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 Lords,” 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.
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.
“Felicitations, Your Eminence,” said Ghislana. “I congratulate you on your elevation”—her violet glance rested on Stephen’s cross of diamonds—“and on your niece. The first, I could have predicted. The second”—she smiled at Regina—“I had to discover for myself.”
“I am happy that you and Regina found each other,” said Stephen. It was an accurate statement of his feelings. Could he have chosen a single friend for Mona’s daughter, he would have named Ghislana Orselli as custodian and tutor of all that was enduringly feminine in the world.
Princess Lontana’s awareness that her grand salvo had somehow misfired brought an itch of irritation into her voice. “Gina dear,” she said, “I think that everyone is waiting for you to play. Come, let me make a little speech telling them who you are.”
In the expectant hush that followed Princess Lontana’s introduction, Regina took her place at the piano. With seeming simplicity she played a Chopin nocturne. To Stephen, as to the rest of the audience, it was apparent that the pianist had the unusual gift of letting the music deliver its own message. Chopin was followed by Reflets dans l’eau, a Debussy tone poem, delicately nebulous under the artiste’s hand. Taking her meed of applause gracefully, Regina moved into the grandly styled Bach-Tausig Toccata and Fugue in D minor—a work that emerged in appropriate sweep and strength.
Happiness, differing in kind and intensity from any he had yet known, filled Stephen as he watched Regina at the piano. This was Mona’s daughter, more beautiful, more gifted than Mona—a soul obviously at ease before perfection, capable of loving and growing in its light. This was the child the white-coated doctor would have destroyed in routine fashion. In eighteen short years, the curve of God’s circle had been revealed. From the broken arc of Mona’s life, He had shaped this perfect round.
Sea-deep, haunting, Regina’s music filled the salon. Men and women rose to applaud as she left the piano. Stephen stood, too, eyes brimming with pride and happiness. At his side, he felt Ghislana Orselli sharing Regina’s triumph with him. Secretly they smiled at each other; together they waited for Regina to join them. But the Princess evidently had other plans, for she led the artiste to a little court of admirers at the other side of the salon.
Now appeared Signor Ruggiero Bari, florid, self-assured, and curiously mesmeric. “Our hostess, self-sister to the Muses and patroness of poets,” he began, “has asked me to present for your entertainment a few scenes from dramatic literature. I shall begin with an interpretation of D’Annunzio’s Francesca da Rimini, in which, creating the part of Paolo”—he bowed with affected modesty—“I have had the honor to support the immortal Duse.”
Without props or costume (Signor Bari wore tails and white tie), the actor proceeded to demonstrate the naked power of his art. Setting the stage in a few majestic strophes, he re-enacted D’Annunzio’s version of the illicit love between Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. His portrayal of the tragic lovers won well-deserved “bravos” from the audience.
Much taken by the man’s art, Stephen wondered why Signor Bari had chosen this particular theme. It was, of course, older than Dante; undeniably, too, it furnished the actor with histrionic material of a high order. Still, from the entire range of literature, guilty love was scarcely the subject one might have expected on such an occasion.
Ruggiero was making his next announcement. “I shall now render Alfred de Vigny’s La Colère de Samson, depicting the eternal struggle between man’s vision of God and woman’s unremitting attempt to divert him from that goal. Samson, shorn of his strength, laments the treachery of Delilah—la ruse de la femme—by which man is constantly betrayed.”
Bari’s rendition of the poem was superb. But why this preoccupation with the pathology of mortal love? Somewhat puzzled, Stephen turned to Ghislana: “Surely there are other poems he might have chosen. Am I suspecting a motive where none is intended?”
“I think the intention is strongly marked, Your Eminence.”
“But what is behind it?”
“La ruse de la femme,” said Ghislana quietly.
The depth and malice of Princess Lontana’s plot seemed almost unbelievable to Stephen. Yet of the hundred or more persons in the audience, the Princess alone had private knowledge of the old passion that had existed between Ghislana and himself. Could it be that the Princess was purposely contriving to awaken echoes of the past? Or was she taking a perverse, malignant delight in saying (under cover of Bari’s declamation), “See how much I know about you two?” It was unthinkable that anyone, even a faded old harridan, could devise such torments for herself, or impose such cruel embarrassment on onetime friends. Yet it was clear now to Stephen that the Princess had baited her trap with Regina’s innocence, then arranged matters so that he and Ghislana would sit together during Bari’s performance. Shocked and angered by the ugliness of the plot, he turned in agitation to his companion:
“Princess Lontana must be mad!”
Ghislana’s answer came in a soothing whisper: “Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing that you are disturbed.”
It was good advice. Powerless to fight or run, Stephen was preparing to follow it, when a bass rumble, very pleasant to hear, came from a member of the audience. Dom Arcibal was addressing the actor. “Are you familiar, Signor Bari, with the passage in Dante’s Paradiso that describes the poet’s last vision of Beatrice? I think the scene occurs in the thirty-first canto.”
Stephen saw petulant displeasure cloud the Princess’ face. Evidently Signor Bari saw it also. To protect his five-thousand-lire bonus, the actor began an elaborate apology. The passage was familiar to him, of course, but unfortunately the lines were not quite fresh in his memory.
Dom Arcibal was not to be shaken off so easily. “Surely our hostess, self-sister to the Muses, has a copy of Dante in her library. It would give an old monk extreme pleasure to hear the passage read by so great an artist as Signor Bari.”
Overreached, Princess Lontana sent a servant for a copy of The Divine Comedy. Book in hand, Bari was glancing desperately through its pages, when Dom Arcibal gave the screw another twist.
“For the benefit of my friend, Lord Eltwin—whose only cultural deficiency is a sorry lack of Italian—might we have a running translation in English?” Beaming innocently about the salon, the monk finally glanced at Stephen. “Cardinal Fermoyle’s felicity with tongues is remembered by many in this room. If it is not too great an imposition, Your Eminence, will you exercise your skill for us tonight?”
A meaningful wink from Dom Arcibal’s off-eye accompanied the request.
The cunning instrument placed in his hands by Dom Arcibal—the only other person in the world who knew of Stephen’s former attachment to Ghislana—gave the American Cardinal an unexpected weapon. Human enough to enjoy using it against his deceitful hostess, he arose, smiled at Dom Arcibal, and said: “I shall be glad to translate for the benefit of your friend. You must forgive me, though, if I stammer in the presence of Alighieri’s genius.”
The reading began with Dante’s glorious apostrophe to the divine light that penetrates the universe:
O trina luce, che in unica stella
scintillando a lor vista sì gli appaga,
guarda quaggiù alia nostra procella. …
Stephen rendered the lines freely:
“O triune light, which in a single star contents all upon whom it shineth—gaze down upon our mortal storm.”
Bari continued with the stanza in which the poet recounts his rapture at beholding Beatrice shining near the center of sempiternal light:
… gli occhi su levai,
e vidi lei che si facea corona,
ri flettendo da sè gli eterni rai.
Stephen felt the poverty of his translation:
“Lifting my eyes I saw her, crowned, reflecting the light of those eternal rays.”
… chè sua effige
non discendeva a me per mezzo mista.
How recreate the unsayable vision? Stephen tried:
“Her image, unsullied by baser atmosphere, descended upon me.”
At the lines immortalizing Dante’s gratitude to Beatrice, Stephen translated into shining verses the essence of his own regard for Ghislana Orselli.
By virtue of love’s power,
From servitude to freedom thou hast drawn me …
Preserve in me thy pure magnificence,
So that my spirit, cleansed of all desire,
May, praise to thee, be loosened from my body.
Moved either by the elegance of Stephen’s translation or by some secret knowledge that the audience—enthusiastic though it was—could never share, Dom Arcibal rose to lead the applause. His bass“bravissimo” rolled toward Stephen on a special wave, as if echoing words uttered years ago in a penitential cell on the Campagna: “There is much love in your heart, dear son. God wants all of it. Bravissimo. By grace and self-conquest you have offered Him the nearly perfect gift He demands from His anointed servants.”
HIGH in the dome of St. Peter’s, silver trumpets sent echoes of the Papal March flying. Seventy thousand persons stood inside the church, half a million more jammed the Piazza outside, as the coronation procession of Pius XII entered the central doors of the Basilica.
No external sign of pomp and pageantry was lacking. First came an Auditor of the Holy Rota, holding aloft a spearheaded cross, surrounded by seven acolytes of noble birth. Came papal gendarmes in towering black busbies and white breeches, followed by chamberlains in lace ruffs and chains of gold. Knights of Malta advanced in solemn phalanx, their white cloaks emblazoned with crimson crosses; behind them at the slow pace of pageantry came sandaled monks, bearded patriarchs, mitered bishops, and purple-robed archbishops. Now the princes of the Church appeared, cardinals regally caped, walking solemnly two by two, the younger men first, the more venerable elders nearer the papal sedia directly behind them. Between the cardinals and the Pope a band of heralds and mace-bearers guarded the triple tiara, beehive in shape, studded with precious stones, and borne on a red velvet cushion.
On the shoulders of twelve throne-bearers, attired in crimson damask liveries, the Pope’s sedia gestatoria floated above the throng. His cloth-of-gold cape was caught at the throat by a jeweled clasp; over his head a cream-colored canopy swayed. On either side, prelates waved the traditional flabelli, magnificent ostrich-plumed fans. While the Sistine choir chanted “Tu es Petrus” the Pope ceaselessly made signs of the cross, blessing the multitude with white-gloved hands.
At the chapel of the Most Holy Trinity, the procession halted while Pius XII descended from his throne to adore the Blessed Sacrament. Like any other priest he knelt, head bowed, in prayer. No music now. Hushed all. From the enormous vault of the dome, silence fell like a tapestry.
Finishing his prayer of adoration, Pius XII rose from his knees and prepared to seat himself again on his throne. A cowled monk approached. In one hand he carried a lighted taper; in the other, a tuft of wax-impregnated hemp. Bowing to His Holiness, the monk brought flame and hemp together. Fire flashed momentarily, then vanished in smoke.
“Sic transit gloria mundi,” cried the monk.
As the procession moved at the tempo of high ritual past the statue of St. Peter, the symbolic act of earthly consummation was re-enacted. In sepulchral tones, “Sic transit” reverberated through the Basilica.
At the central altar, reserved for the Sovereign Pontiff alone, Pius XII vested for solemn Pontifical Mass. At the conclusion of the Mass he would be crowned with the triple tiara, symbolic of the Church Suffering, the Church Militant, and the Church Triumphant.
Princes would bow to the wearer of this crown; panoply would surround his person; a semblance of divinity would clothe his words. Only a forehead proved against personal vanity could bear so flaming a burden. To remind the Pope of the fearful jeopardy in which he would live, and the ultimate dust to which mortal glories return, the hooded monitor approached him for the third time. Again flame met hemp, again the lugubrious warning sounded:
“Sic transit gloria mundi.”
The Mass began. Stephen, sitting among his compeers, watched the changeless sacrifice unfold. As in all other Masses, whether celebrated in vaulted temple or thatched hut, the priest re-enacted the Passion suffered by Christ that men might gain life everlasting. As Pius XII extended his hands over the oblation he was about to consecrate, Stephen silently joined him in the Hanc igitur.
“We therefore beseech Thee, O Lord, mercifully to accept this oblation of our servitude, as also of Thy whole family; and to dispose our days in Thy peace; and bid us be delivered from eternal damnation, and to be numbered among the flock of Thy elect. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The grandeur of earthly pomp, the gauds of fame, the baubles of power, and the transient adulation of men—all, all would vanish as a spark amid darkness, a yesterday which is past. But the oblation would remain. The eternal sacrifice would live on, concelebrated by priest and people, fellow partakers of His promise: “Behold I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world.”