Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  By this time the Archbishop had recovered his equanimity. He sat down and surveyed the up-standing figure of the Cardinal with curiosity and a touch of pity.

  “You think too much of these things,” he said soothingly— “You are evidently overwrought with study and excessive zeal. Much that you say may be true; nevertheless the Church — OUR Church — stands firm among overwhelming contradictions, — and we, its ministers, do what we can. I myself am disposed to think that the multitude of the saved is greater than the multitude of the lost.”

  “I envy you the consolation such a thought must give,” responded the Cardinal, as he resumed his seat opposite his visitor— “I, on the contrary, have the pained and bitter sense that we are to blame for all this ‘multitude of the lost,’ or at any rate that we could have done more in the way of rescue than we have done.” He paused a moment, passing one hand across his forehead wearily. “In truth this is what has for a long time weighed upon my mind, and depressed my spirits even to the detriment of bodily health. I am nearing the grave, and must soon give an account of my stewardship; — and the knowledge of the increasing growth of evil in the world is almost more than I can bear.”

  “But you are not to blame,” said the Archbishop wonderingly,— “In your own diocese you have fulfilled your duty; more than this is not expected of you. You have done your best for the people you serve, — and reports of your charities and good works are not lacking—”

  “Do not credit such reports,” interrupted the Cardinal, almost sternly,— “I have done nothing — absolutely nothing! My life has been too peaceful, — too many undeserved blessings have been bestowed upon me. I much fear that the calm and quiet of my days have rendered me selfish. I think I should long ago have sought some means of engaging in more active duties. I feel as if I should have gone into the thick of the religious contest, and spoken and fought, and helped the sick and wounded of the mental battle, — but now — now it is too late!”

  “Nothing is too late for one in your position,” said the Archbishop— “You may yet sit in St. Peter’s chair!”

  “God forbid!” ejaculated Bonpre fervently— “I would rather die! I have never wished to rule, — I have only sought to help and to comfort. But sixty-eight years of life weigh heavily on the faculties, — I cannot wear the sword and buckler of energetic manhood. I am old — old! — and to a certain extent, incapacitated for useful labour. Hence I almost grudge my halcyon time spent among simple folk, — time made sweet by all the surroundings of Nature’s pastoral loveliness; — the sorrow of the wider world knocks at my heart and makes it ache! I feel that I am one of those who stand by, idly watching the Master’s second death without one word of protest!”

  The archbishop listened in silence. There was a curious shamed look upon his face, as if some secret sin within himself had suddenly been laid bare in all its vileness to the light of day. The golden crucifix he wore moved restlessly with a certain agitated quickness in his breathing, and he did not raise his eyes, when, after a little pause, he said —

  “I tell you, as I told you before, that you think too much; you are altogether too sensitive. I admit that at the present day the world is full of terrible heresies and open blasphemy, but this is part of what we are always bound to expect, — we are told that we must ‘suffer for righteousness’ sake—’”

  “We!” said the Cardinal— “Yes, WE! that is, OURSELVES; — the Church — WE think, when we hear of heresies and blasphemies that it is we who are ‘suffering for righteousness’ sake,’ but in our egotism we forget that WE are not suffering at all if we are able to retain our faith! It is the very heretics and blasphemers whom we condemn that are suffering — suffering absolute tortures — perchance ‘for righteousness’ sake’!”

  “Dare we call a heretic ‘righteous’?” enquired the Archbishop— “Is he not, in his very heresy, accursed?”

  “According to our Lord, no one is accursed save traitors, — that is to say those who are not true. If a man doubts, it is better he should admit his doubt than make a pretence of belief. The persons whom we call heretics may have their conception of the truth, — they may say that they cannot accept a creed which is so ignorant of its own tenets as to condemn all those who do not follow it, — inasmuch as the very Founder of it distinctly says— ‘If any man hear my words and believe not, I judge him not; for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.’ Now we, His followers, judge, but do not save. The atheist is judged by us, but not rescued from his unbelief; the thinker is condemned, — the scientist who reveals the beauty and wisdom of God as made manifest in the composition of the lightning, or the germinating of a flower, is accused of destroying religion. And we continue to pass our opinion, and thunder our vetoes and bans of excommunication against our fellowmen, in the full front of the plain command ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged’!”

  “I see it is no use arguing with you,” said the Archbishop, forcing a smile, with a vexation the smile could not altogether conceal,— “You are determined to take these sayings absolutely, — and to fret your spirit over the non-performance of imaginary duties which do not exist. This Church is a system, — founded on our Lord’s teaching, but applied to the needs of modern civilization. It is not humanly possible to literally obey all Christ’s commands.”

  “For the outside world I grant it may be difficult, — but for the ministers of religion, however difficult it may be, it should be done,” replied the Cardinal firmly. “I said this before, and I deliberately maintain it. The Church IS a system, — but whether it is as much founded on the teaching of our Lord, who was divine, as on the teaching of St. Paul, who was NOT divine, is a question to me of much perplexity.”

  “St. Paul was directly inspired by our Lord,” said the Archbishop— “I am amazed that you should even hint a doubt of his apostleship!”

  “I do not decry St. Paul,” answered Bonpre quietly— “He was a gifted and clever man, but he was a Man — he was not God-in-Man. Christ’s doctrine leaves no place for differing sects; St. Paul’s method of applying that doctrine serves as authority for the establishment of any and every quarrelsome sect ever known!”

  “I cannot agree with you,” said the Archbishop coldly.

  “I do not expect to be agreed with” — and Bonpre smiled a little— “An opinion which excites no opposition at all is not worth having! I am quite honest in my scruples, such as they are; — I do not think we fit, as you say, the Church system to the needs of modern civilization. On the contrary, we must fail in many ways to do this, else there would not be such a crying out for help and comfort as there is at present among all Christian peoples. We no longer speak with a grand certainty as we ought to do. We only offer vague hopes and dubious promises to those who thirst for the living waters of salvation and immortality, — it is as if we did not feel sure enough of God ourselves to make others sure. All this is wrong — wrong! It forebodes heavy punishment and disaster. If I were younger, I could express perhaps my meaning more clearly, — but as it is, my soul is weighted with unutterable thoughts, — I would almost call them warnings, — of some threatening evil; . . . and today — only this afternoon — when I sat for an hour in the Cathedral yonder and listened to the music of the great organ—”

  The Archbishop started.

  “What did you say?”

  The Cardinal repeated his words gently, —

  “I said that I sat in the Cathedral and listened to the music of the great organ—”

  “The great organ!” interrupted the Archbishop,— “You must have been dreaming! You could not possibly have heard the great organ, — it is old and all out of gear; — it is never used. The only one we have for service just now is a much smaller instrument in the left-hand choir-chapel, — but no person could have played even on that without the key. And the key was unobtainable, as the organist is absent from the town to-day.”

  The Cardinal looked completely bewildered.

  “Are you quite sure o
f this?” he asked falteringly.

  “Sure — absolutely sure!” declared the Archbishop with a smile— “No doubt you thought you heard music; overwrought nerves often play these tricks upon us. And it is owing to this same cause that you are weary and dispirited, and that you take such a gloomy view of the social and religious outlook. You are evidently out of health and unstrung; — but after you have had sufficient rest and change, you will see things in quite a different aspect. I will not for a moment believe that you could possibly be as unorthodox as your conversation would imply, — it would be a total misconception of your true character,” and the Archbishop laughed softly. “A total misconception,” he repeated,— “Why, yes, of course it would be! No Cardinal-Archbishop of Holy Mother Church could bring such accusations against its ministry as you would have suggested, unless he were afflicted by nervous depression, which, as we all know, has the uncomfortable effect of creating darkness even where all is light. Do you stay long in Rouen?”

  “No,” replied the Cardinal abstractedly, answering the question mechanically though his thoughts were far away— “I leave for Paris to-morrow.”

  “For Paris? And then?”

  “I go to Rome with my niece, Angela Sovrani, — she is in Paris awaiting my arrival now.”

  “Ah! You must be very proud of your niece!” murmured the Archbishop softly— “She is famous everywhere, — a great artist! — a wonderful genius!”

  “Angela paints well — yes,” said the Cardinal quietly,— “But she has still a great deal to learn. And she is unfortunately much more alone now than she used to be, — her mother’s death last year was a terrible blow to her.”

  “Her mother was your sister?”

  “My only sister,” answered the Cardinal— “A good, sweet woman! — may her soul rest in peace! Her character was never spoilt by the social life she was compelled to lead. My brother-in-law, Prince Sovrani, kept open house, — and all the gay world of Rome was accustomed to flock thither; but now — since he has lost his wife, things have changed very much, — sadness has taken the place of mirth, — and Angela is very solitary.”

  “Is she not affianced to the celebrated Florian Varillo?”

  A fleeting shadow of pain darkened the Cardinal’s clear eyes.

  “Yes. But she sees very little of him, — you know the strictness of Roman etiquette in such matters. She sees little — and sometimes — so I think — knows less. However, I hope all will be well. But my niece is over sensitive, brilliantly endowed, and ambitious, — at times I have fears for her future.”

  “Depression again!” declared the Archbishop, rising and preparing to take his leave— “Believe me, the world is full of excellence when we look upon it with clear eyes; — things are never as bad as they seem. To my thinking, you are the last man alive who should indulge in melancholy forebodings. You have led a peaceful and happy life, graced with the reputation of many good deeds, and you are generally beloved by the people of whom you have charge. Then, though celibacy is your appointed lot, heaven has given you a niece as dear to you as any child of your own could be, who has won a pre-eminent place among the world’s great artists, and is moreover endowed with beauty and distinction. What more can you desire?”

  He smiled expansively as he spoke; the Cardinal looked at him steadfastly.

  “I desire nothing!” he answered— “I never have desired anything! I told you before that I consider I have received many more blessings than I deserve. It is not any personal grief which at present troubles me, — it is something beyond myself. It is a sense of wrong, — an appeal for truth, — a cry from those who are lost in the world, — the lost whom the Church might have saved!”

  “Merely fancy!” said the Archbishop cheerily— “Like the music in the Cathedral! Do not permit your imagination to get the better of you in such matters! When you return from Rome, I shall be glad to see you if you happen to come through Normandy on your way back to your own people. I trust you will so far honour me?”

  “I know nothing of my future movements,” answered the Cardinal gently,— “But if I should again visit Rouen, I will certainly let you know, and will, if you desire it, accept your friendly hospitality.”

  With this, the two dignitaries shook hands and the Archbishop took his leave. As he picked his way carefully down the rough stairs and along the dingy little passage of the Hotel Poitiers, he was met by Jean Patoux holding a lighted candle above his head to show him the way.

  “It is dark, Monseigneur,” said Patoux apologetically.

  “It is very dark,” agreed Monseigneur, stumbling as he spoke, and feeling rather inclined to indulge in very uncanonical language. “It is altogether a miserable hole, mon Patoux!”

  “It is for poor people only,” returned Jean calmly— “And poverty is not a crime, Monseigneur.”

  “No, it is not a crime,” said the stately Churchman as he reached the door at last, and paused for a moment on the threshold, — a broad smile wrinkling up his fat cheeks and making comfortable creases round his small eyes— “But it is an inconvenience!”

  “Cardinal Bonpre does not say so,” observed Patoux.

  “Cardinal Bonpre is one of two things — a saint or a fool! Remember that, mon Patoux! Bon soir! Benedicite!”

  And the Archbishop, still smiling to himself, walked leisurely across the square in the direction of his own house, where his supper awaited him. The moon had risen, and was clambering slowly up between the two tall towers of Notre Dame, her pure silver radiance streaming mockingly against the candle Jean Patoux still held in the doorway of his inn, and almost extinguishing its flame.

  “One of two things — a saint or a fool,” murmured Jean with a chuckle— “Well! — it is very certain that the Archbishop is neither!”

  He turned in, and shut his door as far as it would allow him to do so, and went comfortably to bed, where Madame had gone before him. And throughout the Hotel Poitiers deep peace and silence reigned. Every one in the house slept, save Cardinal Bonpre, who with the Testament before him, sat reading and meditating deeply for an hour before retiring to rest. A fresh cause of anxiety had come upon him in the idea that perhaps his slight indisposition was more serious than he had deemed. If, as the Archbishop had said, there could have been no music possible in the Cathedral that afternoon, how came it that he had heard such solemn and entrancing harmonies? Was his mind affected? Was he in truth imagining what did not exist? Were the griefs of the world his own distorted view of things? Did the Church faithfully follow the beautiful and perfect teachings of Christ after all? He tried to reason the question out from a different and more hopeful standpoint, but vainly; — the conviction that Christianity was by no means the supreme regenerating force, or the vivifying Principle of Human Life which it was originally meant to be, was borne in upon him with increasing certainty, and the more he read the Gospels, the more he became aware that the Church — system as it existed was utterly opposed to Christ’s own command, and moreover was drifting further and further away from Him with every passing year.

  “The music in the Cathedral may have been my fancy,” he said,— “But the discord in the world sounds clear and is NOT imagination. A casuist in religion may say ‘It was to be’; — that heresies and dissensions were prophesied by Christ, when He said ‘Because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall grow cold’; — but this does not excuse the Church from the sin of neglect, if any neglects exists. One thing we have never seemed to thoroughly understand, and this is that Christ’s teaching is God’s teaching, and that it has not stopped with the enunciation of the Gospel. It is going on even now — in every fresh discovery of science, — in every new national experience, — in everything we can do, or think, or plan, the Divine instruction steadily continues through the Divine influence imparted to us when the Godhead became man, to show men how they might in turn become gods. This is what we forget and what we are always forgetting; so that instead of accepting every truth, we quarrel with it and
reject it, even as Judaea rejected Christ Himself. It is very strange and cruel; — and the world’s religious perplexities are neither to be wondered at nor blamed, — there is just and grave cause for their continuance and increase.”

  He closed the Testament, and being thoroughly fatigued in body as well as mind, he at last retired. Lying down contentedly upon the hard and narrow bed which was the best the inn provided, he murmured his usual prayer,— “If this should be the sleep of death, Jesus receive my soul!” — and remained for a little while with his eyes open, looking at the white glory of the moonlight as it poured through his lattice window and formed delicate traceries of silver luminance on the bare wooden floor. He could just see the dark towers of Notre Dame from where he lay, — a black mass in the moonbeams — a monument of half-forgotten history — a dream of centuries, hallowed or blasphemed by the prayers and aspirations of dead and gone multitudes who had appealed to the incarnate God-in-Man before its altars. God-in-Man had been made manifest! — how long would, the world have to wait before Man-in-God was equally created and declared? For that was evidently intended to be the final triumph of the Christian creed.

  “We should have gained such a victory long ago,” mused Cardinal Bonpre— “only that we ourselves have set up stumbling-blocks, and rejected God at every step of the way.”