Such were these two years of inward labour, which I cannot compare to
anything better than a violent attack of encephalitis, during which
all my other functions of life were suspended. With a certain amount
of Hebraic pedantry, I called this crisis in my life Naphtali,[1]
and I often repeated to myself the Hebrew saying: "_Napktoulé élohim
niphtali_ (I have fought the fight of God)." My inward feelings were
not changed, but each day a stitch in the tissue of my faith was
broken; the immense amount of work which I had in hand prevented
me from drawing the conclusion. My Hebrew lecture absorbed my whole
thoughts; I was like a man holding his breath. My director, to whom
I confided my difficulties, replied in just the same terms as M.
Gosselin at Issy: "Inroads upon your faith! Pay no heed to that; keep
straight on your way." One day he got me to read the letter which St.
François de Sales wrote to Madame de Chantal: "These temptations are
but afflictions like unto others. I may tell you that I have known but
few persons who have achieved any progress without going through this
ordeal; patience is the only remedy. You must not make any reply, nor
appear to hear what the enemy says. Let him make as much noise at the
door as he likes without so much as exclaiming, 'Who is there?'"
The general practice of ecclesiastical directors is, in fact, to
advise those who confess to feeling doubts concerning the faith not
to dwell upon them. Instead of postponing the engagements on
this account, they rather hurry them forward, thinking that these
difficulties will disappear when it is too late to give practical
effect to them, and that the cares of an active clerical career will
ultimately dispel these speculative-doubts. In this regard, I must
confess that I found my godly directors rather deficient in wisdom. My
director in Paris, a very enlightened man withal, was anxious that I
should be at once ordained a sub-deacon, the first of the holy orders
which constitutes an irrevocable tie. I refused point-blank. So far
as regarded the first steps of the ecclesiastical state, I had obeyed
him. It was he himself who pointed out to me that, the exact form of
the engagement which they imply is contained in the words of the Psalm
which are repeated: "The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance and
of my cup; thou maintainest my lot." Well, I can honestly declare
that I have never been untrue to that engagement. I have never had any
other interest than that of the truth, and I have made many sacrifices
for it. An elevated idea has always sustained me in the conduct of
my life, so much so that I am ready to forego the inheritance which,
according to our reciprocal arrangement, God ought to restore to me:
"_The lines are fallen to me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly
inheritance_"
My friend in the seminary of St. Brieuc[2] had decided, after much
hesitation, to take holy orders. I have found the letter which I
wrote to him on the 26th of March, 1844, at a time when my doubts with
regard to religion were not disturbing my peace of mind so much as
they had done.
"I was pleased but not surprised to hear that you had taken the final
step. The uneasiness by which you were beset must always make itself
felt in the mind of one who realizes the serious import of assuming
the order of priesthood. The trial is a painful but an honourable one,
and I should not think much of one who reached the priestly calling
without having experienced it.... I have told you how a power
independent of my will shook within me the beliefs which have hitherto
been the main foundations of my life and of my happiness. These
temptations are cruel indeed, and I should be full of pity for any one
who was ever tortured by them. How wanting in tact towards those who
have suffered these temptations are the persons who have never been
assailed by them. It is no wonder that such should be the case, for
one must have had experience of a thing thoroughly to understand it,
and the subject is such a delicate one, that I question whether there
are any two human beings more incapable of understanding one another
than a believer and a doubter, however complete may be their good
faith and even their intelligence. They speak two unintelligible
languages, unless the grace of God intervenes as an interpreter. I
have felt how completely maladies of this kind are beyond all human
remedy, and that God has reserved the treatment of them to himself,
_inanu mitissimâ et suavissimâ pertractans vulnera mea_, to quote St.
Augustin, who evidently speaks from experience. At times the _Angelus
Satanae qui me colaphizet_ wakes up. Such, my dear friend, is our
fate, and we must abide by it. _Converte te sufra, converte te infra_,
life, especially for the clergy, is a battle, and perhaps in the long
run, these storms are better for man than a dead calm, which would
send him to sleep.... I can hardly bring myself to fancy that within
a twelvemonth you will be a priest, you who were my schoolfellow and
friend as a boy. And now we are halfway through life, according to the
ordinary mode of reckoning, and the second half will probably not
be the pleasanter of the two. This surely should make us look upon
passing ills as of no account, and endure with patience the troubles
of a few days, at which we shall smile in a few years' time, and not
think of in eternity. Vanity of vanities!"
A year later the malady, which I thought was only a fleeting one, had
spread to my whole conscience. Upon the 22nd of March, 1845, I wrote a
letter to my friend which he could not read, as he was on his deathbed
when it reached him.
"My position in the seminary has not varied much since our last
conversation. I am allowed to attend all the lectures on Syriac of
M. Quatremère, at the Collège de France, and I find them extremely
interesting. They are useful to me in many ways; in the first place
by enabling me to learn much that is useful and attractive, and by
distracting my mind from certain subjects.... I should be quite happy
if it were not that the painful thoughts of which you are aware were
ever afflicting my mind at an increasingly rapid rate. I have quite
made up my mind not to accept the grade of sub-deacon at the next
ordination. This will not excite any notice, as owing to my age, I
should be compelled to allow a certain interval to elapse between my
different orders. Nor, for the matter of that, is there any reason why
I should care for what people think. I must accustom myself to brave
public opinion, so as to be ready for any sacrifice. I suffer much at
times. This Holy Week, for instance, has been particularly painful
for me, for every incident which bears me away from my ordinary life,
revives all my anxious doubts. I console myself by thinking of Jesus,
so beautiful, so pure, so ideal in His suffering--Jesus whom I hope
to love always. Even if I should ever abandon Him, that would give Him
pleasure, for it would be a sacrifice made to my conscience, and God
knows that it would be a costly one! I think that you, at all events,
would understand how costly it would be. How little freedom of choice
man has in the ordering of his destiny. When no more than a child who
acts from impulse and the sense of imitation, one is called upon
to stake one's whole existence; a higher power entangles you in
indissoluble toils; this power pursues its work in silence, and before
you have begun to know your own self, you are tied and bound, you know
not how. When you reach a certain age, you wake up and would like
to move. But it is impossible; your hands and arms are caught
in inextricable folds. It is God Himself who holds you fast, and
remorseless opinion is looking on, ready to laugh if you signify that
you are tired of the toys which amused you as a child. It would be
nothing if there was only public opinion to brave. But the pity is
that all the softest ties of your life are woven into the web that
entangles you, and you must pluck out one-half of your heart if you
would escape from it. Many a time I have wished that man was born
either completely free, or deprived of all freedom. He would not be so
much to be pitied if he was born like the plant family, fixed to the
soil which is to give it nourishment. With the dole of liberty allowed
to him, he is strong enough to resist, but not strong enough to act;
he has just what is required to make him unhappy. 'My God, My God, why
hast Thou forsaken Me?' How is all this to be reconciled with the
sway of a father? There are mysteries in all this, and happy is he who
fathoms them only in speculation.
"It is only because you are so true a friend that I tell you all this.
I have no need to ask you to keep it to yourself. You will understand
that I must be very circumspect with regard to my mother. I would
rather die than cause her a moment's pain. O God! shall I have the
strength of mind to give my duty the preference over her? I commend
her to you; she is very pleased with your attentiveness to her. This
is the most real kindness you can do me."
[Footnote 1: _Lucta mea_, Genesis xxx. 8.]
[Footnote 2: His name was François Liart. He was a very upright and
high minded young man. He died at Tréguier at the end of March, 1845.
His family sent me after his death all my letters to him, and I have
them still.]
THE ST. SULPICE SEMINARY.