Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Thinkers,” he said once to a young and ardent novice, studying for the priesthood, “are generally socialists and revolutionists. They are an offence to the Church and a danger to the community.”

  “Surely,” murmured the novice timidly,— “Our Lord Himself was a thinker? And a Socialist likewise?”

  But at this the Archbishop rose up in wrath and flashed forth menace; —

  “If you are a follower of Renan, sir, you had better admit it before proceeding further in your studies,” he said irately,— “The Church is too much troubled in these days by the members of a useless and degenerate apostasy!” Whereupon the young man had left his presence abashed, puzzled, and humiliated; but scarcely penitent, inasmuch as his New Testament taught him that he was right and that the Archbishop was wrong.

  Truth to tell, the Archbishop was very often wrong. Wrapped up in himself and his own fixed notions as to how life should be lived, he seldom looked out upon the larger world, and obstinately refused to take any thoughtful notice of the general tendency of public opinion in all countries concerning religion and morality. All that he was unable to explain, he flatly denied, — and his prejudices were as violent as his hatred of contradiction was keen. The saintly life and noble deeds of Felix Bonpre had reached him from time to time through various rumours repeated by different priests and dignitaries of the Church, who had travelled as far as the distant little Cathedral-town embowered among towering pines and elm trees, where the Cardinal had his abiding seat of duty; — and he had been anxious to meet the man who in these days of fastidious feeding and luxurious living, had managed to gain such a holy reputation as to be almost canonized in some folks’ estimation before he was dead. Hearing that Bonpre intended to stay a couple of nights in Rouen, he cordially invited him to spend that time at his house, — but the invitation had been gratefully yet firmly refused, much to the Archbishop’s amazement. This amazement increased considerably when he learned that the dingy, comfortless, little Hotel Poitiers had been selected by the Cardinal as his temporary lodging, — and it was not without a pious murmur concerning “the pride which apes humility” that he betook himself to that ancient and despised hostelry, which had nothing whatever in the way of a modern advantage to recommend it, — neither electric light, nor electric bell, nor telephone. But he felt it incumbent upon him to pay a fraternal visit to the Cardinal, who had become in a manner famous without being at all aware of his fame, — and when finally in his presence, he was conscious not only of a singular disappointment, but an equally singular perplexity. Felix Bonpre was not at all the sort of personage he had expected to see. He had imagined that a Churchman who was able to obtain a character for saintliness in days like these, must needs be worldly-wise and crafty, with a keen perception and comprehension of the follies of mankind, and an ability to use these follies advantageously to further his own ends. Something of the cunning and foresight of an ancient Egyptian sorcerer was in the composition of the Archbishop himself, for he judged mankind alone by its general stupidity and credulity; — stupidity and credulity which formed excellent ground for the working of miracles, whether such miracles were wrought in the name of Osiris or Christ. Mokanna, the “Veiled Prophet,” while corrupt to the core with unnameable vices, had managed in his time to delude the people into thinking him a holy man; and, — without any adequate reason for his assumption, — the Archbishop had certainly prepared himself to meet in Felix Bonpre, a shrewd, calculating, clever priest, absorbed in acting the part of an excessive holiness in order to secure such honour in his diocese as should attract the particular notice of the Vatican. “Playing for Pope,” in fact, had been the idea with which the archbishop had invested the Cardinal’s reputed sanctity, and he was astonished and in a manner irritated to find himself completely mistaken. He had opened the conversation by the usual cordial trivialities of ordinary greeting, to which Bonpre had responded with the suave courtesy and refined gentleness which always dignified his manner, — and then the Archbishop had ventured to offer a remonstrance on the unconventional— “Shall we call it eccentric?” he suggested, smiling amicably, — conduct of the Cardinal in choosing to abide in such a comfortless lodging as the Hotel Poitiers.

  “It would have been a pleasure and an honour to me to welcome you at my house” — he said— “Really, it is quite a violation of custom and usage that you should be in this wretched place; the accommodation is not at all fitted for a prince of the Church.”

  Cardinal Felix raised one hand in gentle yet pained protest.

  “Pardon me!” he said, “I do not like that term, ‘prince of the Church.’ There are no princes in the Church — or if there are, there should be none.”

  The archbishop opened his eyes widely.

  “That is a strange remark!” he ejaculated— “Princes of the Church there have always been since Cardinals were created; and you, being a Cardinal and an Archbishop as well, cannot be otherwise than one of them.”

  Felix Bonpre sighed.

  “Still, I maintain that the term is a wrong one,” he answered, “and used in the wrong place. The Church has nothing, or should have nothing to do with differing titles or places. The ordinary priest who toils among his congregation day and night, scarcely resting himself, working and praying for the spiritual welfare of others, should to my thinking be as greatly held in honour as the bishop who commands him and who often — so it chances — is able to do less for our Lord than he. In things temporal, owing to the constant injustice of man practised against his brother-man, we can seldom attain to strict impartiality of judgment, — but in things spiritual, there surely should be perfect equality.”

  “Seriously speaking, are those your views?” enquired the Archbishop, his features expressing more and more astonishment.

  “Assuredly!” responded the Cardinal gently,— “Are they not yours? Did not the Master Himself say ‘Whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant’? And ‘Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased’? These statements are plain and true, — there is no mistaking them.”

  The Archbishop was silent for a minute or so.

  “Unfortunately we cannot apply our Lord’s words literally to every-day exigencies,” he murmured suavely— “If we could do so—”

  “We SHOULD do so,” said the Cardinal with emphasis— “The outside world may be disinclined to do so, — but we — we who are the representatives of a God-given faith, are solemnly bound to do so. And I fear — I very much fear — that it is because in many cases we have not shown the example expected of us, that heresy and atheism are so common among the people of the present day.”

  “Are you a would-be reformer?” asked the Archbishop good-humouredly, yet not without a touch of satire in his tone,— “If so, you are not alone — there have already been many!”

  “Nay, I desire no reforms,” responded the Cardinal, a faint flush warming the habitual pallor of his cheeks— “I simply wish to maintain — not alter — the doctrine of our Lord. No reform is necessary in that, — it is clear, concise, and simple enough for a child to understand. His command to His disciples was,— ‘Feed my sheep’ — and I have of late been troubled and perplexed, because it seems to me that the sheep are not fed; — that despite churches and teachers and preachers, whole flocks are starving.”

  The Archbishop moved uneasily in his chair. His habitual violent spirit of contradiction rose up rebelliously in him, and he longed to give a sharp answer in confutation of the Cardinal’s words, but there was a touch of the sycophant in his nature despite his personal pride, and he could not but reflect that Cardinals ranked above Archbishops, and that Felix Bonpre was in very truth a “prince of the Church” however much he himself elected to disclaim the title. And as in secular affairs lesser men will always bow the knee to royalty, so the Archbishop felt the necessity of temporising with one who was spiritually royal. Therefore he considered a moment before replying.

  “I think,” he said at last, in soft persuasive ton
es, “that your conscience may perhaps be a little tender on this subject. But I cannot agree with you in your supposition that whole flocks are starving; — for Christianity dominates the better and more intellectual part of the civilized world, and through its doctrines, men are gradually learning to be more tolerant and less unjust. When we recollect the barbarous condition of humanity before the coming of Christ—”

  “Barbarous?” interrupted the Cardinal with half a smile,— “You would hardly apply that term to the luxury-loving peoples of Tyre and Babylon? — or to the ancient splendours of Athens and Rome?”

  “They were heathens,” said the Archbishop sententiously.

  “But they were men and women,” replied Bonpre, “And they too had immortal souls. They were all more or less struggling towards the fundamental Idea of good. Of course then, as now that Idea was overgrown by superstitious myths and observances — but the working tendency of the whole universe being ever towards Good, not Evil, an impulse to press on in the right direction was always in the brain of man, no matter how dimly felt. Primitive notions of honour were strange indeed; nevertheless honour existed in the minds of the early barbarians in a vague sense, though distorted out of shape and noblest meaning. No, — we dare not take upon ourselves to assert that men were altogether barbarous before the coming of Christ. They were cruel and unjust certainly, — and alas! they are cruel and unjust still! Eighteen hundred years of Christian teaching have not eradicated these ingrained sins from any one unit of the entire mass.”

  “You are a severe judge!” said the Archbishop.

  Cardinal Bonpre lifted his mild blue eyes protestingly.

  “Severe? I? God forbid that I should be severe, or presume to sit in judgment on any poor soul that sought my sympathy! I do not judge, — I simply feel. And my feelings have for a long time, I confess, been poignantly sorrowful.”

  “Sorrowful! And why?”

  “Because the impression has steadily gained upon me that if our Church were all it was originally intended to be by its Divine Founder, we should at this time have neither heresies or apostasies, and all the world would be gathered into the ‘one fold under one Shepherd.’ But if we, who are its ministers, persist in occupying ourselves more with ‘things temporal’ than ‘things spiritual,’ we fail to perform our mission, or to show the example required of us, and we do not attract, so much as we repel. The very children of the present day are beginning to doubt our calling and election.”

  “Oh, of course there are, and always have been heretics and atheists,” said the Archbishop,— “And apparently there always will be.”

  “And I venture to maintain that it is our fault that heretics and atheists continue to exist,” replied the Cardinal; “If our Divine faith were lived divinely, there would be no room for heresy or atheism. The Church itself supplies the loophole for apostasy.”

  The Archbishop’s handsome face crimsoned.

  “You amaze me by such an expression!” he said, raising his voice a little in the indignation he could scarcely conceal— “you talk — pardon me — as if you yourself were uncertain of the Church’s ability to withstand unbelief.”

  “I speak but as I think,” answered the Cardinal gently. “And I admit I AM uncertain. In the leading points of reed I am very steadfastly convinced; — namely, that Christ was divine, and that the following of His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask me whether I think we do truly follow that Gospel, I must own that I have doubts upon the matter.”

  “An elected favourite son of the Church should surely have no doubts!” said the Archbishop.

  “Ah, there you come back to the beginning from which we started, when I ventured to object to your term ‘prince of the Church.’ According to our Master, all men should be equal before Him; therefore we err in marking differences of rank or favoritism in questions of religion. The very idea of rank is anti-Christian.”

  At this the Archbishop began to look seriously annoyed.

  “I am afraid you are indulging in very unorthodox ideas,” he said with impatience— “In fact I consider you altogether mistake your calling and position.”

  These were the words which had reached the attentive ears of the Patoux children on their way up to bed, and had caused Henri to declare that the Archbishop and the Cardinal were quarrelling. Felix Bonpre took the somewhat violent remark, however, with perfect equanimity.

  “Possibly I may do so,” he responded peaceably. “We are all subject to error. My calling, as I take it, is that of a servant of Christ, whose instructions for work are plainly set down in His own words. It is for me to follow these instructions as literally and exactly as I can. With regard to my position, I am placed as the spiritual head of a very small diocese, where the people for the most part lead very innocent and harmless lives. But I should be selfish and narrow in spirit if I allowed myself to limit my views to my own circle of influence. My flock are mere rustics in intellectual capacity, and have no conception of the manner in which the larger tide of human events is flowing. Now and then one or two of the people grow weary of their quiet pastures and woodlands, — and being young, hopeful, and ardent, start forth into the great world, there to seek fairer fortunes. Sometimes they come back to their old homes. Far more frequently they never return. But those who do come back are changed utterly. I recognise no more the young men and maidens whom I confirmed in their faith, and laid my hands on in blessing ere they fared forth to other lives and scenes. The men are grown callous and worldly; without a heart, — without a thought, — save for the gain or loss of gold. The women are — ruined!”

  He paused a moment. The Archbishop said nothing.

  “I love my people,” went on the Cardinal pathetically— “No child is baptised in our old Cathedral without my praying for its future good, — without my hope that it may grow into that exquisite mingling of the Divine and Human which our Lord taught us was the perfection of life, and His desire to see fulfilled in those He called His own. Yes, — I love my people! — and when any of them go away from me, and then return to the scenes of their childhood broken-hearted, I cannot meet them with reproach. My own heart is half broken to see them thus cast down. And their sorrows have compelled me naturally to meditate on the sorrows of others, — to consider what it is in the world which thus corrodes the pure gold of innocence and robs life of its greatest charm. For if Christ’s spirit ruled us all, then innocence should be held more sacred. Life should engender happiness. I have studied, read, and thought long, upon these matters, so that I not only feel, but know the truth of what I say. Brother!—” and the Cardinal, strongly moved, rose suddenly and confronted the Archbishop with a passionate gesture— “My great grief is that the spirit of Christ does NOT rule the world! Christ is being re-crucified by this generation! And the Church is looking on, and silently permitting His second murder!”

  Startled by the force of this expression, the Archbishop sprang up in his turn, his lips parted as if to speak — then — his angry glance met the clear, calm, steadfast look of Felix Bonpre, and he faltered. His eyes drooped — and his massive figure seemed for a moment to shrink with a sort of abasement. Like an inspired apostle the Cardinal stood, one hand outstretched, — his whole frame sentient with the strong emotion which possessed him.

  “You know that what I say is true,” he continued in quieter but no less intensely passionate accents— “You know that every day sees our Master crowned with new thorns and exposed to fresh torture! You know that we do nothing! — We stand beside Him in His second agony as dumb as though we were unconscious of it! You know that we MIGHT speak and will not! You know that we fear the ephemera of temporary governments, policies, and social conventionalities, more than the great, real, and terrible judgment of the world to come!”

  “But all these things have been said before,” began the Archbishop, recovering a little from the confusion that had momentarily seized him,— “And as I just now observed, you should remember that there have always
been heretics from the very beginning.”

  “Oh, I remember!” and the Cardinal sighed, “How is it possible that any of us should forget! Heretics, whom we have tortured with unheard-of agonies and burned in the flames, as a proof of our love and sympathy with the tenderness of Christ Jesus!”

  “You are going too far back in time!” said the Archbishop quickly. “We erred in the beginning through excess of zeal, but now — now—”

  “Now we do exactly the same thing,” returned Bonpre— “Only we do not burn physically our heretics, but morally. We condemn all who oppose us. Good men and brave thinkers, whom in our arrogance we consign to eternal damnation, instead of endeavouring to draw out the heart of their mystery, and gather up the gems of their learning as fresh proofs of the active presence of God’s working in, and through all things! Think of the Church’s invincible and overpowering obstinacy in the case of Galileo! He declared the existence of God to us by the utterance of a Truth, — inasmuch as every truth is a new message from God. Had he pronounced his theories before our divine Master, that Master would have confirmed, not denied them! Have we one single example of Christ putting to the torture any poor soul that did not believe in Him? Nay — He Himself submitted to be tortured; but for those who wronged Him, His prayer was only— ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO! The ministers of truth should rather suffer themselves than let others suffer. The horrors of the Inquisition are a blot on religious history; our Master never meant us to burn and torture men into faith. He desired us to love and lead them into the way of life as the shepherd leads a flock into the fold. I repeat again, there would have been no room for atheism if we — we — the servants of Christ, had been strictly true to our vocation.”