THE IMPUNITY OF REAL CRIME.
The Roman State is the most radically Catholic in Europe, seeing that
it is governed by the Vicar of Jesus Christ himself. It is also the
most fertile in crimes of every description, and above all, of violent
crimes. So remarkable a contrast cannot escape observation. It is
pointed out daily. Conclusions unfavorable to Catholicism have even
been drawn from it; but this is a mistake. Let us not set down to
religion that which is the necessary consequence of a particular form
of government.
The Papacy has its root in Heaven, not in the country. It is not the
Italian people who ask for a Pope,--it is Heaven that chooses him, the
Sacred College that nominates him, diplomacy that maintains him, and
the French army that imposes him upon the nation. The Sovereign
Pontiff and his staff constitute a foreign body, introduced into Italy
like a thorn into a woodcutter's foot.
What is the mission of the Pontifical Government? To what end did
Europe bring Pius IX. from Gaeta to re-establish him at the Vatican?
Was it for the sake of giving three millions of men an active and
vigorous overseer? The merest brigadier of gendarmerie would have done
the work better. No; it was in order that the Head of the Church might
preside over the interests of religion from the elevation of a throne,
and that the Vicar of Jesus Christ might be surrounded with royal
splendour. The three millions of men who dwell in his States are
appointed by Europe to defray the expenses of his court. In point of
fact, we have given them to the Pope, not the Pope to them.
On this understanding, the Pope's first duty is to say Mass at St.
Peter's for 139,000,000 of Roman Catholics; his second is to make a
dignified appearance, to receive company, to wear a crown, and to take
care it does not fall off his head. But it is a matter of perfect
indifference to him that his subjects brawl, rob, or murder one
another, so long as they don't attack either his Church or his
government.
If we examine the question of the distribution of punishments in the
Papal States from this point of view, we shall see that papal justice
never strikes at random.
The most unpardonable crimes in the eyes of the clergy are those which
are offensive to Heaven. Rome punishes sins. The tribunal of the
Vicariate sends a blasphemer to the galleys, and claps into goal the
silly fellow who refuses to take the Communion at Easter. Surely
nobody will charge the Head of the Church with neglecting his duty.
I have told you how the Pope defends and will continue to defend his
crown, and I have no fear of your charging him with weakness. If
Europe ventured to allege that he suffers the throne on which it has
placed him to be shaken, the answer would be a list of the political
exiles and the prisoners of state, present and past--the living and
the dead.
But the crimes and offences of which the natives are guilty towards
one another affect the Pope and his Cardinals very remotely. What
matters it to the successors of the Apostles that a few workmen and
peasants should cut one another's throats after Sunday Vespers? There
will always be enough of them left to pay the taxes.
The people of Rome have long contracted some very bad habits. They
frequent taverns and wine-shops, and they quarrel over their liquor;
the word and the blow of other people is with them the word and the
knife. The rural population are as bad as the townspeople. Quarrels
between neighbours and relatives are submitted to the adjudication of
cold steel. Of course they would do better to go before the nearest
magistrate; but justice is slow in the States of the Church; lawsuits
cost money, and bribery is the order of the day; the judges are either
fools or knaves. So out with the knife! its decisions are swift and
sure. Giacomo is down: 'tis clear he was in the wrong. Nicolo is
unmolested: he must have been in the right. This little drama is
performed more than four times a day in the Papal States, as is proved
by the Government statistics of 1853. It is a great misfortune for the
country, and a serious danger for Europe. The school of the knife,
founded at Rome, establishes branches in foreign lands. We have seen
the holiest interests of civilization placed under the knife, and all
the honest people in the world, the Pope himself included, shuddered
at the sight.
It would cost his Holiness very little trouble to snatch the knife
from the hands of his subjects. We don't ask him to begin over again
the education of his people, which would take time, or even to
increase the attractions of civil justice, so as to substitute
litigants for assassins. All we require of him is, that he should
allow criminal justice to dispose of some few of the worst characters
who throng to these evil haunts. But this very natural remedy would be
utterly repugnant to his notions. The tavern assassin is seldom a foe
to the Government.
Not that the Pope absolutely refuses to let assassins be pursued; that
would be opposed to the practice of all civilized countries. But he
takes care that they shall always get a good start of their pursuers.
If they reach the banks of a river the pursuit ceases, lest they
should jump into the water and be drowned without confession and
absolution. If they seize hold of the skirts of a Capuchin Friar--they
are saved. If they get into a church, a convent, or a hospital--saved
again. If they do but set foot upon an ecclesiastical domain, or upon
a clerical property (of which there is to the amount of £20,000,000 in
the country), justice stands still, and lets them move on. A word from
the Pope would reform this abuse of the right of asylum, which is a
standing insult to civilization. On the contrary, he carefully
preserves it, in order to show that the privileges of the Church are
above the interests of humanity. This is both consistent and legal.
Should the police get hold of a murderer by accident, and quite
unintentionally, he is brought up for trial. Witnesses of the crime
are sought, but never found. A citizen would consider himself
dishonoured if he were to give up his comrade to the natural enemy of
the nation. The murdered man himself, if he could be brought to life,
would swear he had seen nothing of the affair. The Government is not
strong enough to force the witnesses to say what they know, or to
protect them against the consequences of their depositions. This is
why the most flagrant crime can never be proved in the courts of
justice.
Supposing even that a murderer lets himself be taken, that witnesses
give evidence against him, and that the crime be proved, even then the
tribunal hesitates to pronounce the sentence of death.
The shedding of blood--legally--saddens a people; the Government has
no fault to find with the murderer, so he is sent to the galleys. He
is pretty comfortable there; public consideration follows him; sooner
or later he is certain to be pardoned, because the Pope, utterly
indifferent to his crime, finds it more profitable, and less
expensive, to turn him loose than to keep him.
Put the worst possible case. Imagine a crime so glaring, so monstrous,
so revolting, that the judges, who happen to be the least interested
in the question, have been compelled to condemn the criminal to death.
You probably imagine that, for example's sake, he will be executed
while his crime is yet fresh in the popular recollection. Nothing of
the sort. He is cast into a dungeon and forgotten; they think it
probable he will die naturally there. In the month of July, 1858, the
prison of the small town of Viterbo contained twenty-two criminals
condemned to death, who were singing psalms while waiting for the
executioner.
At length this functionary arrives; he selects one out of the lot and
decapitates him. The populace is moved to compassion. Tears are shed,
and the spectators cry out with one accord, "_Poveretto!_" The fact
is, his crime is ten years old. Nobody recollects what it was. He has
expiated it by ten years of penitence. Ten years ago his execution
would have conveyed a striking moral lesson.
So much for the severity of penal justice. You would laugh if I were
to speak of its leniency. The Duke Sforza Cesarini murders one of his
servants for some act of personal disrespect. For example's sake, the
Pope condemns him to a month's retirement in a convent.
Ah! if any sacrilegious hand were laid upon the holy ark; if a priest
were to be slain, a Cardinal only threatened, then would there be
neither asylum, nor galleys, nor clemency, nor delay. Thirty years ago
the murderer of a priest was hewn in pieces in the Piazza del Popolo.
More recently, as we have seen, the idiot who brandished his fork in
the face of Cardinal Antonelli, was beheaded.
It is with highway robbery as with murder. I am induced to believe
that the Pontifical court would not wage a very fierce war with the
brigands, if those gentry undertook to respect its money and
despatches. The occasional stopping of a few travellers, the clearing
out of a carriage, and even the pillaging a country house, are neither
religious nor political scourges. The brigands are not likely to scale
either Heaven or the Vatican.
Thus there is still good business to be done in this line, and
particularly beyond the Apennines, in those provinces which Austria
has disarmed and does not protect. The tribunal of Bologna faithfully
described the state of the country in a sentence of the 16th of June,
1856.
"Of late years this province has been afflicted by
innumerable crimes of all sorts: robbery, pillage, attacks
upon houses, have occurred at all hours, and in all places.
The numbers of the malefactors have been constantly
increasing, as has their audacity, encouraged by impunity."
Nothing is changed since the tribunal of Bologna spoke so forcibly.
Stories, as improbable as they are true, are daily related in the
country. The illustrious Passatore, who seized the entire population
of Forlimpopoli in the theatre, has left successors. The audacious
brigands who robbed a diligence in the very streets of Bologna, a few
paces from the Austrian barracks, have not yet wholly disappeared. In
the course of a tour of some weeks on the shores of the Adriatic, I
heard more than one disquieting report. Near Rimini the house of a
landed proprietor was besieged by a little army. In one place, all the
inmates of the goal walked off, arm-in-arm with the turnkeys; in
another a diligence came to grief just outside the walls of a city. If
any particular district was allowed to live in peace, it was because
the inhabitants subscribed and paid a ransom to the brigands. Five
times a week I used to meet the pontifical courier, escorted by an
omnibus full of gendarmes, a sight which made me shrewdly suspect the
country was not quite safe.
But if the Government is too weak or too careless to undertake an
expedition against brigandage, and to purge the country thoroughly, it
sometimes avenges its insulted authority and its stolen money. When by
chance the Judges of Instruction are sent into the field, they do not
trifle with their work. Not only do they press the prisoners to
confess their crimes, but they press them in a thumbscrew! The
tribunal of Bologna confessed this fact, with compunction, in 1856,
alluding to the measures employed as _violenti e feroci_.
But simple theft, innocent theft, the petty larceny of snuff-boxes and
pocket-handkerchiefs, the theft which seeks a modest alms in a
neighbour's pocket, is tolerated as paternally as mendicity. Official
statistics give the number of the beggars in Rome, I believe, somewhat
under the mark; it is a pity they fail to give the number of
pickpockets, who swarm through the city; this might easily have been
done, as their names are all known to the authorities. No attempt is
made to interfere with their operations: the foreign visitors are rich
enough to pay this small tax in favour of the national industry;
besides, it is not likely the pickpockets will ever make an attempt
upon the Pope's pocket-handkerchief.
A Frenchman once caught hold of an elegantly dressed gentleman in the
act of snatching away his watch; he took him to the nearest post, and
placed him in the charge of the sergeant. "I believe your statement,"
said the official,
"for I know the man well, and so would you, if you were not
very new to the country. He is a Lombard; but if we were to
arrest all his fellows, our prisons would never be half
large enough. Be off, my fine fellow, and take better care
for the future!"
Another foreigner was robbed in the Corso at midnight, on his return
from the theatre. All the consolation he got from the magistrate to
whom he complained was, "Sir, you were out at an hour when all honest
people should be in bed."
A traveller was stopped between Rome and Civita Vecchia, and robbed of
all the money he had about him. When he reached Palo, he laid his
complaint before the political functionary who taxes travellers for
the trouble of fumbling with their passports. The observation of this
worthy man was, "What can you expect? the people are so very poor!"
On the eve of the grand fêtes, however, all the riffraff are bound to
go to prison, lest the religious ceremonies should be disturbed by
evil-doers. They go of their own accord, as an amicable concession to
a paternal government: and if any professional thief were by chance to
absent himself, he would be politely sent for about midnight. But in
spite even of these vigilant measures, it is seldom that a Holy Week
goes by without a watch or two going astray; and to any complaint the
police would be sure to reply:
"You must not blame us; we have taken every necessary
precaution against such accidents. We have got all the
thieves who are inscribed on our books under lock and key.
For any new comers we are not responsible."
The following incident occurred while I was at Rome; it serves to
illustrate the pleasing fraternal tie which unites the magistrates
with the thieves.
A former secretary to Monsignor Vardi, by name Berti, had a gold
snuff-box, which he prized highly, it having been given him by his
master. One day, crossing the Forum, he took out his snuff-box, just
in front of the temple of Antoninus and Faustina, and solaced himself
with a pinch of the contents. The incautious act had been marked by
one of the pets of the police. He had hardly returned the box to his
pocket ere he was hustled by some quoit-players, and knocked down. It
is needless to add, that, when he got up, the precious snuff-box was
gone.
He mentioned the affair to a judge of his acquaintance, who at once
told him to set his mind at rest, adding,
"Pass through the Forum again to-morrow. Ask for _Antonio_;
anybody will point him out to you; tell him you come from
me, and mention what you have lost. He will put you in the
way of getting it back."
Berti did as he was desired; Antonio was soon found. He smiled
meaningly when the judge's name was mentioned, protested that he could
refuse him nothing, and immediately called out, "Eh! Giacomo!"
Another bandit came out of the ruins, and ran up to his chief.
"Who was on duty yesterday?" asked Antonio.
"Pepe."
"Is he here?"
"No, he made a good day of it yesterday. He's drinking it out."
"I can do nothing for your Excellency to-day," said Antonio. "Come
here to-morrow at the same hour, and I think you'll have reason to be
satisfied."
Berti was punctual to the appointment. Signor Antonio, for fear of
being swindled, asked for an accurate description of the missing
article. This having been given, he at once produced the snuff-box.
"Your Excellency will please to pay me two scudi," he said; "I should
have charged you four, but that you are recommended to me by a
magistrate whom I particularly esteem."
It would appear that all the Roman magistrates are not equally
estimable; at least to judge from what happened to the Marquis de
Sesmaisons. He was robbed of half-a-dozen silver spoons and forks. He
imprudently lodged a complaint with the authorities. Being asked for
an exact description of the stolen articles, he sent the remaining
half-dozen to speak for themselves to the magistrate who had charge of
the affair. It is chronicled that he never again saw either the first
or the second half-dozen!
The malversations of public functionaries are tolerated so long as
they do not directly touch the higher powers. Officials of every
degree hold out their hands for a present. The Government rather
encourages the system than the reverse. It is just so much knocked off
the salaries.
The Government even overlooks embezzlement of public money, provided
the guilty party be an ecclesiastic, or well affected to the present
order of things. The errors of friends are judged _en famille_. If a
Prelate make a mistake, he is reprimanded, and dismissed, which means
that his situation is changed for a better one.
Monsignor N---- gets the holy house of Loretto into financial trouble.
The consequence is that Monsignor N---- is removed to Rome, and placed
at the head of the hospital of the Santo Spirito. Probably this is
done because the latter establishment is richer and more difficult to
get into financial trouble than the holy house of Loretto.
Monsignor A---- was an Auditor of the Rota, and made a bad judge. He
was made a Prefect of Bologna. He failed to give satisfaction at
Bologna, and was made a Minister, and still remains so.
If occasionally officials of a certain rank are punished, if even the
law is put in force against them with unusual vigour, rest assured the
public interest has no part in the business. The real springs of
action are to be sought elsewhere. Take as an example the Campana
affair, which created such a sensation in 1858.
This unfortunate Marquis succeeded his father and his grandfather as
Director of the Monte di Pietà, or public pawnbroking establishment.
His office placed him immediately under the control of the Finance
Minister. It was that Minister's duty to overlook his acts, and to
prevent him from going wrong.
Campana went curiosity mad. The passion of collecting, which has
proved the ruin of so many well-meaning people, drove him to his
destruction. He bought pictures, marbles, bronzes, Etruscan vases. He
heaped gallery on gallery. He bought at random everything that was
offered to him. Rome never had such a terrible buyer. He bought as
people drink, or take snuff, or smoke opium. When he had no more money
of his own left to buy with, he began to think of a loan. The coffers
of the Monte di Pietà were at hand: he would borrow of himself, upon
the security of his collection. The Finance Minister Galli offered no
difficulties. Campana was in favour at Court, esteemed by the Pope,
liked by the Cardinals; his principles were known, he had proved his
devotion to those in power. The Government never refuses its friends
anything. In short Campana was allowed to lend himself £4,000, for
which he gave security to a much larger amount.
But the order by which the Minister gave him permission to draw from
the coffers of the Monte di Pietà was so loosely drawn up, that he was
enabled to take, without any fresh authority, a trifle of something
like £106,000. This he took between the 12th of April, 1854, and the
1st of December 1856, a period of nineteen months and a half.
There was no concealment in the transaction; it certainly was
irregular, but it was not clandestine. Campana paid himself the
interest of the money he had lent himself. In 1856 he was paternally
reprimanded. He received a gentle rap over the knuckles, but there was
not the least idea of tying his hands. He stood well at Court.
The unfortunate man still went on borrowing. They had not even taken
the precaution to close his coffers against himself. Between the 1st
of December, 1856, and the 7th of November, 1857, he took a further
sum of about £103,000. But he gave grand parties; the Cardinals adored
him; testimonies of satisfaction poured in upon him from all sides.
The real truth is that a national pawnbroking establishment is of no
use to the Church, it is only required for the nation. Campana might
have borrowed the very walls of the building, without the Pontifical
Court meddling in the matter.
Unluckily for him, the time came when it answered the purpose of
Antonelli to send him to the galleys. This great statesman had three
objects to gain by such a course. Firstly, he would stop the mouth of
diplomacy, and silence the foreign press, which both charged the Pope
with tolerating an abuse. Secondly, he would humiliate one of those
laymen who take the liberty to rise in the world without wearing
violet hose. Lastly, he should be able to bestow Campana's place upon
one of his brothers, the worthy and interesting Filippo Antonelli.
He took a long time to mature his scheme, and laid his train silently
and secretly. He is not a man to take any step inconsiderately. While
Campana was going and coming, and giving dinners, and buying more
statues, in blissful ignorance of the lowering storm, the Cardinal
negotiated a loan at Rothschild's, made arrangements to cover the
deficit, and instructed the Procuratore Fiscale to draw up an
indictment for peculation.
The accusation fell like a thunderbolt upon the poor Marquis. From his
palace to his prison was but a step. As he entered there, he rubbed
his eyes, and asked himself, ingenuously enough, whether this move was
not all a horrible dream. He would have laughed at any one who had
told him he was seriously in danger. He charged with peculation! Out
upon it! Peculation meant the clandestine application by a public
officer of public funds to his private profit: whereas he had taken
nothing clandestinely, and was ruined root and branch. So he quietly
occupied himself in his prison by writing sonnets, and when an artist
came to pay him a visit, he gave him an order for a new work.
In spite of the eloquent defence made in his behalf by a young
advocate, the tribunal condemned him to twenty years' hard labour. At
this rate, the Minister who had allowed him to borrow the money should
certainly have been beheaded. But the lambs of the clergy don't eat
one another.
The advocate who had defended Campana was punished for having pleaded
too eloquently, by being forbidden to practise in Court for three
months.
You may imagine that this cruel sentence cast a stigma upon Campana.
Not a bit of it. The people, who have often experienced his
generosity, regard him as a martyr. The middle class despises him much
less than it does many a yet unpunished functionary. His old friends
of the nobility and of the Sacred College often shake him by the hand.
I have known Cardinal Tosti, at once his gaoler and his friend, let
him have the use of his private kitchen.
Condemnations are a dishonour only in countries where the judges are
honoured. All the world knows that the pontifical magistrates are not
instruments of justice, but tools of power.