted the number of cardinals present. Sixty-two cardinals sat in their chairs; sixty-two ballots lay on the altar. Since the two counts tallied, the election could proceed to its next phase.

  Placing the ballots in a second chalice, the scrutineers carried it to a table in the center of the chapel. Singly, the ballots were withdrawn by the senior teller, who read aloud the name of the candidate inscribed thereon, then passed the ballot to his colleagues for verification. During this process, the seated cardinal-electors made their own tabulation of the votes cast for each candidate.

  On the first ballot, Eugenio Pacelli received thirty-five votes, seven short of the necessary two-thirds majority.

  At this point in the proceedings, one member of the conclave got the shock of his life. When Lawrence Glennon heard his name read by the senior scrutineer, Number One’s head came up in blinking startlement. An astronomer, seeing his own face gazing back at him from a distant star, could not have been more bewildered. In the long history of the papacy, it was the first vote an American Cardinal had ever received.

  Again the voting began. On this second scrutiny, Cardinal Pacelli received forty votes—two short of the required majority. Only the formality of a third ballot stood between the Camerlengo and the Throne of Peter. After a noon recess, pens scratched once more against parchment; for a third time the ballots were deposited in the gilt chalice, shaken up, and tallied by scrutineers. When the count for Pacelli passed forty-two—the number required to elect—the Camerlengo covered his face with his hands. Still the count went on—forty-three … forty-four … forty-five—until an all-but-unanimous majority of sixty-one votes was announced. Everyone but Eugenio Pacelli himself had voted that the Camerlengo should be the 262nd successor to Peter.

  Now entered (on summons) the Prefect of Papal Ceremonies. Aided by assistants, he began lowering the canopies over all thrones except the one occupied by a tall, ascetic man who had sat down a Cardinal and would arise a Pope.

  Before the election could be duly notarized, one ceremony remained. A trio of venerable Cardinals—Pignatelli di Belmonte, Glennon, and Caccia-Dominioni—gravely approached the throne where Eugenio Pacelli sat. It was their duty to put the traditional question:

  “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?” asked Pignatelli di Belmonte, spokesman for the trio.

  Literally the question could be translated: “Do you accept your election to the office of Supreme Pontiff?” Actually, what the aged Cardinal asked Pacelli was this: “Will you take upon yourself the burdens of the loneliest, loftiest, most exacting office in the world—will you stand patiently beneath its avalanche of drudging detail, and concern yourself from this moment until death with the spiritual leadership of four hundred million souls who look to you for guidance?”

  Other men confronted by a similar question had burst into tears, begged to be let off, actually declined the crushing burden. Visibly disturbed, Pacelli hesitated.

  “I am not worthy of this office,” he said. Then, bowing his head, he murmured: “Accepto in crucem” (I accept it as a cross).

  In commemoration of the first Pope, whose name Christ changed from Simon to Peter, Cardinal Pignatelli di Belmonte asked: “What name do you wish to assume?”

  “I wish to be called Pius, because most of my ecclesiastical life has taken place under great pontiffs of that name.” Tears were streaming down Pacelli’s gaunt face. “And particularly because I am indebted to Pius XI for his personal kindness to me.”

  At five-thirty that afternoon a plume of white smoke rising over the roof of the Sistine Chapel told the multitude in St. Peter’s Square that a new Pope had been elected.

  While Pius XII retired for the immantatio, Lawrence Glennon sought out Stephen. “Eminent rascal,” he chided, “confess your wickedness. Why did you cast that vote for me on the first ballot?”

  “I?” Stephen feigned innocence.

  “Who else?�
�� said Glennon tenderly. “Who else would pour such balm on an old man’s soul? I won’t live to return the compliment”—Number One tinged prophecy with affection—“but mark me, Steve, others will.”

  The bells of Rome’s four hundred churches, led by il camponone, the eleven-ton master of St. Peter’s, were tolling the Angelus when Cardinal Caccia-Dominioni appeared in the central balcony overlooking the Piazza. Loud-speakers carried the traditional announcement in Latin:

  “I announce to you a great joy. We have a Pope. He is my Most Eminent and Reverend Lord, Eugenio. …”

  A tremendous shout rose from half a million throats. Everyone knew who Eugenio was. Cries of “Viva il Papa” drowned out the pealing bells. But the real ovation occurred when the Pope himself appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s to give his blessing urbi et orbi. When the thunderous tumult had spent itself, all knelt in silence while the Pope blessed the city and the world.

  Watching the pontiff’s hand lifted in benediction, Stephen understood the serene truth of the Italian proverb: “The Pope dies, the Pope lives.” Two hundred and sixty-one wearers of the triple tiara had faded from the earthly scene, but the papacy itself—now embodied in the lean and fearless person of Eugenio Pacelli—was deathless and eternal.

  THE WEEK between the election and the coronation of a Pope is traditionally festive. In courtyards of great palaces, medieval torches flared while noble hostesses vied with each other in the splendor and gaiety of their parties. As befitted her rank, Princess Lontana (born Loretta Kenney of Steubenville, Ohio) was planning the gayest party of all. Her carefully selected guest list, elaborate supper menu, and the originality of her divertissement would, she hoped, add fresh luster to a social coronet long brilliant in Roman society.

  The years had not been kind to the Princess. They had dulled the flame in her once fiery red hair without quenching it in her blood and had sluiced some of the wonderful green of her eyes into her envious soul. At sixty-one the Princess suggested withered ivy—not the ivy that softens storied walls, but the poisonous variety that brings an itching rash to all who touch it.

  Even the gift of resignation had eluded the Princess. It was a source of particular anguish that the years that had filched away her charms had put a riper bloom on the beauty of her once dear friend, Ghislana Orselli. Still worse, Princess Lontana’s husband continued to sink into senile dotage, while Captain Orselli had been gentleman enough to die a heroic death, thereby conferring the priceless freedom of widowhood on the handsome Ghislana.

  On a kidney-shaped divan in her boudoir, an intimate rose-lighted room, the Princess was discussing her entertainment plans with Ruggiero Bari, once the leading dramatic actor of Italy. Signor Bari had outdistanced his first youth but had never quite succeeded in outrunning his creditors. He suffered from the two commonest ailments of the acting profession—a chronic lack of cash and a tendency to recall his earlier triumphs. For the past five years he had been something of a fixture in the Lontana menage—part pensioner, part confidant, and a most serviceable friend. He listened now almost attentively as the Princess ticked off the arrangements for her party.

  “I am offering my guests a Leipziger Allerlei by way of entertainment,” she said, peering through her bifocal lorgnette at a sheet of blue note paper. “In the earlier part of the evening there will be music, of course. I have invited a young American pianist to play.”

  “An American pianist? Do such things exist?”

  “You’ll be pleasantly surprised, Ruggi. Signorina Byrne plays very well. She has been studying with Lugoni for more than a year. Surely you remember hearing her at one of Ghislana Orselli’s evenings last winter. The child has quite a talent.”

  Bari’s smile was meant to be inscrutable. “But that’s not why you’re feting her.”

  “Don’t be so dashed penetrating, Ruggi.” The Princess laid her cards face downward. “As a matter of fact, I’m asking her to play so that her uncle will come to my party.”

  “All this hugger-mugger for a mere uncle?”

  “Cardinal Fermoyle is no ‘mere uncle’; he’s a Palatine counselor. To snare him, I was obliged to use the most attractive bait.” The aging Lucrezia proceeded to unfold the rest of her plot. “I have something really original in mind, Ruggi. You can help me—on a professional basis, of course. Together, we can create an evening that will be the talk of Rome.” She placed her fingers skillfully on the stops of Bari’s vanity. “You will have an audience—and I—well, I shall have satisfactions of quite another kind.”

  “Clarify and expand, dear conspirator.”

  In the next few minutes the Princess outlined the details of her plan. Listening, Signor Bari alternately preened his thespian plumage and shuddered at the ferocity of feminine revenge.

  “If you bring this off for me, Ruggi,” the Princess concluded, “I shall write you a check immediatamente for ten thousand lire.”

  Signor Bari pressed his lips devotedly to the corded blue veins on the back of the Princess’ hand. “For ten thousand lire, Madame, I would declaim publicly from the works of Rudyard Kipling.”

  “Bene” The Princess scribbled a check. “This is merely the first payment. Put your soul into it, Ruggi, and you will have a bonus of five thousand more.”

  HALFWAY THROUGH the evening, Princess Lontana knew that her party was a huge success. A crush of the inimitably right people, lay and ecclesiastic, moved about her oval-shaped salon, sipping champagne. Of ambassadors with ribbony badges, the hostess could count nine first-class specimens. Papal chamberlains? Ten, eleven, twelve. Knights of Malta were satisfyingly in evidence, and of distinguished laymen, a goodly spate. Among the last was the Scots scientist, Lord Eltwin, the noted seismologist, accompanied by Dom Arcibal, Superior General of the Benedictines. An odd pair, apparently interested in nothing but earthquakes. Among her female guests the Princess noted six diamond tiaras almost as valuable as the diadem blazing in her own artfully titianed hair. At ten o’clock the party was ticking like a jeweled Swiss watch—a watch, to continue the figure, that lacked only an hour hand. The principal guest of the evening, Stephen Cardinal Fermoyle, had not yet arrived.

  Keeping one eye on the entrance to her salon, the Princess circulated in her fan-fluttering, multilingual way among her guests. Never once did she loosen her grip on the brunette eighteen-year-old beauty she had in tow. Approaching a knot of champagne sippers, the Princess would say:

  “Permit me to introduce Signorina Byrne, our artiste of the evening. Do not be dazzled by her beauty. Le vrai éblouissement will occur when you hear her at the piano. Regina has another distinction, too … she is a niece of Cardinal Fermoyle. I am expecting His Eminence at any moment.”

  Having repeated this hostess rigmarole thirty times, the Princess could finally add at ten-fifteen: “And here he is now!”

  Tugging Regina by the hand, Princess Lontana advanced to greet Stephen. The seventeen years since she had last seen him had subtracted no fraction of male vigor from his features. Deeper through the heart perhaps, and certainly more grizzled under his scarlet skullcap. Sterner, too, about the eyes and chin. Still long of flank, and still preserving the head carriage of the dedicated priest, the American Cardinal wore his watered silk as a cup defender wears its complement of sail.

  The Princess curtsied, kissed the sapphire on Stephen’s extended hand, then became intimate-exclamatory. “Seventeen years is too long a time to stay away from old friends, Your Eminence. Another such disappearance”—she drew Regina into her little tableau—”and we shall be feting your grandniece.”

  “You make the future seem almost as attractive as the present,” said Stephen, bending to kiss Regina’s cheek. “Been practicing hard, widgeon?” (How easily his old nickname for Mona fitted this lustrous-eyed girl smiling up at him.)

  “Hours and hours, Uncle Stephen. Signor Lugoni says—guess what he says I have?”

  “Talent? L’esprit? La fiamma? It all depends on the language your teacher was speaking that day
. Well, what does Signor Lugoni say you have?”

  “He says I have industry.” Regina laughed at the dubiousness of her teacher’s compliment. “I should hate to be known as an industrious piano player.”

  Princess Lontana had no intention of letting Regina monopolize the guest of the evening. “Verve is the word for your niece,” she whispered, leading Stephen trophy fashion down the gantlet of her salon. At every step there was a presentation, carried off with prestissimo fan flutterings and an afterthought introduction of Regina. Having come for the express purpose of hearing Regina play, Stephen was about to suggest that the social circuit be closed, when his hostess whispered:

  “Prepare yourself, Eminence, for the pleasantest moment of all. You are about to meet an old friend.” Though the quivering timbre of her voice suggested excitement, Stephen was not prepared for the Princess’ next remark:

  “Look, Ghislana, at the surprise I have arranged. Stephen has come back to us. Our American Monsignor returns a glittering Prince of the Church.”

  The Princess’ triumphant manner disclosed an element of trickery, planned in advance and suddenly sprung. The touch of chicane struck Stephen as being definitely in bad taste. His hostess need not have staged this meeting so dramatically or announced it with such fanfare. Yet, in spite of his displeasure, Stephen was glad to see Ghislana Orselli again.

  Time had sifted impalpable dust-of-pearl over her face and hair, hushing the cry of her loveliness, as a harpist mutes too-vibrant strings with his hand. Though traces of her earlier mystery remained, he saw that she was, at fifty-two, a serenely matured woman with the same slow smile and quiet manner of lifting her eyes.