It was the Feast of the Assumption, and the archbishop, as he left his
palace and stepped into the summer sunlight, breathed a prayer of
thanksgiving for the brilliance that glowed about him. For, during the
mass which was about to be celebrated in the great cathedral, the passion
of his life, one of the most impressive moments occurred when the sun
shot its rays with pure and dazzling radiance for the first time into the
middle of the apse. With exact calculation the architect had arranged
that this took place on the fête day of St. Remi, the patron saint of
Rheims, and when the day was overcast or rain obscured the sun it seemed
to the archbishop that the Almighty was expressing His displeasure of
some negligence or wrongful act on the part of the guardian of this, to
him, most precious and wonderful trust in the world.
But today the sun’s effulgence surpassed in warmth and splendor that of
any August fifteenth in the archbishop’s memory, and brought into his
heart an intense calm and peace which even the knowledge that German guns
were despoiling Belgium, not many leagues away, could not entirely
dispel. Nevertheless, the remembrance cast a shadow over the
spirituality of his broad brow, and his lips moved in silent supplication
for the suffering inhabitants, and that the onward march of the invaders
would be stayed before their presence desecrated the sacred soil of
France.
In rapt contemplation he stood, kindliness and benevolence radiating from
his mild face, crowned with its silver halo of hair. His large, gentle
eyes wandered over the massive pile raising its lofty steeples in
eloquent testimony to the omnipotence of God; its slender spires, pointed
portals, and lancet windows indicating the heights to which the thoughts
and lives of men must reach before perfection can be attained.
When the archbishop emerged from the sacristy at the end of the long
procession of choir, acolytes and coped priests, and entered the
cathedral, the voice of the mighty organ was rolling through the edifice
in rushing waves of melody, which ebbed and flowed in and out among the
great columns in a wealth of harmonics, whose exquisite beauty, as they
broke around him, caused a band to tighten about the old man’s throat.
The crossing was filled with a throng of devout worshippers whose faces
wore a look of expectancy, for France, la belle France, was threatened by
a danger greater than even the oldest among them could recall. War had
always been a horror, but today it transcended, in the vague reports that
reached them from stricken Belgium, the worst the most imaginative of
them could conceive, and the thought haunted them, in spite of their
faith that the Blessed Virgin would not permit such a calamity to befall
France, that notwithstanding their entreaties, the hand of the Hun might
descend on her as it had on her equally innocent and unprovoking
neighbor.
The procession wound slowly to its place in the choir, and the organ
broke into the great, swelling chords of Gounod’s mass, Mors et Vita.
The music, inspired by the sublime grandeur of the sanctuary where it had
partly been composed, proclaimed an unshakable faith in the majesty and
power of the Almighty, whose protecting arm stands between His children
and harm. Gradually the tense look of alarm on the faces of the
congregation changed to the serenity of souls in the presence of God.
The organ’s voice subsided to a breath, wafted in and out among the
incense-filled recesses of the cathedral like the rustling of angels’
wings, and the deep-toned peal of the great cathedral bell rang through
the tense stillness. All at once a shaft of pure radiance shot into the
center of the apse from the Angel’s Spire. Straight as a dart it
descended until it found the jeweled arms of the cross. Here it rested,
throwing out myriad rays of effulgence, as if through them the Spirit of
the Founder of their faith was renewing His promises of salvation to His
flock.
A breathless hush rested on the congregation until, in an ecstasy of
triumph, the organ burst once more into a pæan of praise. The procession
receded into the remote spaces of the cathedral, and the worshippers
passed out into the sunlit square. As they walked by the statue of Joan
of Arc, who sits on her charger before the cathedral, many paused and
spoke in low, reverent tones of the sacrifice she had made for France,
and wondered if the same spirit of loyalty would spring into life if the
land of their adoration stood in need of defense.
Through the great western rose window of the cathedral the sun was
casting quivering masses of rubies, topazes, emeralds, sapphires and
amethysts to the floor below, where they lay in gorgeous profusion,
melting one into the other in extravagant richness of beauty.
An old man stood in contemplation of the splendor of that mighty work of
the ages which for a century and a half had been the especial care of his
forefathers, and to which end, with reverent preparation, each succeeding
generation of his family had been trained. To the old _vitrier_ the
windows in the sacred structure were not only a holy trust, but a prized
heritage, each separate particle to be watched and studied, as a mother
guards its offspring from possible injury, and passed on to posterity in
as perfect a condition as it was received.
So deep was his absorption in the magnificence of the spectacle before
him that he did not notice the approaching step of the archbishop. The
ecclesiastic laid his hand on Monneuze’s shoulder.
“Exquisite, is it not, _mon vieux_?” he asked in his resonant voice. “I
have never seen the colors more superb than they are this afternoon.”
The old glass-maker started, and turned toward him. The expression of
ecstatic wonder still lingered on his lined face, from which, behind his
heavy glasses, peered eyes round and childlike in their unquestioning
trust.
“The beauty of it passes belief, Monseigneur,” he murmured fervently.
“Oh, that I knew the art of reproducing those marvelous colors! It is
the sorrow of my life that, try as I may, I can never duplicate the
depth, the richness—” he shook his head dejectedly, and fixed his eyes
once more on the flaming window.
“Ah, Jean,” answered the archbishop a little sadly. “So it is with all
of us; no matter how hard we strive, we never reach the goal to which we
are pressing. Our attainments are ever a disappointment to us. We can
only labor on, and live in the hope that on the Last Day, when we see our
endeavors through the eyes of the Blessed Redeemer, we may find that His
estimate of them, graded on the knowledge of our limitations, will be
higher than ours. It may be that our efforts and the sincerity of our
motives will be judged instead of the results we were able to achieve.
We must remember that no man can do bigger things than his capacity
allows.”
The _vitrier_ did not reply. His eyes wavered from the magnificence
above him to the spiritualized countenance at his side. It surprised him
that the archbishop, renowned alike for his piety and good works, should
speak so slightingly of his life.
The ecclesiastic had turned and was gazing at the representation of the
Almighty on the great rose window of the south transept. Something of
the sublimity of the conception and execution of the masterpiece was
reflected on his face, over which still hovered an expression of
humility. His eyes left the window and swept up the vast stretches of
the cathedral, over mighty pillars, great misty aisles, glorious choir,
its beauty half shrouded in the encroaching shadows, until they reached
the very penetralia of the Lady Chapel.
“Ah, Jean,” he went on in a deep, vibrant voice, “great is God’s goodness
that He has seen fit to confide this marvelous structure to our keeping.
May we so live that, when we are called to give an accounting of our
stewardship, we may hear the wondrous words: ‘Well done, good and
faithful servant!’”
The lips of the aged _vitrier_ moved in a murmured “Amen,” and they
watched in silence the sun, as it threw its dying rays through the window
to their feet. They fell in a great splash of red, like blood, on the
pavement, and a shudder shook the archbishop’s frame. He passed his hand
over his forehead, and the shadow that had clouded his face in the
morning settled once more on it. Bidding the old glass-painter good
night, he moved up the dusky nave.
Days and weeks slipped by, and the gray waves of the invaders rolled
nearer to Rheims. Notwithstanding the heroic, almost superhuman, efforts
of her sons, the vandals swept across her borders into France, ravishing,
desecrating, destroying in a frenzy of frightfulness so terrible that the
world, shocked beyond belief, stood aghast and incredulous at the reports
that reached it.
The archbishop of Rheims, with others who believed that there was good in
the worst of men, at first resolutely declined to credit the rumors that
reached him. But when, at last, driven before the attacking force, the
refugees, with terror-stricken faces, came breathlessly into the city,
the mothers clutching their babies to their breasts, with little tots
scarce able to toddle clinging to their skirts and, throwing themselves
on his mercy, recounted with white lips, in a dull monotone, the horrors
that had befallen them and theirs, the hopeful trust in the old priest’s
face turned into a crushed look of sadness as the knowledge came home to
him that his faith in man was an illusion of which, at the end of his
life, he was to be bereaved.
He lent such aid as lay in his power to the stricken peasants, and when
the wounded, friend and foe, were brought in and, overflowing hospital
and private dwelling, still clamored for succor, he threw open the great
sanctuary to the Germans with the thought that here they would at least
be safe from the shells that were beginning to fall on the outlying
districts of the city.
Then one night, when the foreboding chill of autumn had replaced summer’s
golden warmth, the archbishop was awakened by a noise, apparently in his
bedroom, which shook the house to its foundations. He rose hurriedly
and, going to the window, saw that the east was ablaze with light.
Although the dawn was approaching, he realized that the refulgence that
flared across the horizon was man-made, for the rumble of mighty guns
which, when he had retired the night before, had been louder and more
resonant than before, had risen to a threatening roar that forced a
sickening sense of impotence upon him.
Startled by the sudden proximity of the enemy, the archbishop dressed
hurriedly and made his way to the Square, already half filled with
people. An old woman approached him and, with blanched face, asked
whether he thought the city would be shelled and destroyed, as were the
Belgian towns. He shook his head despairingly, and his lips framed the
words:
“God forbid!”
As she turned away he prayed fervently that, even though the pillaging
hordes might, in their fury against the inhabitants, devastate the city,
the fact that they claimed the same God as their Savior to whose glory
the cathedral had been erected would prove its safeguard and protection.
But, even as he prayed, a great bomb blazed a trail through the gray
light, and hurled itself on the roof of the sacred edifice. It exploded
with concentrated fury, tearing off great pieces of the roof and casting
them at his feet.
“They’ve found the range!” excitedly exclaimed a man who stood near the
archbishop. “Can it be possible that they intend to destroy the
cathedral?”
The archbishop was staring with incredulous eyes at the gaping wound the
shot had made.
“No,” he declared firmly, without removing his eyes. “It is not
possible. This injury is an unfortunate mistake. Sacred edifices are
protected by human and moral laws, and, besides, the Cathedral of Rheims,
because of its perfection, belongs to all time and all peoples. No one
destroys his own heritage.”
Nevertheless, the remembrance of the destruction of Louvain and the
desecration of many churches by the Germans since their treacherous
entrance into Belgium, when they cast aside men’s faith in their honor,
seared itself across his mind. Their acts had disproved their vaunted
belief in God which, had it existed, would have shown itself in a
reverent solicitude for His dwelling place.
The words had hardly left his lips when a shower of explosives fell on
and about the massive structure, hewing out huge lumps of the masonry,
which descended in a deluge of stone on the roofs of the adjacent houses.
A glare of light flared behind the great rose-window, throwing for the
last time a blaze of glory into the horror-stricken faces below; then it
burst into a thousand fragments that shivered to pieces on the pavement
of the Square.
Surrounded by the gleaming bits of imprisoned sunshine, Jean Monneuze
gazed with wide, unbelieving eyes at the yawning space in the façade.
The thought took shape in his mind that this act of profanation could not
be true, that it must be some hideous nightmare at which he would scoff
in the morning, and he prayed aloud that the awakening would be soon,
that he might be relieved of the torture he was undergoing. A voice at
his elbow roused him.
“May God curse the Kaiser, and the rest of his breed, for this
sacrilege!”
The old _vitrier_ turned quickly, the fury of a mother for her ravished
young in his working face. “Amen!” he exclaimed harshly.
A group of people near him parted, and out of it Jean saw the archbishop
slowly advance. The look of intense suffering on his face had driven
away the peace that formerly rested there, but his countenance was
untinged by venom or desire for revenge. His sunken eyes met the
glass-maker’s, and Jean, a sob clutching at his throat, fell on his knees
and began gathering up the gems of shattered glass that lay at his feet.
He rose as the archbishop reached him, and held out the fragments to him.
For a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes without speaking, then a
wistful little smile flitted across the archbishop’s face.
“The Lord hath given—the Lord hath taken away.” There was a pause while
he waited for the response; but the old _vitrier’s_ chin had sunk on his
breast, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were fastened on the gleaming
bits of glass. Once more the archbishop’s voice fell on his ears:
“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” There was an accent of surprised
reproach in the patient tones, but only pity shone on the gentle
countenance as he noted the quivering face of the old man who, turning
abruptly away, disappeared into the crowd.
A chorus of voices rose shrilly above the shrieking of the shells:
“The roof is on fire! It’s burning!”
The words galvanized the archbishop into action.
“The wounded!” he exclaimed. “They will perish if they remain where they
are!”
“Let ’em!” retorted a thick-set _ouvrier_. He thrust his hands deep into
the pockets of his trousers. “They deserve to die, and they’re not fit
to live!” He turned brusquely away, and stared with sullen eyes at the
smoking roof from which jets of flame were spurting.
A look of anguish crept over the archbishop’s face. Could it be that his
flock had caught so little of the spirit of his teaching that, when it
was put to the test, it collapsed as the mighty edifice was crumbling
under the demolishing shells? If this were so, it explained the
destruction of the cathedral as the retribution for the failure of his
ministry. His life work, as well as his life trust, was disintegrating
before his eyes. Even Jean Monneuze, the spirituality of whose life, in
daily contact with the inspiring sanctuary they both adored, had faltered
under the supreme test, and if Jean, for whom he would have vouched under
all circumstances, would succumb, how could he expect that the others,
with so incomparably less sustaining spiritual strength in their lives,
would respond to the call. The bitterness of Gethsemane fell on him, and
his face, lighted by the glare from the burning structure, was drawn with
pain.
A shell hurtled through the air, and fell against the portal. Rending
from its place the head of the Angel with the Smile, it flung it into the
Square. Angry mutterings rose from the crowd as the _ouvrier_ picked up
the head and held it aloft for every one to see.
The archbishop stepped up on the base of the pedestal of the statue to
the Maid of Orleans. He raised his hand impressively.
“My children,” he began in a voice tremulous with emotion. “The Master
admonishes us to love our enemies, to do good to them that hate us, to
pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us. If we do good
only to those who love us, how much better are we than the heathen? Did
you not see that, despite its destruction, the Angel of Rheims smiled
on?” He spread out his arms in an agony of entreaty. “Oh my children,”
he pleaded, “do not fail me now!”
The rays of the rising sun shone on his face and illumined it with
unearthly radiance. The people stood spellbound before him.
Once more he raised his hand and, pointing to the burning cathedral,
cried in a resonant voice that rang like a clarion:
“The wounded! Who helps me rescue them?”
Still that tense silence hung over the motionless throng which the
crackling of the flames, and the moaning and singing of death as it
whistled through the air, only served to accentuate.
The old _vitrier_ elbowed his way through the crowd and, laying his hand
on the base of the statue, said in a clear, loud voice:
“Monseigneur, I will assist.”
In the uncertain light the two old men stood scanning the quivering,
upturned faces. Then a sudden change swept over the mass.
“_Au secours_! _Au secours_!” The voice of the crowd rose as from one
man in a cry, increasing in volume with each repetition until, in the
archbishop’s ears, it sounded like a shout of victory. The men turned,
and surged toward the entrance of the cathedral.
The archbishop’s face went white, and he grasped the spurred foot of the
Maid for support. He closed his eyes, and his lips moved spasmodically.
Then they parted in a smile of such celestial beauty that the old
_vitrier_, standing at his feet, averted his eye as though unable to bear
the sight.
The large central door of the cathedral swung open, and four men,
carrying a litter on which lay a gray, motionless form, emerged. They
were followed by others in what seemed an endless procession, gently
bearing their burdens through the showers of flying pieces of granite
statuary and structure stone which the shells were cleaving from the
façade.
The flames that were devouring the roof rose in a dull roar; a great bomb
crashed through the hallowed walls, and fell on the palace, where it
exploded with terrific force.
The archbishop looked silently at the ruin of his home, then he
concentrated his attention on the stream of wounded still flowing from
the mutilated pile, and directed and guided the movements of the
rescuers. When the last of the sufferers had been removed to a place of
safety, he stepped down from the pedestal and, entering a little house on
the other side of the Square, mounted the stairs until he reached a small
room which faced the east.
He entered and, softly closing the door, walked to the window, from which
the glass had fallen. Kneeling down in the chill morning air he gazed
out at the blackened, smoking husk, his soul in his eyes, as one kneels
by the bedside of all that life holds dear, waiting with bated breath for
the final dissolution of soul from body with the dull knowledge that,
with the passing of that spirit, the light of the world is extinguished.
Still he watches, noting day by day the destruction by wanton shells of
one of man’s most glorious tributes to God, ever with the patient look of
suffering on his face, as though the prayer from ceaseless repetition had
crystallized on his brain:
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”
_Emily W. Scott_.