Prisoner of the Vatican

by David I. Kertzer

  The Vatican meanwhile began to step up its counterattack. A mass meeting commemorating Bruno's martyrdom, held on Sunday, February 26, in the grand hall of Rome's Collegio Romano—which until 1870 had housed the prestigious Jesuit academy—triggered a Vatican protest sent to all nuncios a few days later. The participants, the secretary of state's letter began, "were united by a single common goal: that is, to direct that demonstration not only against the papacy in particular, but still more against Christianity in general." The two professors who presided over the event, Rampolla reported, were not only enemies of the pope and of God but also notorious proponents of "materialism and Darwinism." The first to speak, Professor Moleschott of the University of Rome, had proclaimed: "Victor Emmanuel, putting an end to papal dominion,...has liberated [Italians'] moral sense and love of country from the papal police's chains and bullets, and championed free inquiry and continuous progress instead of a pretended infallibility which not even those who proclaim it actually believe in." The professor's remarks had been greeted by cries of "Death to the priests!" and "Down with the Vatican!"

  Rampolla charged that the sacrilegious rally had in effect been sponsored by the government, for the minister of education had approved the use of the hall, and among those present were various senators, deputies, members of the government, and military officers. The government, Rampolla told the nuncios, had put its weight behind "a function—that of the apotheosis of the unbelief of Bruno—which has stirred up hatred against Catholics and against the state religion." No sooner had the packed hall emptied than the streets filled with anticlerical demonstrations. Many of the Brunonians regrouped at the Campo dei Fiori, where a senator, according to Rampolla, "inveighed against the priests and against the crime committed by the Vatican against Bruno's life, the stain from which could never be removed no matter how much water was used." Several hundred demonstrators had made their way to the Campidoglio, the site of the city government, where, breaking through the police lines, they unleashed "whistles, shouts, and threats against the municipal authorities."

  The message that the nuncios were to communicate to the governments they served was simple: "the impossibility of two diametrically opposed powers in perpetual struggle coexisting in Rome." The attempt to erect a monument to Bruno in the capital of Christianity meant only one thing, Rampolla concluded. "The goal of the revolution that has installed itself in Rome is that of dechristianizing Italy and, if possible—after destroying temporal power—destroying the spiritual authority itself of the Head of the Church."5

  On March 14, at his weekly meeting with Emile Flourens, the papal nuncio in Paris shared Rampolla's circular with the French foreign minister and found a sympathetic response. "Signor Flourens told me that his Government, notwithstanding the difficulty of the times and of local circumstances, wanted to inform us, in an official way, of its desire to draw ever closer to the Holy See." The French foreign minister, the nuncio recounted, "complained about the political isolation imposed on France as far as the Roman Question is concerned and expressed the desire that at least Austria, as a Catholic Power, would support, or at least not get in the way of, France's efforts on behalf of the papacy."6

  While the Vatican was seething, enthusiasm for the Bruno statue kept growing among Italy's anticlerics; meetings and demonstrations honoring the martyr spread quickly through the peninsula. In mid-April Rampolla received a long, anguished letter from the archbishop of Spoleto, a small city in southern Umbria not far from Rome and until 1860 part of the Papal States. On Easter Sunday, with the cathedral full, the archbishop had given a rousing sermon—if he did say so himself—in which, as he described it, he had contrasted "the divine greatness of the Church, which has for its glory the resurrected Jesus Christ, and the great liars who are the leaders of the sects." Believing that the recent encomiums to the defrocked friar required a firm reply, the archbishop had denounced Bruno and all those who would glorify his memory. Outraged by the attack, the town's anticlerics decided that the best response to the archbishop was to sponsor ceremonies of their own.

  The archbishop, learning of their plan, had six hundred copies of a booklet of articles on Bruno from the Vatican's L'Osservatore Romano circulated to the clergy and to the most influential of the laity. He also wrote to the mayor, urging him "not to allow any public locality to be used for this orgy." He then called a meeting of all of Spoleto's parish priests to plot their strategy and wrote to the prefect, in nearby Perugia, asking him to outlaw any public procession by the Bruno organizers, noting that the government had forbidden the Church to hold religious processions in the city streets. "I am ready to publish, to preach, to do everything I can to defend God's honor," the archbishop told Rampolla. "But I seek Your Most Reverend Eminence's counsel and the Holy Father's blessing. Would it not be possible for Your Reverend Eminence to use diplomatic means to prevent these most poisonous insults to God, to the Holy Father, and to the Episcopate?"7

  The archbishop reported the details of the anticlerics' plans as they became known. That national champion of anticlericalism, Giovanni Bovio, famed Neapolitan philosopher and among the most eloquent orators in parliament, would come to Spoleto for the event. A thousand people had signed the manifesto calling for the demonstration. The archbishop was nervous: "The local authorities are weak. They however have promised that my own person and my residence will be protected. But can they be trusted? God let it be so!"

  The dreaded day finally arrived. At 3:30 P.M. the procession began, a brass band at its head, followed by groups of veterans, members of the town's target shooting club, students, and representatives from various town councils, workers' societies, and other clubs in the region. At 4:15 P.M. they reached the theater. As they entered the building, banners and flags hung everywhere, but what most caught people's attention was a statue of Bruno, made especially for the occasion, dramatically lit thanks to the remarkable recent invention of electric light.

  The head of the organizing committee, a lawyer, spoke first. With a booming voice he told the crowd—the theater, which could hold 1,200, was full—that their new freedom was worth nothing if they did not liberate themselves from the chains of "prejudice and dogma." The clericals, he said, ask if we seek to undermine every principle of religion. "My answer is yes, when religion wishes to put dogma above the nation and the Syllabus in the place of freedom of conscience."

  Bovio then strode to the podium. His appearance was described in a sympathetic newspaper the following year: "A severe, dark figure, with bushy eyebrows and mustache the color of ebony, with long goatee, hair standing straight up, flashing eyes, he had the air of a philosopher."8 From a modest family near Naples, Bovio had begun writing books of philosophy as a young man just after the Kingdom of Naples fell and Italy was unified. By 1876 he was elected to parliament, where he sat in the seats of the extreme left. No member of parliament had been more strident in denouncing the law of guarantees and opposing any privileges for the Church.

  "Bruno approached the stake as a moth goes to the light," he told the crowd. "The secret of Bruno's popularity lies truly in this, that the people ... have understood that his sacrifice was a mysterious and execrable crime for which the Church must settle its account with history." Bovio eventually stepped away from the podium and walked to the front of the stage: "I will only add a few more words, because I know that too much heat, too much crowd, and too much philosopher don't go well together." The crowd laughed. Turning to the illuminated statue, he voiced the hope that the day would soon come when such a monument would arise in the center of Rome.

  After the meeting, a celebratory dinner was held at the banquet room of the Lucini Hotel. Bovio, the guest of honor, was surrounded by the mayor of Spoleto, the chief judge of the town court, the vice prefect, and several members of parliament. A representative from nearby Perugia rose to speak, thanking Spoleto for having honored Bruno so magnificently. "It is hard to believe," he added, "that Bruno's enemies have dared to revile him in a region that bears su
ch grave and painful memories of its time under ecclesiastical rule." The festivities concluded with a final toast offered by Ettore Ferrari, the forty-three-year-old sculptor whose own statue of Bruno would soon be installed in the Campo dei Fiori. "Let us not forget," he said mischievously, "that the person who has caused us to gather here was the Monsignor Archbishop with his vituperations. Let us not be ungrateful. So I propose that we drink to the health of the Monsignor. Moreover, the Monsignor has a boss, and so I propose that we also drink to the health of Signor Pecci!" 9

  Ferrari, the favorite sculptor of Italy's anticlerics, firmly believed in the union of art and politics. That same month—June 1888—he was elected to the Rome city council as part of the attack on the Catholic forces that had been blocking the monument in the Holy City. The municipal elections had come in the wake of a 36–29 vote of the city council on May 11, refusing to give the Bruno committee permission to place its monument in Campo dei Fiori. Twenty-eight of the members on the city council had been elected with the support of the Roman Union, a vehicle for the election of pro-Vatican councilors. Incensed, Crispi vowed to replace them with his own allies. When elections were held in June for nineteen of the seats, Crispi inflicted a bitter defeat on the Catholics. The authorization of the Bruno monument now only awaited a new vote, which came later that year.10

  On the evening of the election, as the extent of the liberal victory began to be known, crowds of anticlerics took to the streets to celebrate, shouting "Long live Rome the untouchable!" "Long live Crispi!" "Death to the priests!" "Death to the butchers of the Inquisition!" As they passed the offices of the anticlerical paper Don Chisciotte, they shouted out with delight, for hanging from the window was a bedsheet on which a priest's crumpled hat was drawn with the legend: "Giordano Bruno has cremated the Roman Union." By now more than three thousand demonstrators—mostly young men—had gathered in front of city hall, and the crowd grew ever more excited: "Down with the little Pope!" "To the gallows with the Most Holy Father!" "Priests in the gutter!" "Long live the martyrs of the Inquisition!" "Down with the black geese!" The jubilant demonstrators made their way to the Campo dei Fiori, calling for the construction of the Bruno monument. But when they began to shout "To the Vatican!" police trumpets sounded and policemen descended on the crowd to prevent its crossing the river. Each night for the next week similar demonstrations erupted, not only in Rome, but elsewhere in Italy. 11

  In the spring of 1889, with permissions in place and Ferrari hard at work on the statue, the student organizing committee sent out an announcement inviting groups to send their representatives: "Victorious in the struggle, battling for over ten years against clerical intolerance, the Statue of the Great Man of Nola will finally arise in the very place of his execution, on June 9,1889." Noting how apt a way it was to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the French Revolution, the manifesto portrayed the Bruno monument as a "symbol of mutual tolerance in the context of freedom of thought, of religions, of cults."12

  The delegations began arriving at the Rome train station on Friday, June 7, representing scores of town councils, fifty different Masonic lodges, numerous student groups, and a kaleidoscope of anticlerical clubs. In all, two thousand organizations sent delegates to be part of the historic rites.

  On Sunday morning at nine o'clock the procession set out from the central train station. In the lead was a group waving the banner of the Association of Former Prisoners of the Pontifical Government, along with a phalanx of red-shirted, white-haired men, Garibaldi's aging irregulars. Also near the front strode the mayor of Nola, Bruno's birthplace. Twenty bands marched along playing music, Garibaldi's hymn and "La Marseillaise" being especially popular. The rector of the University of Rome marched, as did many of the faculty. The banners of hundreds of anticlerical, socialist, anarchist, and republican groups were held aloft. But the organizers kept a firm grip on the crowd. Cries of "Long live Bruno!" were encouraged, but the more inflammatory anticlerical chants were silenced.

  Although ten thousand people marched, only those bearing tickets issued by the committee were allowed into the Campo dei Fiori. The site of Rome's most famous daily market, it was usually filled with stalls of all sorts, selling everything from old books and paintings to fruits and vegetables. The day offered an unexpected windfall for the poor people with apartments overlooking the square, who rented them out to Rome's wealthy. Not a few members of the royal court were glimpsed at these windows, although none was willing to be seen on the reviewing stand below, which had been occupied since eight o'clock that morning by a variety of officeholders, including 119 members of the House of Deputies and 16 senators.

  Once the marchers had made their way into the square, the time for the unveiling was finally at hand. In front of the statue, at center stage, sat Senator Moleschott as well as other members of the organizing committee, along with the mayors of Rome and Nola and the sculptor, Ettore Ferrari. When the sheets were removed from the bronze statue, the crowd broke into applause. Bruno was wearing his Dominican frock, looking down in contemplation, a sad expression on his face. Three scenes were sculpted along the sides of the base of the statue: Bruno lecturing in 1584 to a group of students at Oxford; Bruno appearing before the judges of the Inquisition, flanked by guards; and Bruno aflame at the stake. The front panel bore the main inscription, written by Giovanni Bovio himself. It read:

  To Bruno

  The Century That He Divined

  Here Where He Was Burned at the Stake13

  The first to speak was the head of the student organizing committee, who formally presented the statue to the mayor. Guiccioli, accepting the monument, dubbed it a symbol of "the triumph of freedom of conscience." The mayor of Nola then spoke briefly, thanking the people of Rome for their tribute "to this martyr of tyranny."

  It was now Bovio's turn. It was a historic day, he intoned, struggling to be heard by the enormous crowd. "September 20 is less painful for the Papacy than June 9, for while the first was a conclusion, today is a beginning. Then Italy entered Rome, the final step of its journey. Today Rome inaugurates the religion of reason." The old religion of the Church, he said, had no place in the modern world. "Just as in 313 in Milan, the date when the Christian religion was mandated, by imperial decree, so today on June 9 in Rome, the date of the religion of reason is established, by the agreement of free peoples."

  When the speeches were over, representatives of hundreds of organizations formed a line so that they could each lay a wreath at the monument. Among the most elaborate was one whose ribbon read simply: "The Anticlerical Women of Rome."

  The Vatican meanwhile was effectively in a state of siege. The previous evening, a sixteen-car train filled with Italian troops arrived in Rome to offer additional protection. Soldiers and police in great number were placed at all the street corners in the vicinity of the Vatican. The Sant'Angelo bridge was crawling with soldiers. Along with numerous uniformed police were many, ever watchful officers in civilian clothes. In the end, order was maintained.14

  But the Vatican was not letting this symbolic assault pass without a fight. In the days leading up to the ceremonies, bishops throughout Italy and beyond were mobilized to show their support. A typical petition came from Ferrara, sent to the pope on the very day of the rites, and titled "An Act of Reparation for the Scandal that on Pentecost of 1889 dishonors and outrages Catholic Rome." In the honoring of Bruno, it read, "we see the spirit of disbelief that is opposed to the spirit of faith, the spirit of apostasy opposed to the spirit of religion, the spirit of revolt that is opposed to the spirit of obedience, the spirit of pride, of avarice, sensuality, of the most unbridled egoism, which is at war with the spirit of humility, poverty, purity, and every holy sentiment."15

  Feeling physically under attack, the pope asked various ambassadors to be with him on June 9. The previous Sunday the French ambassador, Lefevre de Béhaine, known for his personal devotion to the pontiff, met with Leo and assured him that he would delay his planned departure from Rome in or
der to be at his side. Béhaine, good to his word, went to see the pope on the ninth, finding him "in very good health, although very sad." Soon the Austrian ambassador was led in, followed by the Belgian ambassador. The scene recalled nothing so much as the day nineteen years earlier when the Italian army broke through Rome's wall and the besieged Pius IX sought comfort from the assembled foreign ambassadors.16

  Rampolla drafted a long letter to the nuncios, which he sent two days after the unveiling. They were to give the details of the latest outrage against the Holy See to the governments where they served. The glorification of Bruno—"a man lacking any scientific or literary merit, famous only for his apostasy, for the monstrosity and notoriety of his errors"—had but one goal, Rampolla told them, the destruction of the Catholic religion and the papacy. The Italian House of Deputies, Rampolla reported, had participated in the ceremonies and, although Crispi had taken care to stay at a distance, he was the true mastermind of the whole affair. World leaders could no longer have any doubt that the pope's position in Rome had become "truly humiliating and intolerable." 17

  The cardinal secretary of state had already prepared the ground. On the day before the inauguration, he had sent a coded telegram to a number of his envoys, including Galimberti in Vienna and his nuncio in Paris, telling them to help drum up protests.18

  Among those quickly responding was the papal nuncio in Munich, who, at a hastily arranged meeting on June 15, had presented Rampolla's June 11 letter to the Bavarian foreign minister, Baron Crailsheim.