It was a brilliant, soft autumnal Sunday morning when Cardinal Bonpre, mindful of Abbe Vergniaud’s request that he should be present to hear him preach, took his slow and thoughtful way to the church of the Lorette, accompanied by his niece Angela and Manuel. The building was crammed, and had not the Abbe been previously careful to reserve seats, and to mention the Cardinal’s name to the custodian, he would have scarcely obtained admission. As it was, however, he passed slowly up the centre aisle without hindrance, followed by Manuel and Angela, and watched by a good many inquisitive persons, who wondered as they looked, who the boy was that walked after His Eminence with such easy self-possession, — with such a noble and modest bearing, and with such a strangely thoughtful face. A few whispered and nudged each other as “the Sovrani” passed them, dressed in her usual quiet black, her head slightly bent and her eyes downcast. The Marquis Fontenelle, seated in an attitude which suggested a languid indifference to all persons and events, lifted his bright hazel eyes as she passed, — and a sudden wave of consciousness swept over him, — uneasy consciousness that perhaps this small slight woman despised him. This was not quite a pleasant reflection for a man and a Marquis to boot, — one who could boast of an ancient and honourable family pedigree dating back to the fighting days of Coeur-de-Lion and whose coat-of-arms was distinguished by three white lilies of France on one of its quarterings. The lilies of France! — emblems of honour, loyalty, truth, and chivalry! — what smudged and trampled blossoms they seem to day! He frowned as this fancy crossed his mind, and turned his eyes away from the following of Angela’s slight form up the aisle; and his glance fell instead on a face he detested, because it was almost the counterpart of his own, — the face of the great French actor Miraudin. The same clean-shaven classic face and clustering hair, — the same glittering, amorous hazel eyes; — the same charming and kindly smile, — all these attributes were in Miraudin’s face, indefinably coarsened, while in Fontenelle’s they remained refined and inicative of the highest breeding. The Marquis moved uneasily in his seat, — he saw himself in the famous actor, — himself as he would be, if he continued his career of self-indulgence, — for Miraudin though gifted with a genius that could move all Paris to the wildest excesses of admiration, was in private life known as a man of detestable reputation, whose liaisons with women were endless, but who, in his extreme egotism and callousness had never been known to yield to the saving grace of a “grande passion,” — one of those faithful passions which sometimes make the greatness of both man and woman concerned, and adorn the pages of dull history with the brilliancy of deathless romance. Was he, Guy Beausire de Fontenelle no better, no nobler, no higher, in his desires and ambitions than Miraudin? What was he doing with the three lilies emblazoned on his escutcheon? He thought with a certain fretful impatience of Sylvie, of her captivating grace, her tender eyes, her sweet laughter, and sweeter smile. She had seemed to him a mere slight creation of the air and the moonbeams, — something dainty that would have melted at a touch, and dropped into his mouth, as it were, like a French bon-bon. So he, man-like, had judged, and now lo! — the little ethereal creature had suddenly displayed a soul of adamant — hard and pure, and glittering as a diamond, — which no persuasion could break or bend. She had actually kept her word! — she had most certainly left Paris. The Marquis knew that, by the lamentable story of her dismissed maid who had come to him with hysterical tears, declaring that “Madame” had suddenly developed a “humeur incroyable” — and had gone away alone, — alone, save for a little dusky-skinned Arab boy whom she had once brought away from Biskra and had trained as an attendant, — her “gouvernante” and companion, Madame Bozier, and her old butler who had known her from childhood. Fontenelle felt that the dismissal of the maid who had been such a convenient spy for him, was due to Angela Sovrani’s interference, and though angry, he was conscious of feeling at the same time mean in himself, and miserable. To employ a servant to play the spy on her mistress, and report to him her actions and movements, might be worthy of a Miraudin, but was it quite the thing for a Marquis Fontenelle? Thinking over these things his handsome face grew flushed and anon pale again, as from time to time he stole a vexed side glance at the easy Miraudin, — so like him in features and — unfortunately so equally like him in morals! Meanwhile, the music of the Mass surged round him, in thunders of the organ, wailings of violins, groaning of ‘cellos, and flutings of boys’ and men’s voices, — and as the cloudy incense rose upon the air he began to weave strange fancies in his mind, and to see in the beams of sunlight falling through the stained glass windows a vision of the bright face of Sylvie looking down upon him with a half-tender, half-reproving smile, — a smile that seemed to say, “If thou lovest me, set the grace of honour on thy love!” These were strange thoughts for him to entertain, and he was almost ashamed of them, — but as long as the melodies of the Mass kept rolling on and reverberating around him he could not help thinking of them; so that he was relieved when a pause came, — the interval for the sermon, — and Abbe Vergniaud, leisurely mounting the steps of the pulpit, stood surveying the congregation with the composed yet quizzical air for which he was celebrated, and waiting till the rustling, fidgeting, coughing, snuffing, toe-scraping noises of the congregation had settled down into comparative silence. His attitude during this interval was suggestive. It implied contempt, wearied patience, resignation, and a curious touch of defiance. Holding himself very erect he rested his left hand on the elaborate sculptured edge of the pulpit, — it was the hand on which he usually wore his ring, a diamond of purest lustre, — but on this occasion the jewel had been removed and the white, firm fingers, outlined against the pulpit edge, looked as though they had just relaxed their grasp of something that had been more or less of a trouble to retain. Nothing perhaps is so expressive as a hand, — the face can disguise itself, — even the eyes can lie, — but the hand never. Its shape, its movements, its attitude in repose, give a more certain clue to character and disposition than almost any other human feature. Thus, with the Abbe, while his left hand suggested a “letting go,” his right hand, which held a small black-bound Testament implied defiance, grip, resolve and courage. And when the people seated immediately around the pulpit lifted their eyes expectantly to the popular preacher’s face, several of the more observant noticed something in his look and manner which was unfamiliar and curiously disconcerting. If it be true, as there is every reason to believe it is, that each human being unconsciously gives out an “aura” of his interior personality which is made more or less powerful to attract or repel by the nature of his intentions, and which affects the “aura” of those with whom he is brought in contact, then Abbe Vergniaud was this morning creating all unawares to himself a very singular impression of uneasiness. Some of the persons thus uncomfortably influenced coughed violently in an instinctive attempt to divert or frustrate the preacher’s mood, but even the most persistent cougher must cease coughing at some time or another — and the Abbe was evidently determined to wait for an absolute silence before he spoke. At last silence came, and he opened the Testament. Holding it up to the view of the congregation, he began with all that easy eloquence which the French tongue gives to a cultured speaker, — his voice full and sonorous, reaching distinctly to every part of the crowded church.
“This,” he said, “is a small book which you all pretend to know. It is so small a book that it can easily be read through in an hour. It is the Testament; — or the Last Will and Command to the world of one Jesus Christ, who was crucified on account of His Divinity more than eighteen hundred years ago. I mention the fact, in case any of you have forgotten it! It is generally understood that this book is the message of God and the key of Faith; — upon it our churches and religious systems are founded; — by its teaching we are supposed to order our conduct of life — and yet, — though as I have said, it is a very small book, and would not take you an hour to read it — none of you know any thing about it! That is a strange thing, is it not?”
Here he leaned over the pulpit edge, and his bright eyes, coldly satiric, flashed a comprehensive glance over the whole congregation.
“Yes, it is a strange thing, but I affirm it true, — that none of you know anything whatever about the contents of this small volume which is the foundation of the Christian Faith! You never read it yourselves, — and if we priests read it to you, you never remember it! It is a locked Mystery, — perhaps, for all we know, the greatest mystery in the world, — and the one most worth probing! For the days seem to be coming, if they have not already come, which were prophesied by St. John the Divine, whom certain ‘clever’ men of the time have set down as mad; — days which were described as ‘shaking the powers of heaven and creating confusion on the earth.’ St. John said some strange things; one thing in particular, concerning this very book, which reads thus;— ‘I saw in the right hand of Him that sat upon the throne a book sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice; Who is worthy to open and to loose the seals thereof? And no man in heaven or in earth was able to open the book neither to look thereon. And I wept much because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon.’ But St. John the Divine was mad, we are told, — madness and inspiration being judged as one and the same thing. Well, if in these statements he is supposed to prove his madness, I consider a doubt must be set upon everyone’s sanity. For his words are an exact description of the present period of the world’s existence and its attitude towards the Gospel of Christ,— ‘NO MAN IS FOUND WORTHY TO LOOSE THE SEALS OF THE BOOK OR TO LOOK THEREON.’ But I am not going to talk to you about the seven seals. They adequately represent our favourite ‘seven deadly sins,’ which have kept the book closed since the days of the early martyrs; — and are likely to keep it closed still. Nor shall I speak of our unworthiness to read what we have never taken the trouble to rightly understand, — for all this would be waste of time. It is part of our social sham to pretend we know the Gospel, — and it is a still greater sham to assume that we have ever tried in the smallest degree to follow its teaching. What we know of these teachings has influenced us unconsciously, but the sayings in the Gospel of Christ are in very truth as enveloped in mystery to each separate individual reader as the oracles of the ancient Egyptians were to the outside multitude. And why? Merely because, to comprehend the teaching of Jesus we should have to think, — and we all hate thinking. It is too much exertion, — and exertion itself is unpleasant. A quarter of an hour’s hard thinking will convince each one of us that he or she is a very worthless and ridiculous person, and we strongly object to any process which will, in itself, bring us to that conclusion. I say ‘we’ object, — that is, I and you; particularly I. I admit at once that to appear worthless and ridiculous to the world has always seemed to me a distressing position, and one to be avoided. Worthless and ridiculous in my own eyes I have always been, — but that is not your affair. It is strictly mine! And though I feel I am not worthy ‘to loose the seals of the book or look thereon,’ there is one passage in it which strikes me as particularly applicable to the present day, and from it I will endeavour to draw a lesson for your instruction, though perhaps not for your entertainment.”
Here he paused and glanced at his hearers with an indefinable expression of mingled scorn and humour.
“What an absurdity it is to talk of giving a ‘lesson’ to you! — you who will barely listen to a friend’s advice, — you who will never take a hint for your mental education or improvement, you who are apt to fly into a passion, or take to the sulks when you are ever so slightly contradicted. Tiens, tiens! c’est drole! Now the words I am about to preach from, are supposed to have been uttered by Divine lips; and if you thoroughly believed this, you would of your own accord kneel down and pray that you might receive them with full comprehension and ready obedience. But you do not believe; — so I will not ask you to kneel down in mockery, or feign to pray when you are ignorant of the very spirit of prayer! So take the words, — without preparation, without thought, without gratitude, as you take everything God gives you, and see what you can make of them. ‘The light of the body is the eye, — if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!’”
Here he closed the Testament, and rested it edgewise on the pulpit cushion, keeping one hand firmly clasped upon it as he turned himself about and surveyed the whole congregation.
“What is the exact meaning of the words, ‘IF THINE EYE BE SINGLE’? It is an expressive term; and in its curt simplicity covers a profound truth. ‘If thine eye,’ namely, — the ability to see,— ‘be single,’ that is straight and clear, without dimness or obliquity,— ‘thy whole body shall be full of light.’ Christ evidently did not apply this expression to the merely physical capability of sight, — but to the moral and mental, or psychic vision. It matters nothing really to the infinite forces around us, whether physically speaking, we are able to see, or whether we are born blind; but spiritually, it is the chief necessity of our lives that we should be able to see straight morally. Yet that is what we can seldom or never do. Modern education, particularly education in France, provides us at once with a double psychic lens, and a side-squint into the bargain! Seeing straight would be too primitive and simple for us. But Christ says, ‘If thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness.’ Now this word ‘evil,’ as set in juxtaposition to the former term ‘single,’ evidently implies a double sight or perverted vision. With this ‘evil,’ or double sight, our whole body ‘shall be full of darkness.’ Very well, my friends, if this be true, — (and you surely must believe it true, otherwise you would not support churches for the exposition of the truth as spoken by the Founder of our Faith; — ) then we are children of the dark indeed! I doubt if one amongst us, — for I include myself with you, — can be said to see clearly with a straight psychic vision. The straight psychic vision teaches us that God is the Creator of all things, — God is Light and Love, — God desires good from us, and from every particle of his creation; — but the double or perverted line of sight offers a different view and declares, ‘This life is short and offers many pleasures. I cannot be sure of God because I have never seen Him; — the Universe is certainly very majestic, and somewhat startling to me in its exact mathematical proportions; but I have no more to do with it than has a grain of sand; — my lot is no more important than that of the midge in the sunbeam; — I live, — I breed — I die; — and it matters to no one but myself how I do these three things, provided I satisfy my nature.’ This is the Philosophy of the Beast, and it is just now very fashionable. It is ‘la haute mode’ both in France, and England, Italy, and Spain. Only young America seem to be struggling for a Faith, — a Christian Faith; — it has almost, albeit faintly and with a touching indecision, asked for such a Faith from the Pope, — who has however declared it to be impossible in these words addressed to Cardinal Gibbons, ‘Discussion of the principles of the Church cannot be tolerated even in the United States. There can only be one interpreter, the Pope. In the matter of discipline, concessions may be allowed, but in doctrine none.’ Mark the words, ‘cannot be tolerated’! Consider what stability a Faith can have whose principles may not be discussed! Yet the authority of the Church is, we are told the authority of God Himself. How is this? We can discuss God and His principles. He ‘tolerates’ us while we search for His laws, and stand amazed and confounded before His marvellous creation. The more we look for Him the more He gives Himself gloriously to us; and Christ declares ‘Seek and ye shall find,’ — the Church says ‘Seek and ye shall not be tolerated’! How are we to reconcile these two assertions? We do not reconcile them; we cannot; it is a case of double sight, — oblique and perverted psychic vision. Christ spoke plainly; — the Church speaks obscurely. Christ gave straight commands, — we fly in the face of them and openly disobey them. Truth can always b
e ‘discussed,’ and Truth MUST be ‘tolerated’ were a thousand Holy Fathers to say it nay! But note again the further words to America, ‘There can only be one interpreter, — the Pope. In the matter of discipline, concessions may be allowed, but in doctrine none.’ Let us examine into this doctrine. It is the doctrine of Christ, plain and straightforward; enunciated in such simple words that even a child can understand them. But the Church announces with a strident voice that there can only be one interpreter, — the Pope. Nevertheless Truth has a more resonant voice than even that of the Church. Truth cries out at this present day, ‘Unless you will listen to Me who am the absolute utterance of God, who spake by the prophets, who spake through Christ, — who speaks through Christ and all things still, — your little systems, your uncertain churches, your inefficient creeds, your quarrelsome sects, shall crumble away into dust and ruins! For humanity is waiting for the true Church of Christ; the one pure House of Praise from which all sophistry, all superstition and vanity shall have fled, and only God in the Christ-Miracle and the perfection of His Creation shall remain!’ And there is no more sure foundation for this much-needed House of Praise than the Catholic Church, — the word ‘catholic’ being applied in its widest sense, meaning a ‘Universal’ answering to the needs of all; — and I am willing to maintain that the ROMAN Catholic Church has within it the vital germ of a sprouting perfection. If it would utterly discard pomp and riches, if it would set its dignity at too high an estimate for any wish to meddle in temporal or political affairs, if it would firmly trample down all superstition, idolatry and bigotry, and ‘use no vain repetition as the heathen do’ — to quote Christ’s own words, — if in place of ancient dogma and incredible legendary lore, it would open its doors to the marvels of science, the miracles and magnificence daily displayed to us in the wonderful work of God’s Universe, then indeed it might obtain a lasting hold on mankind. It might conquer Buddhism, and Christianize the whole earth. But— ‘If thine eye be evil thy whole body shall be full of darkness,’ — and while the Church remains double-sighted we are bound also to see double. And so we listen with a complete and cynical atheism to the conventional statement that ‘one man alone’ shall interpret Christ’s teaching to us of the Roman following, — and this man an old frail teacher, whose bodily and intellectual powers are, in the course of nature, steadily on the decline. Why we ask, must an aged man be always elected to decide on the teaching of the ever-young and deathless Christ? — to whom the burden of years was unknown, and whose immortal spirit, cased for a while in clay, saw ever the rapt vision of ‘old things being made new’? In all other work but this of religious faith, men in the prime of life are selected to lead, — men of energy, thought, action, and endeavour, — but for the sublime and difficult task of lifting the struggling human soul out of low things to lofty, an old man, weak, and tottering on the verge of the grave, is set before us as our ‘infallible’ teacher! There is something appalling in the fact, that look where we may, no profession holds out much chance of power or authority to any man past sixty, but the Head of the Church may be so old that he can hardly move one foot before the other, yet he is permitted to be declared the representative of the ever-working, ever-helping, ever-comforting Christ, who never knew what it was to be old! Enough, however of this strange superstition which is only one of many in the Church, and which are all the result of double or perverted sight, — I come to the last part of the text which runs, ‘If therefore the light in thee be darkness how great is that darkness.’ IF THEREFORE THE LIGHT IN THEE BE DARKNESS! My friends, that is exactly my condition, and has been my condition ever since I was twenty. The light in me has been darkness. The intellectual quality of my brain which has helped me to attain my present false position among you . . .”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 474