Book Read Free

The Cardinal

Page 75

by Henry Morton Robinson


  He remembered Orselli’s dandyish forefinger pointing at it from the bridge of the Vesuvio. “Why do you wish to know Lucifer’s position?” Orselli had asked. “Do you fear his fate?” Across a quarter-century Stephen recalled his own answer: “I fear, you fear, we all fear.” In the years intervening between that westward passage and this one, not a single word of Stephen’s answer could be altered. Now, as then, nations were careening toward war. Arrogant and unheeding, men still rejected Christ’s commandment: “Love ye one another.”

  A patch of mist blurring the horizon blotted out the fiery star. Other patches floated in. Stephen thought it strange that fog should be gathering on such a night. Usually, fog was caused by currents of warm air crossing a colder sea. But here the air itself was frigid. What, then, was causing the fog?

  Off the Oriana’s port bow loomed the answer—a gigantic mountain of ice, its base obscured by wraiths of mist, its pinnacles glittering in the starlight. The glacial invader, drifting into a sea warmer than itself, was generating the double hazard most dreaded by shipmasters. Icebergs alone were perilous enough: wrapped in self-created fog, they compounded danger at a fearful ratio.

  A lookout posted in the eyes of the ship had seen the danger; he signaled the bridge:

  “Iceberg off the port bow!”

  On the bridge, coolly watchful, Sir Humphrey Grylls spoke to his engine room. Stephen felt a slackening throb of the Oriana’s propellers as the vessel slowed to quarter speed.

  Another signal ascended: “Iceberg off the starboard bow!” Peering ahead, Stephen could see the drifting archipelago of icebergs through which the Oriana must pick her way. Rising from the ice field, a ghostly fog embraced ship, stars, all.

  Alone, mist-wrapped, an American Cardinal, approaching the shores of his homeland, meditated.

  Possessor of a mind seasoned by reality and fortified by long experience of men and affairs, Stephen Fermoyle was the ripe product of religious faith, spiritual discipline, and intellectual energy. Courage to speak and discretion to keep silence were equally balanced on his tongue. A quarter century of priestly obedience had not impaired his independence as a man, nor had the instinct for authority blunted his still deeper instincts to worship and love. Now at fifty-one, tender of heart, stanch of soul, and well conditioned in body, he was being called upon to exert his full powers in the service of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

  How best should those powers be used? Stripped of accidentals, what was the essential function of the Church? What position, what action, should it take in a world beset by wars and evil men?

  Should the Church retreat, as Girardot had suggested, to the catacombs? No. That was naïve, romantic, even frivolous. Such a withdrawal would be contrary to the injunction Christ had laid upon His Apostles: “Go ye, and teach all nations.” All nations! None to be favored, none neglected, none exempt. The divine mission to preserve and extend the faith was universal, constant, binding upon all. If this mission were to be performed, the Church must manifest itself clearly, actively, militantly, in a world sorely needing some accent of the Holy Ghost.

  By what instrumentalities should the work of the Church be carried on?

  Primarily by the sacraments—the seven outword signs instituted by Christ to give grace. To administer these sacraments, a tremendous organization was necessary. The Visible Church, with its ceremonial observances, its laws and revenues, its spiritual head, the Pope, and under him the bishops—successors of the Apostles—must be vigorously maintained.

  Of necessity this visible organization must work within the existing pattern of society. It was legitimate therefore, by means of concordats and other diplomatic measures, to arrive at agreements with civil governments that recognized the rights of God and the claims of Christian conscience. But with powers that did not recognize these rights—with governments that exalted the State or any individual leader above God—no intercourse was possible. They were the enemy, the Dark Adversary wandering through the world, seeking the ruin of souls. Now more than ever it was imperative that the Church make common cause with those governments which recognized the right of worship and the primacy of God in men’s lives.

  For the present, since the structure of human society was nationalistic, the Church in its human aspects must function within that frame. Eventually, in God’s time, the Church would disclose the larger design of His plan. In some future age, men would pick up the cross and go forth conquering under that sign alone. But they would pick up many other things first—national banners, terrible weapons, false symbols, and blasphemous words. In clashing dissonance their tongues would cry down the gentle admonishments from the Mount:

  Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the earth.

  Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

  Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.

  Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

  Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.

  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.

  Blessed are they who suffer persecution for justice’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  Had men entirely forgotten these counsels of blessedness? Would the meek ever possess the earth, or mourners be comforted? The Oriana’s foghorn, braying at two-minute intervals, cast terrifying doubts on the matter. Traveling outward from the vessel, the sound waves would strike a berg, then rebound in vibrations cruelly deformed by ice and fog. The mocking antiphon, pitched in the key of foreboding, chilled Stephen with its hoarse restatement of human discord. Counterpoint of chaos, struck by man and re-echoed by the elements! Was this the sound that life made wherever one listened—the reverberations of cruelty and despair that would drown out His voice at last?

  Stephen dared believe that, under the strident accents of brutality, men were listening for the first faint promises of the human concordia to be. Not given to modeling human clay in images contrary to fact, Stephen entertained (even at this dread hour) a realistic hope for such concord. His hope had been powerfully strengthened by Conrad Szalay’s performance at the concert earlier in the evening. Properly viewed, Conrad’s violin was a kind of lyra mystica creating harmony out of diverse, even hostile elements. The violin had been made of American maple and spruce, carved by the skill of a French-Canadian luthier, on a pattern of Italian design. It had been played by a youth of Polish-American descent, taught in childhood by a Russian Jew, and later by a Rumanian. On a British liner, Conrad had played the music of Brahms and Saint-Saëns to international listeners, who had temporarily laid aside their differences to applaud his universal art. Accompanying the violinist was a girl sprung of American, Irish, and Spanish stock who would soon blend not only her music, but her bone and blood, with the man she loved.

  Stephen did not wish to tack the allegory down too firmly. He could not foretell the political form that the human concordia of the future would take. But his faith told him that one day all nations would lift their hearts and voices in similar unity. With all his profoundly affirmative strength, he believed that the process by which Spirit infiltrates and purifies creature substance was slowly taking place in the world.

  And who would advance this process? Who would hasten and guarantee its fulfillment? Leaning over the Oriana’s rail, Stephen heard the primal sounds of ocean far below. Unbidden, the lines of John Keats sprang to his mind:

  The moving waters at their priestlike task

  Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores …

  Priestlike task! How better describe the office divinely entrusted to the Church? Heaven’s beach might be far away, but round earth’s human shores the labor of purification would constantly go on. Across the desolate shingle of the world, priests would move among erring, afflicted men and women, comforting their sorrow, counseling them against despair, teaching them to
support each other in acts of loving-kindness, pleading with them to accept some fragment of grace or receive—amidst scenes of mortal decay—some intimation of their immortality.

  Memories of Ned Halley, Bill Monaghan, Paul Ireton, Dom Arcibal, Gregor Potocki, and Alfeo Quarenghi warmed Stephen with knowledge of priestly good. He uttered their names, a litany of familiar saints. To these names could be added thousands of others unknown to Stephen—pastors, curates, confessors, binders of wounds, obscure filesmen in the army of the Church Militant, washers of weary feet and pourers of sacramental oil, exhorters, sustainers, whippers-in along the dusty line of march.

  “Father,” men called them. O most trusting of names—an echo of the Name uttered by circling choirs of seraphim, by souls clinging to the cliffs of purgatory, by bereaved children of Adam weeping and wailing in this valley of tears. A Name repeated ceaselessly in monodies of praise by lynx and leviathan, by inchworm, wind, and wave. A Name trumpeted by the hurricane, flashed in the lightning’s code—a Name boiling at the volcano’s heart, and roaring above the avalanche …

  The pinnacle of an iceberg toppled like exploding thunder alongside the Oriana.

  … A Name terrible in wrath, fearsome in its commandments to men, icy with anger when those commandments were broken …

  Stephen gripped the rail as the vessel lurched, faltered.

  … A Name hurling death at mockers …

  Foghorn waves, resounding from the cliff of a monstrous iceberg, screamed like tormented souls in hell.

  … A Name breathing forgiveness to those who humbly implore its mercy …

  As the ship entered the narrowing defile of ice, Stephen lifted that Name in utter dependence and trust:

  “OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN, HALLOWED BE THY NAME …”

  Above all other names of nations, rulers, dynasties, and powers.

  “THY KINGDOM COME; THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN …”

  In Thy will is our peace, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.

  “GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD …”

  Grant this humblest of invocations rising from Thy children earning their bread by honorable toil

  “AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES …”

  This most particularly, O Lord. For if Thou markest iniquities, who shall stand?

  “AS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO TRESPASS AGAINST US …”

  Yes, even those who contemn, injure, and most despitefully conspire against Thy Church.

  “AND LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION …”

  Through a rift in the fog, Stephen could see the dull glow of Lucifer, ominous, blood-colored, constant in the lives of men.

  “BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL …”

  From sudden and unprovided death; from plague, famine, and war; from lightning, ice, and shipwreck; from false leaders; from the ultimate ruin of Pride—and mercifully from Thy wrath, O Father in heaven, we beseech Thee, deliver us!

  The little hours began to climb from the pit of darkness. Faint musks of earth, borne seaward on vernal winds, scented the air with melting promise. Overhead, the Dipper spilled septentrional glory down. New World spring was breaching the fog barrier. Vigilance, wrought of hope and faith, would bring the vessel through.

  Night and ice floe, tide and planet, ship and world—irresistibly drawn by a love that bends all wills and desires toward Himself alone—moved on their destined courses as Stephen murmured, “Amen.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Henry Morton Robinson was born in Boston, Mass., on September 7, 1898, and was educated in the public schools of Maiden, Mass. He enlisted in the Navy at the outbreak of World War I, and later attended Columbia University. He began his literary career as a poet, publishing three volumes of verse while acting as Instructor in English at Columbia College. In 1927 he became a free-lance writer and produced a succession of books as well as articles and short stories for leading magazines. He collaborated with Joseph Campbell on a monumental study of James Joyce’s last and greatest work. After five years of scholarly research and sheer divination, Messrs. Robinson and Campbell presented a puzzled world with A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake. Mr. Robinson is also the author of two previous novels: The Perfect Round, published in 1945, and The Great Snow, published in 1947.

  Mr. Robinson is married, has three children, and has lived for the last twenty years at Woodstock, New York.

 

 

 


‹ Prev