“Poor de Lorgne! Yes — I have heard that Mr. Leigh excels in everything that is distinctly English — riding, shooting, and all that kind of thing. He is not effeminate.”
“Few Englishmen are,” said the Abbe,— “And yet to my mind there is something not altogether English in this man. He has none of the heavy British mental and physical stolidity. He is strong and muscular certainly, — but also light and supple, — and with that keen, intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek type than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil.”
“Sans-Soleil,” echoed Angela, “But there is plenty of sunshine in England!”
“Is there? Well, I have been unfortunate, — I have never seen any,—” and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference. “It is very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me! In crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer — then when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally raining — then I take train to London, where it is what is called black fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a cold, or going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold! It is not lively — the very funerals are dull. And you — this is not your experience?”
“No — frankly I cannot say it is,” replied Angela, “I have seen rain and fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere. Italy is far more miserable in cold weather than England. I passed a summer once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise. I never saw so many flowers — I never heard so many birds — (you know in Italy we kill all the singing birds and eat them), and I never met so many kind and gentle people.”
“Well! — perhaps the religious sects in England are responsible for the general feeling of depression in the English atmosphere,” said the Abbe with a light laugh, “They are certainly foggy! The one round Sun of one Creed is unknown to them. I assure you it is best to have one light of faith, even though it be only a magic lantern, — a toy to amuse the children of this brief life before their everlasting bedtime comes—” He broke off abruptly as a slow step was heard approaching along the passage, and in another moment Cardinal Bonpre entered the room.
“Ah, le bien aime Felix!” cried Vergniaud, hastening to meet him and clasp his outstretched hand, bowing slightly over it as he did so, “I have taken the liberty to wait for you, cher Monseigneur, being anxious to see you — and I understand your stay in Paris will not be long?”
“A few days at most, my dear Abbe”, — replied the Cardinal, gently pressing the hand of Vergniaud and smiling kindly. “You are well? But surely I need not ask — you seem to be in the best of health and spirits.”
“Ah, my seeming is always excellent,” returned the Abbe, “However, I do not fare badly. I have thrown away all hard thinking!”
“And you are happier so?”
“Well, I am not quite sure! There is undoubtedly a pleasure in analysing the perplexities of one’s own mind. Still, on the whole, it is perhaps better to enjoy the present hour without any thought at all.”
“Like the butterflies!” laughed Angela.
“Yes, — if butterflies DO enjoy their hour, — which I am not at all prepared to admit. In my opinion they are very dissatisfied creatures, — no sooner on one flower than off they go to another. Very like human beings after all! But I imagine they never worry themselves with philosophical or religious questions.”
“And do you?” enquired Bonpre, smiling, as he sat down in the easy chair his niece placed for him.
“Not as a rule!—” answered Vergniaud frankly, with a light laugh— “But I confess I have done a little in that way lately. Some of the new sciences puzzle me, — I am surprised to find how closely they approach to the fulfilment of old prophecies. One is almost inclined to believe that there must be a next world and a future life.”
“I think such belief is now placed beyond mere inclination,” said the Cardinal— “There is surely no doubt of it.”
Vergniaud gave him a quick side-glance of earnest scrutiny.
“With you, perhaps not—” he replied— “But with me, — well! — it is a different matter. However, it is really no use worrying one’s self with the question of ‘To be, or not to be.’ It drove Hamlet mad, just as the knotty point as to whether Hamlet himself was fat or lean nearly killed our hysterical little boy, Catullus Mendes. It’s best to leave eternal subjects like God and Shakespeare alone.”
He laughed again, but the Cardinal did not smile.
“I do not agree with you, Vergniaud,” he said— “I fear it is because we do not think sufficiently for ourselves on the One eternal subject that so much mischief threatens us at the present time. To take gifts and ignore the Giver is surely the blackest ingratitude, yet that is what the greater part of humanity is guilty of in these days. Never was there so much beholding and yet ignoring of the Divine as now. Science is searching for God, and is getting closer to Him every day; — the Church remains stationary and refuses to look out beyond her own pale of thought and conventional discipline. I know,—” and the Cardinal hesitated a moment, “I know I can speak quite plainly to you, for you are what is called a freethinker — yet I doubt whether you are really as free as you imagine!”
The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.
“I imagine nothing!” he declared airily, “Everything is imagined for me nowadays, — and imagination itself is like a flying Geni which overtakes and catches the hair of some elusive Reality and turns its face round, full-shining on an amazed world!”
“A pretty simile!” said Angela Sovrani, smiling.
“Is it not? Almost worthy of Paul Verlaine who was too ‘inspired’ to keep either his body or his soul clean. Why was I not a poet! Helas! — Fact so much outweighs fancy that it is no longer any use penning a sonnet to one’s mistress’s eyebrow. One needs to write with thunderbolts in characters of lightning, to express the wonders and discoveries of this age. When I find I can send a message from here to London across space, without wires or any visible means of communication, — and when I am told that probably one of these days I shall be able at will to SEE the person to whom I send the message, reflected in space while the message is being delivered, — I declare myself so perfectly satisfied with the fairy prodigies revealed to me, that I have really no time, and perhaps no inclination to think of any other world than this one.”
“You are wrong, then,” said the Cardinal, “Very wrong, Vergniaud. To me these discoveries of science, this apparent yielding of invisible forces into human hands, are signs and portents of terror. You remember the line ‘the powers of heaven shall be shaken’? Those powers are being shaken now! We cannot hold them back; — they are here, with us; — but they mean much more than mere common utility to our finite selves. They are the material declarations of what is spiritual. They are the scientific proofs that Christ’s words to ‘THIS generation,’ namely, this particular phase of creation, — are true. ‘Blessed are they which have not seen and yet believed,’ He said; — and many there are who have passed away from us in rapt faith and hope, believing not seeing, and with whom we may rejoice in spirit, knowing that all must be well with them. But now — now we are come upon an age of doubt in the world — doubt which corrodes and kills the divine spirit in man, and therefore we are being forced to SEE that we may believe, — but the seeing is terrible!”
“Why?”
“Because in the very beholding of things we remain blind!” answered the Cardinal, “Our intense selfishness obscures the true light of every fresh advance. We accept new marvels of knowledge, as so much practical use to us, and to the little planet we live on, — but we do not see that they are merely reflections of the Truth from which they emanate. The toy called the biograph, which reflects pictures for us in a dazzling and moving continuity, so that we can see scenes of human life in action, is merely a hint to us that every scene of every life is reflected in a ceaseless moving panorama SOMEWHERE in the Universe, for the beholding of SOMEONE, — yes! — there must be Someon
e who so elects to look upon everything, or such possibilities of reflected scenes would not be, — inasmuch as nothing exists without a Cause for existence. The wireless telegraphy is a stupendous warning of the truth that ‘from God no secrets are hid’, and also of the prophecy of Christ ‘there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed’ — and, ‘whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be revealed in light.’ The latter words are almost appalling in their absolute accord with the latest triumphant discoveries of science.”
Abbe Vergniaud looked at the Cardinal, and slightly raised his eyebrows in a kind of wondering protest.
“TRES-SAINT Felix!” he murmured, “Are you turning into a mystic? One of those doubtful personages who are seeking to reconcile science with the Church?—”
“Stop!” interposed the Cardinal, raising his hand with an eloquent gesture, “Science is, or should be, the Church! — science is Truth, and Truth is God! God cannot be found anywhere in a lie; and the Church in many ways would make our Divine Redeemer Himself a lie were it not that His words are every day taking fresh meaning, and bringing new and solemn conviction to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear!”
He spoke as if carried beyond himself, — his pale cheeks glowed, — his eyes flashed fire, — and the combined effect of his words and manner was startling to the Abbe, and in a way stupefying to his niece Angela. She had never heard him give utterance to such strong sentiments and she shrank a little within herself, wondering whether as a Cardinal of the Roman Church he had not been too free of speech. She glanced apprehensively at Vergniaud, who however only smiled a little.
“If you should be disposed to express yourself in such terms at the Vatican,—” he began.
The Cardinal relapsed into his usual calm, and met the Abbe’s questioning, half cynical glance composedly. “I have many things to speak of at the Vatican,” he answered,— “This matter will probably be one of them.”
“Then—” But whatever Vergniaud was about to say was interrupted by the entrance of the boy Manuel, who at that moment came into the room and stood beside the Cardinal’s chair. The Abbe gave him an upward glance of surprise and admiration.
“Whom have we here?” he exclaimed, “One of your acolytes, Monseigneur?”
“No,” replied the Cardinal, his eyes resting on the fair face of the lad with a wistful affection, “A little stray disciple of our Lord, — to whom I have ventured to offer protection. There is none to question my right to do so, for he is quite alone in the world.”
And in a few words he related how he had discovered the boy on the previous night, weeping outside the Cathedral in Rouen. Angela Sovrani listened attentively, her violet eyes darkening and deepening as she heard, — now and then she raised them to look at the youthful waif who stood so quietly while the story of his troubles was told in the gentle and sympathetic way which was the Cardinal’s usual manner of speech, and which endeared him so much to all. “And for the present,” finished Bonpre, smiling— “he stays with me, and already I have found him skilled in the knowledge of many things, — he can read Scripture with a most musical and clear emphasis, — and he is a quick scribe, so that he will be valuable to me in more ways than one.”
“Ah!” and the Abbe turned himself round in his chair to survey the boy more attentively, “You can read Scripture? But can you understand it? If you can, you are wiser than I am!”
Manuel regarded him straightly.
“Was it not once said in Judaea that “IT IS THE SPIRIT THAT QUICKENETH’?” he asked.
“True! — And from that you would infer . . . ?”
“That when one cannot understand Scripture, it is perhaps for the reason that ‘THE LETTER KILLETH, BECAUSE LACKING THE SPIRIT THAT GIVETH LIFE.”
The boy spoke gently and with grace and modesty, — but something in the tone of his voice had a strange effect on the cynical temperament of Abbe Vergniaud.
“Here,” he mused, “is a lad in whom the principle of faith is strong and pure, — shall I drop the poison of doubt into the open flower of his mind, or leave it uncontaminated?” Aloud he said, kindly,
“You speak well, — you have evidently thought for yourself. Who taught you to recognise ‘the Spirit that giveth life’?”
Manuel smiled.
“Does that need teaching?” he asked.
Radiance shone in his eyes, — the look of purity and candour on his young face was infinitely touching to the two men who beheld it, — the one worn with age and physical languors, the other equally worn in mind, if not in body. In the brief silence which followed, — a silence of unexpressed feeling, — a soft strain of organ-music came floating deliciously towards them, — a delicate thread of grave melody which wove itself in and out the airspaces, murmuring suggestions of tenderness and appeal. Angela smiled, and held up one finger, listening.
“That is Mr. Leigh!” she said, “He is in my studio improvising.”
“Happy Mr. Leigh!” said the Abbe with a little malicious twinkle in his eyes, “To be allowed to improvise at all in the studio of the Sovrani!”
Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.
“Mr. Leigh is a friend,” she said, “He is welcome in the studio always. His criticism of a picture is valuable, — besides — he is a celebrated Englishman!” She laughed, and her eyes flashed.
“Ah! To a celebrated Englishman all things are conceded!” said the Abbe satirically, “Even the right to enter the sanctum of the most exclusive lady in Europe! Is it not a curious thing that the good Britannia appears to stick her helmet on the head, and put her sceptre in the hand of every one of her sons who condescends to soil his boots by walking on foreign soil? With the helmet he defies the gemdarme, — with the sceptre he breaks open every door, — we prostrate ourselves before his face and curse him behind his back, — c’est drole! — yet we are all alike, French, Germans, Austrians, and Italians; — we hate the Englishman, but we black his boots all the same, — which is contemptible of us, — MAIS, QUE FAIRE! He is so overwhelming in sheer impudence! With culture and politeness we might cross swords in courtly duel, — but in the presence of absolute bluff, or what is called ‘cheek’, we fall flat in sheer dismay! What delicious music! I see that it charms our young friend, — he is fond of music.”
“Yes,” said Manuel speaking for himself before any question could be put to him, “I love it! It is like the fresh air, — full of breath and life.”
“Come then with me,” said Angela, “Come into the studio and we will hear it more closely. Dearest uncle,” and she knelt for a moment by the Cardinal’s chair, “Will you come there also when Monsieur l’Abbe has finished talking with you?”
Cardinal Bonpre’s hand rested lovingly on her soft hair.
“Yes, my child, I will come.” And in a lower tone he added,— “Do not speak much to Manuel, — he is a strange lad; more fond of silence and prayer than other things, — and if such is his temperament I would rather keep him so.”
Angela bowed her head in acquiescence to this bidding, — then rising, left the room with a gentle gesture of invitation to the boy, who at once followed her. As the two disappeared a chill and a darkness seemed to fall upon the air, and the Cardinal sank back among the cushions of his fauteuil with a deep sigh of utter exhaustion. Abbe Vergniaud glanced at him inquisitively.
“You are very tired, I fear?” he said.
“Physically, no, — mentally, yes. Spiritually, I am certainly fatigued to the death.”
The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.
“Helas! There is truly much in spiritual matters to engender weariness!” he said.
With a sudden access of energy the Cardinal gripped both arms of his chair and sat upright.
“For God’s sake, do not jest,” he said earnestly, “Do not jest! We have all been jesting too long, and the time is near when we shall find out the bitter cost of it! Levity — carelessness — doubt and final heresy — I do not mean heresy against the Church, for
that is nothing—”
“Nothing!” exclaimed the Abbe, “YOU say this?”
“I say it!” And Bonpre’s thin worn features grew transfigured with the fervour of his thought. “I am a priest of the Church — but I am also a man! — with reason, with brain, and with a love of truth; — and I can faithfully say I have an almost jealous honour for my Master — but I repeat, heresy against the Church is nothing, — it is heresy against Christ which is the crime of the age, — and in that, the very Church is heretic! Heresy against Christ! — Heresy against Christ! A whole system of heresy! ‘I never knew you, — depart from me, ye workers of iniquity,’ will be our Lord’s words at the Last Judgment!”
The Abbe’s wonderment increased. He looked down a moment, then looked up, and a quizzical, half-melancholy expression filled his eyes.
“Well, I am very much concerned in all this,” he said, “I wanted to have a private talk with you on my own account, principally because I know you to be a good man, while I am a bad one. I have a trouble here,—” and he touched the region of his heart, “which the wise doctors say may end my days at any moment; two years at the utmost is the ultimatum of my life, so I want to know from you, whom I know to be intelligent and honest, whether you believe I am going to another existence, — and if so, what sort of a one you think is in prospect for such a man as I am? Now don’t pity me, my dear Bonpre, — don’t pity me!—” and he laughed a little huskily as the Cardinal took his hand and pressed it with a silent sympathy more eloquent than words, “We must all die, — and if I am to go somewhat sooner than I expected, that is nothing to compassionate me for. But there is just a little uncertainty in my mind, — I am not at all sure that death is the end — I wish I could be quite positive of the fact. I was once — quite positive. But science, instead of giving me this absolute comfort has in its later progress upset all my former calculations, and I am afraid I must own that there is indubitably Something Else, — which to my mind seems distinctly disagreeable!”
Though the Abbe spoke lightly, the troubled look remained in his eyes and the Cardinal saw it.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 466
