fire. A hot drop burned his hand.
In Rome the great topic was the new pope’s first political move. Pius IX – this was now Mastai’s title – had granted an unusually generous amnesty to political exiles and prisoners, and Liberals were collecting money to pay for their return. Some, already back, were said to be advising the Pope about prison reform.
Grey-faced men with skittish eyes were received in the Quirinal, and prelates were scandalised that fellows fresh from studying subversion in Swiss cafés or the prisons of the realm should have the new pope’s ear. The city was filling up with dangerous elements.
The Caffè Nuovo, the spice shops and the Sapienza University were hives of Liberal agitation and who could doubt but that counter-intrigues were being hatched in the gloom of certain great palaces?
Monsignor Amandi was alert to the danger posed by quondam power-brokers and by the underlings who, having worked for them as bravos, would now be frightened for their lives. Rome was a town inured to intrigue and he guessed that the Gregoriani – this was the name being given to those who hankered back to the late pope’s reign – would noteasily throw in the sponge. Dispatches from Vienna warned that Metternich was aghast.
Absorbed by these dangers, Amandi nearly missed a subtler one to which his first meeting with the new pope should have alerted him. Mastai did not smile at his friend’s teasing reference to the white dove. All in white himself, he seemed as awed by his regalia as a bride on her wedding day.
Amandi asked about another anecdote he had heard. Was it true that the cardinals had been about to blackball the amnesty when Mastai, taking off his white skull cap, placed it over the voting counters and said: ‘Brothers, Pio Nono has turned them all white’?
‘Ah!’ Mastai softened. ‘The people like that story, don’t they? I play to the gallery a little – under inspiration.’ Fluttering a wing-like hand, he mimed a hovering paraclete. ‘I have to believe that. You, better than anyone, know the meagreness of my human powers.’
‘But you were elected because of them.’
Pius gave a shrewd laugh. ‘I was a compromise candidate. But now the stone the builders rejected is on the top of the arch and I must have confidence in God’s choice, must I not?’
As Amandi described them afterwards, the pride and humility were absolute. ‘But now you are Peter. Peter and Pater.’
‘By God’s grace.’
And mine, thought his friend, and wondered if it might have been safer for Pius to rely more on human advice. ‘Let me,’ he offered, ‘be your ears and eyes for a while.’
‘Oh, I have the eyes of Argus working for me now.’
It was hard to tell whether the snub was deliberate.
‘And the people’s hearts are good.’ Pius had a sweet, exalted smile which Amandi didn’t remember from before. It was a held a little too long, as though for distant viewing.
‘Holy Father …’ Amandi’s mind divided. Part of it monitored the delivery of a warning about the enemies of reform who would find it all too easy to create trouble. Already this year there had been bread-riots in the provinces. One third of the inhabitants of Bologna were indigent and poor cereal harvests all over Europe had exacerbated their misery – but there were also those who used the mob. ‘Holy Father …’
The other half of his mind was marvelling at how this title had reversed relations between himself and his old protégé. ‘Holiness,’ he practised, while a bounce of memory recalled the sorry figure the young Giovanni Maria had cut after being rejected by the Pope’s Noble Guard.He had used his epilepsy to avoid being drafted into Napoleon’s Grand Army to fight the Russian campaign, and later the excuse, staying on his record, closed off all hope of a military career. For a younger son, there was nothing for it then but to don a cassock. Had Mastai forgotten the mundane source of his vocation?
‘Let
In Rome the great topic was the new pope’s first political move. Pius IX – this was now Mastai’s title – had granted an unusually generous amnesty to political exiles and prisoners, and Liberals were collecting money to pay for their return. Some, already back, were said to be advising the Pope about prison reform.
Grey-faced men with skittish eyes were received in the Quirinal, and prelates were scandalised that fellows fresh from studying subversion in Swiss cafés or the prisons of the realm should have the new pope’s ear. The city was filling up with dangerous elements.
The Caffè Nuovo, the spice shops and the Sapienza University were hives of Liberal agitation and who could doubt but that counter-intrigues were being hatched in the gloom of certain great palaces?
Monsignor Amandi was alert to the danger posed by quondam power-brokers and by the underlings who, having worked for them as bravos, would now be frightened for their lives. Rome was a town inured to intrigue and he guessed that the Gregoriani – this was the name being given to those who hankered back to the late pope’s reign – would noteasily throw in the sponge. Dispatches from Vienna warned that Metternich was aghast.
Absorbed by these dangers, Amandi nearly missed a subtler one to which his first meeting with the new pope should have alerted him. Mastai did not smile at his friend’s teasing reference to the white dove. All in white himself, he seemed as awed by his regalia as a bride on her wedding day.
Amandi asked about another anecdote he had heard. Was it true that the cardinals had been about to blackball the amnesty when Mastai, taking off his white skull cap, placed it over the voting counters and said: ‘Brothers, Pio Nono has turned them all white’?
‘Ah!’ Mastai softened. ‘The people like that story, don’t they? I play to the gallery a little – under inspiration.’ Fluttering a wing-like hand, he mimed a hovering paraclete. ‘I have to believe that. You, better than anyone, know the meagreness of my human powers.’
‘But you were elected because of them.’
Pius gave a shrewd laugh. ‘I was a compromise candidate. But now the stone the builders rejected is on the top of the arch and I must have confidence in God’s choice, must I not?’
As Amandi described them afterwards, the pride and humility were absolute. ‘But now you are Peter. Peter and Pater.’
‘By God’s grace.’
And mine, thought his friend, and wondered if it might have been safer for Pius to rely more on human advice. ‘Let me,’ he offered, ‘be your ears and eyes for a while.’
‘Oh, I have the eyes of Argus working for me now.’
It was hard to tell whether the snub was deliberate.
‘And the people’s hearts are good.’ Pius had a sweet, exalted smile which Amandi didn’t remember from before. It was a held a little too long, as though for distant viewing.
‘Holy Father …’ Amandi’s mind divided. Part of it monitored the delivery of a warning about the enemies of reform who would find it all too easy to create trouble. Already this year there had been bread-riots in the provinces. One third of the inhabitants of Bologna were indigent and poor cereal harvests all over Europe had exacerbated their misery – but there were also those who used the mob. ‘Holy Father …’
The other half of his mind was marvelling at how this title had reversed relations between himself and his old protégé. ‘Holiness,’ he practised, while a bounce of memory recalled the sorry figure the young Giovanni Maria had cut after being rejected by the Pope’s Noble Guard.He had used his epilepsy to avoid being drafted into Napoleon’s Grand Army to fight the Russian campaign, and later the excuse, staying on his record, closed off all hope of a military career. For a younger son, there was nothing for it then but to don a cassock. Had Mastai forgotten the mundane source of his vocation?
‘Let
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