YES, life went on. Meanly and grandly, by the knife and the Word, with sinister stroke and valiant counterstroke, the world spun round. In Munich a terrible man was shouting “Wir wollen wieder Waffen”; along Manchuria’s eastern marshes, the spear of Japanese aggression sank (with appropriate regrets) into the vitals of China. On the balcony of the Palazzo Venezia, a latter-day Caesar vowed to Romulus, Remus, Horatius Codes, et alii that the eagles of Rome would again sweep in imperial squadrons against Italy’s foes. Avanti Fascismo … Viva il Duce!
In dustier parts of the vineyard, ordinary men toiled daylong, each for his penny. Specifically:
IN NEW YORK, not far from Carnegie Hall, a coffee-dark young man carrying a scuffed violin case pushed open a door bearing the brass plate: w. PFUNDT—VIOLINS BOUGHT SOLD AND REPAIRED. Against a showcase containing instruments insured for half a million dollars leaned Wilhelm Pfundt—uninsurable himself because of fatty heart and Buerger’s disease, but otherwise in good repair. The violin dealer was, in fact, a very triumph of repair work: a nine-pound truss kept his tripes in place, and a leather harness did likewise for his wobbly sacroiliac. These supporting devices, together with a hearing aid, a double row of dental crockery, and a pair of improbably convex eyeglasses made Herr Pfundt the living proof that anything—including the human frame—can be wired, clamped, glued, braced, and strapped together again, long after its first sweet integrity has disappeared.
“Nu, nu, Junge”—molasses and vinegar were mixed equally in Herr Pfundt’s greeting—“what have we in our little box today? A left-handed Cremona, or an Amati by way of the woodpile?”
Rafael Menton opened his leatherette case, marveled privately at the perfection of the Eve-shaped instrument he had created, then held it up for the dealer’s inspection.
“My Bergonzi model,” he announced, plucking the A string as a lover might caress a lobe of his sweetheart’s ear.
Herr Pfundt’s approach to the fiddle was rather more clinical; indeed, his whole manner suggested a pediatrician examining a baby with rickets. He tapped the slightly swollen belly curve of the violin, peered at its tawny amber varnish, then, observing the first rule of successful dealership, handed it back to the maker. “Stradivarius will not turn over in his grave today,” he grunted. “Well, nu … wie viel?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“For a baseball bat with strings you ask three hundred dollars? Take it out to Yankee Stadium. Or better yet”—Herr Pfundt modulated into a Dutch-uncle role—“look at a real Bergonzi.” The dealer indicated a pale orange-colored instrument in his showcase. “A true masterwork made by a pupil of Stradivarius. It is for instruments with a golden voice like this that fiddlers pay money.”
The young luthier stood his ground. “Play both violins in Carnegie Hall—mine will outsing yours in everything but reputation. Please, Mr. Pfundt, just draw a bow across the open strings.”
The dealer picked up a bow and made scraping noises vaguely resembling Träumerei. Then blowing into his hearing aid as if to clear away static, he peered again at the purfling and F-holes of the violin.
“You are a promising workman. Vielleicht, you could make a good umbrella stand. … One hundred dollars.”
Angry protests met the offer. “Listen, Mr. Pfundt, it took me two hundred and fifty hours to make this violin. The back is curly maple, cut from a special tree. The varnish is a secret formula—no other American maker has it. I’ll take two hundred and fifty dollars—that’s only a dollar an hour for my labor—and not a penny less.”
He was putting the violin back in its case when Herr Pfundt’s sense of dealercraft prompted a new tack. “Patience makes everything possible,” he soothed. “If you won’t sell, so perhaps you will swap. I have something here that may interest you.”
The dealer opened a cupboard and produced the shattered skeleton of a violin. “A lost Cremona,” he said, placing the instrument in Rafe’s hands. “Ganz verloren for two hundred years. Last week it comes to me—legally, you understand—from a source I cannot reveal. Repaired by a man of your skill, it should be worth”—Herr Pfundt made indefinite, large gestures—“who knows how much?”
Rafael examined the decrepit violin. Its neck was broken, the top badly cracked, and the back entirely missing. Yet across its grandeur of proportion and delicate carving, the master’s hand still moved.
Few men in the world, perhaps only the two bending over the ruined instrument, would have dreamed of restoring it. But here they were, the necessary ingredients conjoined: Rafael Menton, the artist-luthier, sick for the feel of greatness, and Wilhelm Pfundt, the living proof that patchwork reigns, though Parthenons crumble.
“Put a back on that, and you’ll have something with a voice and a reputation,” said the dealer.
“I’ll swap you even, Mr. Pfundt. My Bergonzi for your Guarnerius.”
“Not so fast, young man. For this Cremona I must have your Bergonzi—mit two hundred dollars.”
“I haven’t got that much money, Mr. Pfundt.” It was the somber truth. After ten years as a full-fledged luthier, Rafe Menton could not lay his hands on fifty dollars in cash.
Lardy benevolence greased Herr Pfundt’s next proposal. “So work it out in repair jobs for me. If fiddle dealers cannot trust each other …”
That very afternoon, returning to his murky shop under the Second Avenue El, Rafe Menton began piecing together the fragments of a three-hundred-year-old masterpiece.
REGINA BYRNE was nine now, and nine was different from eight. At eight you thought of boys as cat drowners and bird stoners. At nine there was another reason for boys’ existence: they either noticed you or they didn’t, and it desperately mattered which.
To solve the mystery of why boys noticed girls, Regina took to gazing in the mirror.
“I am gruesome,” she told herself.
Regina’s Spanish-dark braids and olive skin weren’t gruesome at all; they simply were not the most popular combination at St. Bridget’s Parochial School. If Regina could have written her own beauty ticket, she would have ordered an ensemble like Vivian Bursay’s: golden-blond hair, baby-blue eyes, and strawberry-pink complexion. No wonder the boys rassled on the sidewalk for the privilege of strapping Vivian’s roller skates onto her dainty feet. None of the young gallants who streamed out of the boys’ side of St. Bridget’s had ever struggled for the privilege of strapping on Regina’s skates. Gladly she would have exchanged all the love she got at home, all the acclaim showered on her when she played the piano at school concerts, for some overt proof of Charlie Dunne’s devotion.
Heavy with the impossibility of such hope, Regina turned for comfort to her cancellations. The ritual worked like this:
Counting the letters that didn’t cancel, you got nine. According to the rules, you now subtracted one—and you had the enigmatic result, H, the eighth letter in the alphabet. Hate or Happiness—which did it stand for? L clearly meant Love, and M betokened Marriage. But H demanded a deeper reading. If it truly meant Happiness, Charlie Dunne would have to co-operate a little more actively. Pull a braid maybe, throw a snowball at her—anything to show that he was aware of her existence. The first step, then, toward lifelong bliss with Charlie Dunne was to attract his attention by some compelling deed.
The nature of this daring deed sprang full-blown into Regina’s mind when she saw the tortoise-shell cat in the window of Miss Fifield’s thread-and-needle shop.
Around the cat’s neck was a red-leather circlet of tiny bells.
Just what I need, thought Regina. With criminal coolness she entered Miss Fifield’s little shop and said: “I want a spool of Number Forty Clark’s O. N. T. black thread.” While Miss Fifield turned around to pull out a tray of spools, Regina leapt at the cat’s collar. She unfastened the tiny buckle and whipped the red-leather circlet into her pocket. Shrugging a puzzled shoulder, the cat dozed once more.
“That will be five cents,” said Miss Fifield, putting the spool into a paper bag. Regina paid her nickel and minced out of the store, a perfect little lady. Outside the shop she started to run; not until she was home did she pull the collar out of her pocket. She shook the bells. “Lovely, lovely,” she said, stirred by the beauty of their sound. “Just the thing to make H come truly true.”
Regina’s bid for Charlie Dunne’s attention was somewhat delayed by the strict separation of boys and girls in St. Bridget’s School. Her moment came, however, on the last day of preparation for Holy Communion. Boys, herded into the Gospel side of the basement church, girls ranged on the other, were rehearsing under the direction of Sister Superior herself, who had come in to coach her angelic little charges in the proper manner of approaching the sacrament.
“Clasp your hands as though carrying a spiritual bouquet,” said Sister Superior. “Wait until the boy or girl in front of you takes six steps before you leave the pew. Walk with grave piety to the feast our Lord has prepared for you, then kneel at the altar rail. Now let’s try it one at a time.”
Simultaneously from the first pews, a boy and a girl filed to the altar. “No giggling, Eustacia … hands higher, Frederick. …”
When Regina’s turn came, she started for the altar. There was a slight quiver of bells about her as she walked. A titter ran along both sides of the aisle.
Sister Superior whirled sharply. “Who is jingling bells here?” she challenged. No answer. No need of one. The source of the unholy tinkling was clearly evident as Regina knelt at the rail.
Sister Superior approached the suspect. “Regina Byrne,” she asked grimly, “are you shaking any bells?”
Innocence itself creamed Regina’s voice. “No, Sister.” (They certainly were all looking at her now.)
“Then where did that jingling sound come from?” Sister Superior laid hold of Regina’s shoulder and shook her experimentally. A muffled carillon emerged from somewhere under Regina’s clothes. The sound was so unbelievably shocking that Sister Superior did not shake the child again.
“Step into the sacristy,” she said. “I propose to find out where this indecent noise is coming from.”
With a proud little swagger Regina walked toward the sacristy, tinkling her bells as she went. Walking past Charlie Dunne, she smiled; big-eyed, he stared at her, grinned back.
Regina floated into the sacristy in a haze of triumph. She was glad of all that had happened, and only slightly afraid of the consequences. “They won’t dare do anything to me,” she told herself. “My Uncle Stephen’s a bishop—he’ll ostracize them.”
Sister Superior and Sister Marcella, a pair of wimpled inquisitors, stalked into the sacristy.
“Where are the bells, Regina? Are they on your dress?”
“No, Sister Superior.”
“On your—petticoat?”
“No, Sister Marcella.”
Deeper than this, the nuns were not prepared to plunge. They glanced at each other as if to gain strength for the next step. Then Sister Marcella bent over swiftly, and thrust her hand under Regina’s clothes. There was a faint jingle, and the amazed nun straightened up as if she had touched a charged wire.
“Sister Superior,” she reported, “Regina Byrne has sewn bells onto her garters!”
JAMES SPLAINE, better known to his intimates as “Gillette” (Gillette me have a ciggie? … Gillette me have two bits?), nipped at his dwindling pint and addressed a scrawny bay gelding tethered to a near-by tree. “Sarge,” he said, “we gotta start now with the bandages. You done your part O.K. Now, hol’ still an’ I’ll do mine.”
Gathering up some handfuls of steaming manure, Jimmy Splaine applied it like a poultice to the bay gelding’s knee. “01’ vetinary trick, Sarge. Never fails. Jes’ eases lil’ ol’ osselet back into place.” He bound the poultice with a piece of burlap and admonished the mangy beast. “They’d a shot you, Sarge, sure’n Christmas—you’d be soap by now, on’y I said: ‘Look, here’s a sawbuck I made on the third race.’ For that dough, Sarge, them crum-bums’d stop makin’ soap out of their gran’- mother.”
Jimmy Splaine fumbled compulsively at the neck of his pint. “You ain’t no Man o’ War, but if that popped osselet pops back, we’ll play the county fairs all summer. … Clean up at Marshfield, Barnstable, yeh, ’n maybe Rockingham. Win, place, or show. Settle f’r anything.”
Gargling for the relief of his chronic dryness, Jimmy Splaine went on. “On’y one thing we hafta do first. Gotta change your name. Never liked sergeants in army. All basserds, same as cops. Basserds! We’ll latch onto a name with class to it … sump’n people can trust … depew’able.” Jimmy Splaine aimed his empty bottle at a rock and burst into laughter. “Sa-ay, how ’bout namin’ you after my brother Jeremy? Then there’d be two monsignors in the Splaine family—one a cardinal’s seketary ’n the other—ha-ha-ha—a bay gelding! Ominus nabiscum. Didn’ know I was an altar boy once, eh, Sarge, I mean Monsignor? … Plenny Latin. Hominy nonsum dinkus. Whoa, boy. Oats, is it?” The owner-trainer of Monsignor surveyed a dime, two nickels, and a penny, drawn from his pocket. “Sorry, pal, hafta feed you grass awhile. Jes’ pop that osselet an’ you get plenny of oats. On’y make it so’s I don’t have to kneel down when I feed ’em to you, Monsignor.”
IN THE VATICAN PALACE a hook-nosed Secretary of State gathered up his parrots and prepared to retire.
Pietro Giacobbi’s work was done. The old matador, who by a species of homeopathic magic had taken on the burly truculence of the thousand bulls he had vanquished, was leaving the arena. Never had the fame of Vatican diplomacy stood higher than in Giacobbi’s hour of retirement. As Secretary of State under two Popes he had guided the foreign policy of the Church through the mine field of a world war; in the turbulent decade following Versailles he had swept away, by means of concordats and treaties, every visible or suspected danger swimming in the dark waters of European affairs. The last and greatest of his triumps had been the Lateran Treaty, a prolonged and delicately balanced negotiation with the Duce, hailed at the time as the diplomatic coup of the century.
By the Lateran Treaty the Pope renounced all claims to the temporal powers and properties seized from him by the House of Savoy in 1870. In return he received a cash indemnity of seven hundred and fifty million lire, plus another billion in government bonds. The papacy was to enjoy sovereignty over Vatican City—a tiny state of one hundred and ten acres. Religious societies were to be recognized; the sacramental nature of marriage was reaffirmed; Catholicism was to be taught in the schools. God had been restored to Italy, Italy restored to God. Having brought the estranged parties together, Cardinal Pietro Giacobbi retired.
His successor, Eugenio Pacelli, was probably the only man in the world whose diplomatic skill and experience matched Giacobbi’s. From earliest childhood the new Secretary of State had dedicated himself to the service of the Church. Sprung from a family of canon lawyers—Eugenio’s father was a consistorial advocate, his grandfather had served as Undersecretary of the Interior to Pius IX—the Roman-born youth had at the age of ten declared his intention to become a priest. At fifteen he entered Capricana College in Rome, the oldest and most distinguished ecclesiastical school in the world. After precocious triumphs in scholarship (doctorates in philosophy, theology, and law were his at twenty-two), Eugenio Pacelli received the sacrament of Holy Orders on April 2, 1899. The next day—it was Easter Sunday—he celebrated his first Mass in the basilica of St. Mary’s Major, then accepted the chair of law in the Pontifical Institute of the Apollinaire at Rome.
A career in canon law seemed to be indicated for Eugenio Pacelli. But destiny had other plans for the young priest. Monsignor Pietro Giacobbi, then Secretary of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Affairs, persuaded Father Pacelli to resign his chair of law, and give all his time to the Vatican Secretariat. The future Pope became Giacobbi’s protégé and pupil; he assisted the Cardinal Secretary in the prodigious feat of recodifying the entire body of canon law. In World War I he had become Apostolic Nuncio to Bavaria—a post of utmost importance, for Germany was at that time the diplomatic pivot of Europe. Unmatched political insight, the gift of tongues, and extraordinary personal charm made Cardinal Pacelli at fifty-five a power in the chancelleries of Europe. What more natural, when Giacobbi decided to retire, than that his brilliant protégé should succeed him as papal Secretary of State?
Scarcely had Pacelli taken up his new duties when ominous birds, winging from Mussolini’s headquarters in the Palazzo Venezia, began lighting on St. Peter’s dome. In two short years the Lateran Treaty had broken down. II Duce, who had beamed triumphantly for world cameras when the treaty was signed, began to scowl when its provisions went into effect. His promise that Italian children should receive religious education clashed violently with the Fascist program of giovanezza—State control of youth from cradle to combat training. Black-shirted police began roughing up Catholic Youth Clubs as they marched to church on feast days. Street fighting between Catholic student societies and armed Fascist bands became commoner, rougher. When II Duce declared that despite the Lateran Treaty, the Church was subject to the State, Pius XI branded him as an oath breaker.
Shortly thereafter, the Fascist press accused the Vatican of plotting to assassinate Mussolini. Cardinal Pacelli denied the charge; demanded proof. The only answer was official silence and squads of Fascisti crying: “Death to the Pope,” as they clubbed schoolboys belonging to Catholic Youth Societies. Again Pacelli protested. His protests were ignored; worse, they were strangled when Mussolini seized all telegraph and cable stations communicating with the outer world.
Such was the melancholy posture of events when Bishop Stephen Fermoyle arrived in Rome, by special dispensation, for his ad limina visit in June, 1931.
Five years had wrought noticeable changes, seemingly for the better, in the Italian scene. There was a spanking new pier at Naples; the train for Rome left on the dot and arrived on time. Driving from the modernized central station to his hotel, Stephen noted the face-lifting improvements on the public buildings and felt the accelerated tempo of a city trying to regain imperial status. Because it was a great feast day, Stephen expected to see the usual processions—flower-decked statues and banners being carried to church. Not a sign of holiday-making anywhere!
“Where are the processions?” he asked the taxi driver.
The man lifted a “How should I know?” shoulder, glancing from side to side as though the curbstones had ears. Mystified, Stephen saved the question for someone who wouldn’t be so obviously afraid to answer.
At the Hotel Ritz-Reggia a new manager greeted him with a Fascist salute. Behind the desk, where formerly a bucolic painting of Lake Maggiore had hung, a portrait of Mussolini glowered. The porters, once so leisurely, moved with exaggerated military bearing; they wheeled Stephen’s modest luggage to his suite as though they were manning a gun caisson.
It was all very bewildering, and became more so when Stephen phoned his old superior, Monsignor Giuseppe Guardiano, to learn the time of his audience with the Pope. The telephone service was excellent; Monsignor Guardiano’s voice came through clearly, but with puzzling caution. In response to Stephen’s joyous salutation, the Undersecretary’s tone was almost brusque:
“Greetings, Your Excellency. The Holy Father will receive you tomorrow at ten.”
“Fine, Seppo. Thanks for arranging things. How’ve you been, old fellow? What goes on, generally?”
“Tomorrow at ten, Your Excellency.” The telephone clicked.
What does go on? Stephen wondered.
Weary with travel, he dined alone in his room that evening. Finishing his coffee, he was momentarily tempted to phone Princess Lontana and hear her exclaim: “Come over at once, Your Excellency; but now, immediatamente! My party needs a good-looking Bishop.” No, that phase of life was past—buried with Roberto Braggiotti and Ghislana Falerni. Dangerous to awaken sleeping echoes; even a single reed-thin vibration might bring the avalanche of memory roaring down.
To discipline himself, Stephen pulled out a white-and-gold bound copy of the ad limina report that he would present to His Holiness on the morrow. Leafing through its pages, he became slightly apprehensive. Set down in bald pica, the five-year record of his Diocese was not particularly impressive. His cash position, itemized in Schedule A, was woefully weak; of the quarter-million-dollar legacy left him by Bishop Qualters, barely fifty thousand dollars remained. To offset this slender balance, Stephen could point to three new churches and four new schools he had built during the depression. On the credit side also were the farming co-operatives he had helped finance in rural areas. Among the intangibles not appearing in the record was his curial organization staffed with energetic young men.
Troubled by misgivings, Stephen laid the report aside. How would the Pope comment on his servant’s stewardship? With filial resignation, tinged by the knowledge that he had done the best he could, the Bishop of Hartfield went to sleep on a trusting prayer.
NEXT MORNING, entering the Vatican Palace through the familiar courtyard of San Damaso, Stephen presented himself to a plumed maestro di camera in the papal antechamber. There was a period of waiting, a ceremonious progress to the Pope’s study—then the opened double door and the sight of the Holy Father seated at his long worktable. Emotion welled up in the American Bishop as he beheld his spiritual leader, terribly worn by the burdens of his office. Stephen dropped to his knees, arose, advanced, knelt again. For some inexplicable reason, his eyes were moist. Now the pontiff’s arms were around him, and the Holy Father was murmuring:
“Caro figlio, Stefano. Five years … such a long time!”
Stephen dashed his tears away. “Forgive me, Holy Father,” he said. “I didn’t come all the way from America to weep on your shoulder. Just a sudden case of lachrymae rerum.”
The tears of things! Through the fog in his spectacles Pius XI gazed clinically at Stephen. “What was this famous surgery we heard of?” (Achille Ratti, conqueror of Monte Rosa, knew the value of a leg.) “Are you quite recovered? Sit down, dear son. Take this armchair.”
Settling himself on a damask sofa, the Pope cheerfully waved aside Stephen’s inquiry about his health. “The entire matter,” said His Holiness, “is summed up in a Neapolitan proverb. ‘A century from now, we shall all be bald.’” The pontiff pointed to his white skullcap. “As you see, we are still blessed with a few hairs.” Sunlight, bouncing off the tessellated pavement of St. Peter’s Square, twinkled along the gold rims of Achille Ratti’s spectacles. “You yourself have grown gray at the temples, Stefano. Pastoral cares?”
“No more than my share, Holy Father.” The Bishop of Hartfield placed his ad limina report in the Pontiff’s hand. “Here is the detailed account of my episcopate. Not exactly a chaplet of roses—as Your Holiness probably knows.”
Pius XI fingered the document thoughtfully. “We have studied the copy sent us by Archbishop Quarenghi. Considering the state of the world, it is an encouraging report. We are particularly proud of your pastoral letter condemning the sin of birth control, and are deeply honored that you buttressed your argument by quoting from our encyclical on marriage.”
The Holy Father leafed through the pages till he came to Schedule A. “We are pleased, also, that you gave so generously to the community fund in your diocese—even though, you—ah—depleted your reserves to do so.”
The pontiff commended Stephen for the churches and schools he had built during the depression. “That took courage,” he murmured. “But even more courageous, in our opinion, is the establishment of the farming co-operatives in your rural areas. As you may recall, this is a matter stressed by us in Quadragesimo anno”
“I undertook the venture, Holy Father, because—as you pointed out in Quadragesimo anno—rural dwellers have been fearfully neglected in this industrial age. I must confess that results in Hartfield have not, thus far, come up to my expectations.”
Pius XI leaned forward to give his words emphasis. “Do not be disheartened by a meager harvest, dear son. The fruit will ripen slowly. Meanwhile, the Church must encourage young priests to forgo brilliant urban careers in order to serve neglected millions who spend their lives tilling the earth. Will you carry back to your country and your diocese our special prayer for Catholic action in rural parishes?”
“I shall do everything in my power, Holy Father, to further the teachings of Quadragesimo anno,” said Stephen.
“Thank you for that promise, dear son.” The Pope gazed broodingly through a tall window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. “We are much moved by the filial constancy and obedience of our children in the New World. It is the eldest of our daughters, Italy, who causes us most pain. Treaties signed in good faith are disregarded. Our zeal for the Christian family is scorned. God Himself is subordinated to the pagan notion of State.”
The pontiff’s agitation mounted. “With the House of Savoy, we at least knew where we stood. But in this stucco Caesar—this self-idolater”—Achille Ratti spat the words out like fishbones—“there is neither constancy nor truth. His throat is an open sepulcher, his tongue traffics in deceit.”
Pius XI strode to his worktable and snatched up a fistful of handwritten sheets. “II Duce thinks to dislodge us by his bullying.” The old Alpinist dug the soles of his red slippers into the carpet like a mountain climber feeling for a firm foothold. “He forgets that we are part mountain goat, and that our pou sto is the Rock of Peter.”
Pou sto. A place whereon to stand! The foothold that Archimedes sighed for—and that Pius XI possessed!
“We are preparing an encyclical, Non abbiamo bisogno, which will condemn II Duce’s errors, expose his broken promises.” As Pius XI read aloud from his manuscript, Stephen realized that the Pope’s message was a mighty pry bar, a moral lever capable of moving the world.
Thou art indeed Peter, thought Stephen, and the gates of a totalitarian hell shall not prevail against you.
LEAVING the Holy Father, Stephen was in a state of tonic exhilaration. He scarcely heard the maestro di camera saying to a chamberlain: “Escort Bishop Fermoyle to Cardinal Pacelli’s apartments.” He followed a ruffed chamberlain through a series of antechambers to the Cardinal Secretary’s suite on the floor below. Descending a grand staircase, Stephen was awakened from his cloud trance when his guide thrust out a sturdy leg in a mimic attempt to trip him flat on his face.
“Furfantino!” cried the chamberlain. The voice was oddly familiar. It was, in fact, the voice of Captain Orselli.
“Gaetano!” Stephen flung his arm around the velvet-caped shoulder of his old friend. “What blaggardry goes on here? Trip me, would you?” He clapped a headlock onto die ex-captain. “Your ruffs and capes fooled me, you false-bottomed Florentine.”
Gaetano Orselli’s beard—oiled, perfumed, but grizzled now—was brushing Stephen’s cheek. “Most Excellent Excellency—most airtreading Prince of Clerics! Fooled you, did I? Ha-ha-ha. You were walking on clouds coming out of the Holy Father’s presence. Had I been a coalhole you’d have fallen into me. Gesù, but I’m glad to see you, Stefano.”
Stephen laughed. “How did a fearful Ghibelline like yourself ever break into these sacred precincts? Don’t tell me my prayers got you here.”
Orselli blessed himself like a pious cutpurse standing before a magistrate. “I am the victim of a woman’s heaven-storming wiles, Stefano. Novenas, rosaries, tons of the finest beeswax candles, all have ascended in my behalf. Did I know this would happen? Could one believe that a pirate Turk would be converted into a papal gentleman—veloured, caped, easy about the knees”—Orselli bounced in and out of a genuflection—“and like it? It is a miracle, Stefano, performed by that most beautiful of creatures, Ghislana, my wife.”
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, out 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.