“And how has he explained that frequency?” said he. “Has he ever hinted at any cause for it?”
“I must again answer, not explicitly. But he has given us reason to suppose that you are a good deal pleased, and a good deal surprised also, at his scholastic acquirements.”
Mr. Cuthbridge covered his face with his hands, but when he removed them the laugh he had affected to conceal was still upon his features.
“It is a thousand pities he should not be a priest!” said he; “I have rarely met any one more pre-eminently qualified for it.”
“If I had said that,” observed Mrs. Mathews, “you would have declared it to be another proof of my inveterate prejudices against your sacred order!”
“It is very likely I might,” he replied; “but you would have spoken it in a different manner, and you would have deserved the reproof. But I do not see any very good reason,” he added, after the pause of a few minutes, “ I really do not see any reason at all why I should conceal from you the real cause of this boy’s visits to me. Our intercourse — yours and mine, I mean — has so long been one of mutual confidence, that the persevering in making a mystery between us on this point, would, I believe, be very absurd. The secret is this: — Young Mr. Cornington is a Papist, and ready, as I think, to go any lengths, in order to prove, to my satisfaction, that he is a desperately bigoted one.”
“You astonish me!” cried Mrs. Mathews. “How very strange it seems that he should not confess this to his grandfather!”
“No, my friend; you are mistaken. There is nothing at all strange in it. The very word you have yourself used might serve to convince you, if you were a little less ignorant, that you are wrong. Confess to his grandfather, indeed! What business has a Catholic to confess anything to anybody, save his confessor? The young gentleman put the question to me, as a case of conscience, whether he might keep his faith secret or not, avowing at the same time that he should greatly prefer doing so, and, therefore, as it did not seem to me that it signified a straw to anybody, whether he kept it secret or not, I told him to follow his own judgment in the matter.”
“Was his grandmother a Catholic?” said Mrs. Mathews.
“What! your rival?” returned Mr. Cuthbridge, laughing. “I do not know; and, to say the truth, I do not greatly care; but if you have any anxieties, jealous or other, on the subject, I will immediately make it my business to ascertain.”
“I would not willingly give you any unnecessary trouble, Mr. Cuthbridge,” she replied; “and therefore we will pass from the grandmother to the grandson. Do you really believe that he is a Papist? Or has he only assumed this shape in the hope of ingratiating himself with you?”
“No, no! — he has been brought up as a Papist; you may take my word for it.”
“Does he confess to your reverence?” said she.
“Yes; he confesses to my reverence,” he replied, and there he stopped.
“I wonder how many years it will take before I shall feel that I thoroughly understand you?” said Mrs. Mathews, thoughtfully.
“You say that because, after confessing to you that he confessed to me, I stopped short, leaving you quite in the dark as to what the nature of his confession might be. Is it not so?”
“Perhaps so,” she replied. “But are you not a puzzling priest? Have we not discussed — and discussed freely — many themes which I am quite sure you never would have touched upon with me, had I not inspired you with some feeling of confidence in my discretion?”
“And I have great confidence in your discretion, as I fail not to prove to you, my good lady, every time we meet. It would be a serious blow to me were you to publish to the world in general, or to my Lord Proctor in particular, that I did not believe in transubstantiation, and some few other mysteries; yet, nevertheless, I have told you this, and a good deal more, without feeling the slightest shadow of suspicion that I was running any risk of being betrayed. Is not this a sufficient proof that I have confidence in your discretion?”
“Yes; it is a proof that you do not wrong me by any very foul suspicion on this head,” she replied; “and so far I am flattered, and I am grateful. But it is evident, good friend, that this confidence in me has its limits.”
“Limits more strict than those which you assign to your curiosity, good friend,” returned the priest, laughing.
“There again is a proof that, despite our confidential friendship, we do not thoroughly understand one another,” said she. “I have no feeling in the least degree resembling curiosity, respecting Mr. Stephen Cornington’s conscience. But I do not think well of him, and he is, unfortunately, so intimately mixed up with our family, and our family concerns, that I should not be sorry to know what he is really doing and going to do and particularly whether there is any real chance of our getting rid of him, by his adopting any of the various plans and projects which he and his grandfather are perpetually discussing in our presence, any of which would be, I confess, very welcome to me, as a means of removing him.”
“If I learn that there is any such chance for your relief I will relax my rule a little in your favour, and give you a hint of it,” was his answer.
“Thank you, that is all very well, and I will limit my curiosity, as you call it, to that point. But now let us leave Mr. Stephen, and his conscientious disclosures, out of the question, and let us discourse a little upon the beauty of consistency. How can you, puzzling priest as you certainly are, — how can you talk to me, as you have so often done, of all the frightful fallacies taught to poor deluded and confiding human beings in the name of the Catholic religion, and yet pretend to speak of that frightful mummery, oral confession, with respect? Remember, too, if you please, that it was no breach of social or friendly confidence, that I asked for, — such confidence, for instance, as that existing between you and me. But you know perfectly well that it is utterly impossible any such confidence, or, in fact, any confidence at all, can exist between you and this boy. It is, therefore, merely as a religious rite, that you hold anything that he can utter to you as sacred. Wherefore I say again that you are a puzzling priest.”
“I will not let you call me so, Miss Mary, — I beg your pardon, — I will not let you call me so, Mistress Mary Our acquaintance has, from first to last, been a very queer one; and the queerest feature of all is, that because you trusted me, and me alone, with the secret of your classic lore, I should have thought it fitting to trust you, and you alone, with the secret of all my infidelities to the Pope; yet it seems that I have not told you enough yet to make you understand me. I have often suspected that you blamed me in your heart for not declaring aloud that I would be a priest no longer, and now I am quite sure of it.”
Mrs. Mathews bowed her head in very decided accordance to this statement.
Mr Cuthbridge was silent for a moment, and then said, “You are a very benighted woman, Mistress Mary I have taught you a little Greek and a good deal of Latin, and, as the ghost says, I have found thee apt. But you have not contrived to pluck out my mystery as cleverly as I think you might have done.”
“Then, have I not a right to call you puzzling priest?” said she.
“Perhaps so,” he replied; “yet still I do not like it, and you shall call me so no longer The time has been, dear old friend, when not even to such a one as you would a man of sober judgment have said what I will say to you, if you will listen to me; and that because the trusted listener would have been as much endangered as the trusting speaker. But, thanks to the Heaven that is above all, that hideous period of human insanity is over — staking and burning are as completely out of fashion as hair-powder and hoops. Some few fantastical imitations of persecutions, in the name of the Most High, may now and then be heard of still, in poor dear worn-out Rome and its dependencies; but there is no more resemblance between their present doings in this line and the doings which have been, than between the hoops and hair-powder of a fancy ball, and the hoops and hair-powder to which all the nations of the civilized world once submitted themse
lves.”
“And may the Ruler of all things maintain such doings in that position!” fervently exclaimed Mrs. Mathews; to which the priest very cordially said, “Amen!”
“Nevertheless,” said he, “I would still have a powerful priesthood, and still have a company of Jesuits.”
“But I must not call you puzzling, nevertheless,” said she. “You will only prove your own dulness if you do,” he replied; “for there is nothing puzzling in me. The first object of all human beings is the attainment of power. Nay, I am not certain that it is not the first object of every creature that lives. Do not the bees seek power when they sting the drones to death? Hoes not the dog seek power when he worries the cat? And does not the innocent babe seek power when he slaps his nurse? In short, it is a primal law of nature, and is shown quite as visibly, but perhaps more pleasantly, in our persevering efforts to obtain a mastery over the principles and the results of mechanical operations, making them to obey our bidding and effect our will.”
“Granted!” said Mrs. Mathews; “and what then?”
“Why then,” resumed Mr. Cuthbridge, “it becomes evident that power is a lawful aim.”
“Power! yes,” said Mrs. Mathews; “but not the abuse of it. I am willing to allow that it is ‘lawful as eating,’ but not that its abuse can ever be so.”
“No more is gluttony. Everything that is injurious either to ourselves or to others is a sin,” replied the priest; “and, depend upon it, that we shall all find that out by-and-by; but, in the meantime, the wisest and most advanced in knowledge, having already reached that period of experience which shows that power is the one thing needful for prosperity in this our present state of being, — they have very wisely directed all their efforts to the acquirement of it; and if this be a true abstract of the natural history of man, tell me what portion of the human race have shown most wisdom.?”
“I see where you are, Sir Priest,” replied Mrs. Mathews, knitting her brows, and looking very far from satisfied; “I am to answer your question by meekly replying ‘THE CHURCH, SO please your reverence.’”
“You will never be meek so long as you live, Mistress Mary; that is not in your nature, though the love of power is,” he replied. “But if you were a holy lady abbess, instead of a sceptical Mrs. Mathews, you would admire and reverence the church for its success in the pursuit of that which is the aim of all.”
Mrs. Mathews meditated for a moment, and then said: “It seems to me, Mr. Cuthbridge, that if you do your duty, you will immediately exert yourself to open infant-schools for the special purpose of teaching the art of lying, in the most direct and simple form. Your next step should be to institute an academy for the more complicated exercise of the same noble art; and then you should proceed to the foundation and endowment of colleges.”
“You are quite right, my dear Mrs. Mathews,” said the priest, interrupting her; “but are you not aware, my good friend, that this is precisely what the church has done? I believe you know that I have myself been brought up as a Jesuit, and I assure you that what you now propose in irony is what e have done for ages, with very stedfast intensity of purpose. We are perfectly sincere as to our object, although with the wisdom, and perhaps the subtlety of the serpent, we permit ourselves to use fraud as a means of obtaining it.”
“And how can you,” returned Mrs. Mathews, vehemently, “ how can you, with a mind as bright and clear as light itself, — how can you beguile yourself into the belief that such a system can be righteous?”
“Show me any other by which power can, as yet, be as effectually obtained, and I will at once abandon the defence of this,” he replied.
“But wherefore the necessity of such power?” said she.
“What do all the justly-vaunted labours of man tend to?” demanded Mr. Cuthbridge, gravely. “Is not all he does, as I told you just now, for the acquisition of power — whether scientific or mechanical — whether in astronomy or in agriculture — whether drudging through experiment or soaring into metaphysics — is not the acquisition of some sort of power or other the real object?”
“Not the ultimate object,” she replied. “All who thus seek power are labouring for the benefit of the human race.”
“And so are we,” said Mr. Cuthbridge. “Enough has already been recorded of the history of man to show that, with all his glorious faculties, he has not yet discovered the secret of turning his enormous resources to the best account. There be many who assert that man is neither better nor worse than he was at the earliest periods of time. Morally, this may be so; — it is not very easy, perhaps, to institute a fair comparison. But is there any one bold enough to say that he has not advanced in knowledge? Is there any one so blind as not to perceive that this advance is made by a movement that is constantly accelerating as it goes on? Does not every golden egg, begot between science and experience, contain the germ from which undreamed-of varieties of knowledge may spring? And how is this vast mass of knowledge to be turned to the best account? Does not all analogy teach us that the sagacity which directs the application of power is as important as the power itself? If all that is already known had been systematically applied to moral as well as physical improvement, the condition of mankind would be rather better than it is at present. But in order to attain this end, it is necessary to study the great art of converting all things that exist into one mighty engine of power.”
“And is it part of your creed, Mr. Cuthbridge, that the Almighty has created Roman Catholic priests as the fitting possessors of such power?” said Mrs. Mathews.
“I do not believe that either you or I, or any one else who thinks like us, would deem it wisdom to theorise in any very authoritative manner upon the ultimate purposes of the Almighty,” he replied; “but I have no scruple in saying, that the only set of men to whom it has occurred that they might achieve power by taking possession of the minds of human beings, are the Jesuits. And they not only conceived the project, but they have put it, and kept it, in execution. I will refer you, Mistress Mary, to your own sound and solid acquaintance with history, for an answer as to what, I presume, would be your next question; namely, What have they achieved by this project? The answer will be, — that they have exercised a degree of power over the human race that transcends all other earthly power to a degree that defies the reach of calculation.”
“Do you say this in praise of them?” said she.
“I certainly say it in praise of their sagacity,” he replied. “Alexander was a great man; he desired conquest, and he achieved it. So did Napoleon. But what were their exploits, — what was their success, — what was the result of them, compared with what has followed from the stupendous project of Loyola? While others were seeking the possession of cumbrous territory or of vaporous renown, the Jesuits have been going on, from age to age, in bringing the human will under subjection; and their success in this has enabled them to have, and to hold, a power that has endured longer, and produced more important effects than any other which has ever been exercised by man on man.”
“But has this enormous influence been a benefit or a curse to mankind?” demanded Mrs. Mathews, very sternly.
“You think this question a very easy one to answer,” returned Mr. Cuthbridge; “but I think otherwise. We must remember, you know, that the end is not yet; and in saying this, I am not referring to the world to come, but the world that is. The good we owe to the Jesuits is the conception of a system by which the immense faculties bestowed on man, instead of being frittered away by individual efforts, and with individual whims, MAY BE rendered effective by union.”
“And, in my judgment, the most melancholy fact that history records, is the success of this system,” said Mrs. Mathews, with a groan.
“And perhaps I think so, too, Mistress Mary,” replied the priest, taking her hand, and cordially pressing it; “so do not hate me. Jesuits, you know, after all, are but men, and they are therefore liable to error in common with the rest of the species. I by no means think that there is any natural
necessity for their doing all the very dirty work which we too well know they have been in the habit of performing, in order to produce all the beneficial effects upon mankind which MIGHT be produced by the stupendous power they have invented. But not the less do I admire the profound sagacity which conceived the possibility of putting it in action.”
“Surely I do not understand you!” exclaimed Mrs. Mathews, in an accent of astonishment. “What can you find to admire in the principle which caused a set of cunning men to unite themselves for the purpose of cheating all mankind?”
“You do not put the ease fairly,” he replied; “my admiration is for the grand principle of uniting many wills and many intelligences upon one object. And when we consider the small numerical amount of those who have derived personal aggrandisement from the system, compared to the thousands who have faithfully devoted themselves to it, we cannot deny them the praise of immense sincerity of purpose, and unflinching constancy in the pursuit of that system.”
“That purpose being the propagation of fraud,” said Mrs. Mathews. “The desperate sincerity of purpose which must be in the heart of a murderer,” she added, with a shudder, “might as reasonably be cited as a claim to respect.”
“But murderers have all, more or less, worked for what they believed to be their own interest, or else for the gratification of their own vengeance,” rejoined the priest. “Not so the Jesuit. His power, and the sort of sublimity that attaches to it, rests not solely on his sincerity of purpose, but on that abnegation of self which leads to risk and to suffer all things for the furtherance of an object that is not selfish. The magnates among them know, and have ever known, from Loyola downwards, that finer and more precious materials for power were to be found in the mind of man than even in the bowels of the earth, and that a system by which these materials could be wrought upon by the action of the higher order of intellect upon such as were inferior, would produce in the aggregate, a force which might rule the earth as easily as a little engine propels a luggage-train. So far they are right. Their dogma is a true dogma, and a very grand one. But here, I confess, dear Mistress Mary, the praise stops short, and reprobation, malediction, and execration, if you will, very fitly begins; for although this power of mind over mind, if righteously applied, might convert earth into a stepping-stone to heaven, yet made use of, as, alas! we know it has been, it may be considered as a damnable witch-light, to beguile confiding spirits into a path that leads the other way.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 406