The Pope Who Would Be King, page 18
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JANUARY 21 WAS A beautiful sunny Sunday, and throughout the Papal States men of all classes came to cast their ballots for the Constituent Assembly. A quarter of a million people—about a third of those eligible—voted, in the first mass election in Italian history. A week later, at noon, an immense crowd gathered in the piazza atop Capitoline Hill, as the names of the successful candidates were read from the balcony. Among those elected from Rome were the leaders of the interim government: the Latin-loving ecclesiastical lawyer Monsignor Muzzarelli; the radical poet-doctor Pietro Sterbini; the distinguished attorney Carlo Armellini; and the redoubtable rabble-rouser Prince Charles Bonaparte. Although the men of the lower, illiterate classes could vote, those elected all came from the middle and upper classes. No Ciceruacchio was among them. As the last name was pronounced, the city’s bells began to ring and 101 artillery blasts sounded, with the cannon at Castel Sant’Angelo responding in kind.16
The large turnout for the Constituent Assembly elections deeply disturbed the pope. “In Rome,” wrote Pius to one of the prelates closest to him, “the most deplorable acts are taking place….Nonetheless, the Lord, who has always protected Rome from evil…will save it again: Let us hope and pray.”17
To Harcourt, the French ambassador, who warned that relying on Austrian and Neapolitan armies to return him to Rome would bring disaster, Pius replied that he had heard no clear offer of help from France. Meanwhile the voices pushing a hard line were growing ever stronger. “It is necessary to use force, more force, always force,” advised the Belgian ambassador. Feeling ever more isolated, the patriotic abbot Antonio Rosmini left Gaeta in late January. “As for me,” he confided, “I was never asked my opinion about anything, and if sometimes I dared to give some advice, it was never followed.”18
Cardinal Antonelli kept sending out apocalyptic warnings. Events in Rome, he told the nuncio in Madrid in late January, “are progressing each day toward total ruin by the growing audacity and impiety of that illegitimate and sacrilegious government.” Every moment that passed without action, he charged, “is fatal to religion and the Church while the anti-Catholic party is doing all in its power to create absolute rule in Rome through arms and through terror.”19
While the cardinal portrayed Rome as a theater of chaos and violence, Romans were in fact largely going about their business as before. Some priests refused to perform marriages for men who had voted in the recent elections, but many clerics spoke at public meetings in favor of a new order, one in which the pope’s role would be confined to the religious sphere. “Whatever malevolence…may insinuate,” reported the American consul in Rome, “order & peace never reigned more profoundly within her ancient walls.” He had recently attended an opera performance of Verdi, to a packed house.20
Although hope for peaceful reconciliation was fast ebbing, a flicker still remained. At the end of January, Monsignor Muzzarelli, now a member of the provisional Roman government, summoned the British consul to the Quirinal Palace to give him a message for London. The members of Rome’s government, he insisted, “had lost no occasion of assuring His Holiness that they were not only ready, but anxious to place into the hands of His Holiness all the power they held, provided His Holiness would return as a Constitutional Sovereign, and unaccompanied by the ‘Camarilla’*2 at Gaeta.” It was the pope’s refusal to talk with the delegation they had sent the previous month that had forced them, said the monsignor, to take the course they had.21
While the political climate in Rome was uncertain, the weather was not. In contrast to the previous year’s cold, rainy winter, this one was beautiful and sunny. With Carnival, always a high point of the year, approaching, the mood was festive, although some familiar elements were missing from the Carnival procession. The dukes and princes whose richly decorated carriages and fancily dressed attendants were normally among the main attractions were largely gone. Those who had stayed might have wished they hadn’t. As the carriages of the few remaining aristocrats rolled along the cobblestone Corso, the people lining the way hurled insults, aimed not only at the noblemen but at their liveried attendants. “Down with the aristocrats! Off with the signs of servitude! Off with the fake hair braids!” they shouted. To mark the occasion, the gates to Rome’s jail were opened, and the prostitutes imprisoned in them freed.22
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AS THE DAYS PASSED in Gaeta, the foreign ambassadors—previously accustomed to spending their evenings in Rome traveling from one aristocrat’s palazzo to another in their luxurious carriages—did their best to make do with the isolation and poverty of their new surroundings. Most days they ate lunch together and assembled again in the evening to dine. At eight p.m. some of them would change into their long tails and black ties for an hour’s visit with the pope before returning to a new hand of whist, their cigars clouding the air. Their evening gatherings sometimes extended to one a.m.23
In early February, a new colleague arrived. Pius greeted Austria’s new ambassador warmly. “I was being awaited,” reported Moritz Esterházy, “like the Messiah….It is on us, on Austria, that all hope for safety is placed.” Short, slender, and well proportioned, Esterházy exuded energy. He was a man of good cheer, who projected a sense of elegance and distinction. He was “somewhat malicious like all very small men,” commented an acquaintance, “but a pleasant talker.”
Unlike his French colleagues in Gaeta, Esterházy was not one to suffer from illusions. He asked only one thing from the pope: in order for the emperor to justify sending his army, he would need an explicit request. There was unfortunately much ill will toward the Austrian army in the Papal States, so the pope’s unambiguous call for Austrian military intervention was crucial.24
The next day Cardinal Antonelli, unhappy with the proposed conference of Catholic powers first suggested by Spain and now supported by Austria, wrote to his nuncio in Paris. “The immediate intervention of armed forces,” insisted the secretary of state, “is an absolute necessity.” He was especially upset that Austria was being so deferential to the French, having made known its reluctance to act alone. “If France does not judge it to be in its interests to join in participating in the necessary work with Austria and the king of Naples and others,” complained the cardinal, “they should at least leave the field open for these powers.”25
While Antonelli was unhappy, Count Esterházy thought all was going remarkably well. “The abbot Rosmini, Pius IX’s evil genius and, without a doubt, our most formidable enemy,” he reported to Vienna in mid-February, “is in Naples and has not reappeared at the Gaeta palace since my arrival.” With Rosmini gone, he wrote, “Pius IX…is throwing himself in the arms of Austria! I believe his conversion to be sincere….I would not say that it is deep, because I fear that there is nothing very deep to be found in this Prince.”
Moritz Esterházy
Although the new Austrian ambassador was not impressed with Pio Nono’s strength of character, he had a very different opinion of the man who stood ever at his side: “We have acquired Cardinal Antonelli by conviction, as we have the great majority of the Sacred College [of Cardinals].” Praising the secretary of state’s energy, and his analytical and political skills, Esterházy added, “It is in us alone that he puts his hopes.” Antonelli had made clear he wanted the Austrians to launch their assault on the Papal States without delay. The less the unreliable French were involved, thought the secretary of state, the better.
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MONDAY, FEBRUARY 5, MARKED the opening of the Constituent Assembly. Gathering at midmorning atop Rome’s Capitoline Hill, the deputies—proudly wearing scarves bearing Italy’s three colors—filed into the enormous Basilica of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli to begin the momentous day with a mass. Because the vice gerent, the prelate in charge of Rome’s clergy in the absence of Rome’s cardinal vicar, had forbidden the priests there to participate, a military chaplain presided.
A large, festive crowd joined the deputies when they emerged from the church. People from all fourteen of the city’s rioni marched through the streets with them, each under its own banner, and delegations from all of Italy’s regions marched too, flying their own flags. The banner of the veterans of the campaign in Lombardy was distinctive, covered in black crepe, a sign of mourning for their recent loss to the Austrian army. Political exiles from Naples and Sicily proudly carried their own flags aloft as well. Bringing up the rear were the various Roman clubs, militias, and the Civic Guard. Bands struck up the Marseillaise. Among those elected to the Constituent Assembly, Prince Charles Bonaparte marched alongside the Hero of Two Worlds, the swashbuckling Giuseppe Garibaldi, dressed in the military fatigues he had worn in his South American exploits. And while virtually all the ambassadors were in Gaeta with the pope, the American consul, Nicholas Brown, marched proudly, dressed in his formal diplomatic uniform. He apparently had not thought it necessary to await instructions from Washington, which, when they eventually arrived, would forbid him from recognizing Rome’s new government.26
By the time the 140 deputies who made it to the opening day entered the Chancellery Palace—in whose courtyard the pope’s prime minister had so recently had his throat slit—the gallery was crammed with spectators. Some might have noticed that the bust of Pius IX that normally adorned the hall was no longer there.
It was now more than two months since the pope had fled, leaving no government in place other than the one that he had no sooner named, following Rossi’s murder, than he had, in exile, deemed illegitimate. The upper and lower chambers had been disbanded, and the administrative machinery of the Papal States lay in ruins. The various provinces of the Papal States had largely gone off on their own, and throughout the pope’s kingdom, the merchants, the clubs, and the newspapers were all calling on the members of the newly elected Assembly to do something quickly to fill the void.
Amid this uncertainty, Carlo Armellini rose to give the opening address to the Assembly. The era of theocracy, of monarchs ruling by divine right, proclaimed the distinguished lawyer, was over. Pius had begun his papacy with great promise but then seemed increasingly ill at ease with what he had done. By rejecting the fight for Italian independence, he had betrayed the national cause. “You sit here, o Citizens, amidst the ruins of two great eras,” concluded Armellini. “On one side lie the ruins of Italy of the Caesars, on the other the ruins of Italy of the Popes. It is your task to construct a building that can rise from that rubble.”27
When the applause died down, the roll was called. Garibaldi then asked the Assembly to waste no time in debate and immediately proclaim a republic. Bonaparte rose to second him. “Do you not feel the sacred soil shake under our feet?” asked the prince. “It is the souls of your ancestors who tremble with impatience, and who shout in your ear: ‘Long live the Roman Republic!’ ”28
The deputies did not delay long. At two a.m. on February 9, they voted a historic four-part decree:
1. The papacy no longer exercises temporal power over the Roman State either in fact or in law.
2. The Roman pontiff will have all the guarantees necessary to freely exercise his spiritual authority.
3. The form that the Government of the Roman State will have is pure democracy, and it will take the glorious name of the Roman Republic.
4. The Roman Republic will have with the rest of Italy those relations required by their common nationality.
The pope’s temporal power was no more. Only an army could bring it back, if it could be brought back.29
That afternoon, from the city hall’s loggia atop Capitoline Hill, leaders of the Assembly read the decree to the large crowd below, as Italian flags waved. News of the proclamation of the republic appeared on walls throughout the Papal States:
The great act has been accomplished. The National Assembly, sitting as your legitimate representatives, having recognized the sovereignty of the people, the only form of government congenial to us, that which made our fathers great and glorious….After so many centuries we once again have our fatherland and our freedom. Let us show ourselves worthy of the gift that God has sent us.30
In one of its first acts, the Assembly decreed that all the new republic’s laws would begin with the words “In the name of God and the People,” a motto long championed by the prophet of a united republican Italy, Giuseppe Mazzini. The gold and silver coins to be minted would likewise bear the slogan “God wants Italy united.” The republic’s flag would consist of Italy’s three colors—red, white, and green—with an eagle, symbol of ancient Rome, perched atop its staff.31
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ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 11, an immense crowd, including the members of the new Constituent Assembly and many Civic Guardsmen and troops, packed into St. Peter’s Basilica for a special Te Deum ceremony to thank God for the birth of the new republic. That same day the pope, following his own modest mass in Gaeta, summoned the new Austrian ambassador to his cramped room. Esterházy would be stunned by what the pope proposed in their two-hour meeting.
“Pope Pius IX,” reported Esterházy to Vienna, “no longer today simply calls for our aid together with that of France, Spain, and Naples, but he is throwing himself entirely and with the greatest confident abandon into the arms of Austria and solicits, through me, its immediate armed intervention alone in favor of his cause.” For the purpose of public consumption, the pope explained, he would formally address his plea to all four of the powers, but, he told Esterházy, this was simply for show. The pope, reported the ambassador, wanted Vienna to know “that all his hopes rested on Austria alone, that our intervention alone, if circumstances allowed it, would be the most desirable eventuality under all respects in his eyes.”
In explaining his request to the Austrian ambassador, Pius admitted to considerable personal sympathy for Catholic France, but, he explained, “he could only view with repugnance the prospect of Republican France’s armed intervention in his States.” The pontiff—his worries fanned by Antonelli—feared that should French troops seize Rome, they would force him to return to constitutional rule. And how confident could he really be that France—which itself had overthrown its monarchy and proclaimed a republic only a year earlier—could be counted on to crush its sister republic in Rome and restore the papal monarchy?32
Three days after meeting with Esterházy, the pope summoned all the cardinals who could join him, nineteen in all, along with all the ambassadors to the Holy See, for a dramatic gathering at his room in Gaeta. The men formed a semicircle facing the pope and Antonelli, with the cardinals to one side, the ambassadors to the other. Pius branded the recent announcement of the end of papal rule in Rome as a product of “injustice, ingratitude, stupidity, and impiety.” “You comfort our spirit in these dark days,” he told the ambassadors. “You followed us to this land, where the Hand of God led us, the Hand that…never abandons those who trust in Him.” Cardinal Antonelli then handed the ambassadors a copy of the papal protest to send their governments, before giving them a second document. It was the pope’s written call for military intervention that the Austrian ambassador had requested, addressed to Austria, Spain, France, and Naples.
In reporting the papal call to arms, the Dutch ambassador pointed out that it failed to solicit aid from King Charles Albert’s Savoyard kingdom—“that is to say,” he noted, “the only government that still enjoys any popularity in Italy.” With Austria and Sardinia having recently fought a war, the pope could hardly imagine involving both on his side. The choice was in any case not difficult, for the Sardinian government had made clear its opposition to having foreign armies return the pope to power.33
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FOUR DAYS LATER, SEVEN THOUSAND Austrian troops crossed the Po River, headed toward Ferrara, the northernmost city of the Papal States. When Pius learned the news, he summoned the Austrian ambassador to express his gratitude. “All I ask now,” the pontiff told Esterházy, “is that, for goodness sake, you do not turn back, but on the contrary, you bring more troops and advance as rapidly as possible.”34
News of the Austrian invasion shook Rome. At a special midnight session of the Constituent Assembly, as the crowd in the gallery chanted Viva la Repubblica! Pietro Sterbini rose to speak. “The days that we all foresaw have arrived,” proclaimed the fiery poet-doctor, “days of trial and of courage.
The league between the priestly caste, Austria, and the Bourbon has been formed….The Austrian has thrown down the gauntlet, challenging all of Italy, and it has done it with that insult that, if it is not washed away by blood, would make us the object of ridicule before all of Europe….We gladly accept your challenge, o Vandal. You will have your war to the death and to extermination. Rise up, children of Italy. God wants to speed the day of our redemption. To arms!35
Rome’s new government now moved quickly against the church. In mid-February a printed warning had appeared on Rome’s walls, urging priests to dispense with their triangular black hats and short pants, condemned as signs of reaction and ignorance. That day, too, Carlo Armellini, one of the three men newly elected to the executive, sent out an order to all ecclesiastical bodies demanding a full inventory of their property. Worried that this was the first step to confiscation of church holdings, the vice gerent instructed all religious institutions to reject the request. As a result, not a few priests and monks, refusing to cooperate with the new authorities, were marched off to jail.
