It rained without ceasing. Durtal breakfasted under the assiduous
watchfulness of his servant, Madame Mesurat. She was one of those women
whose stalwart build and masculine presence would allow of their
dressing in men's clothes without attracting attention. She had a
pear-shaped head, cheeks that hung flabby as if they had been emptied of
air, a pompous nose that drooped till it very nearly touched a
projecting underlip like a bracket, giving her an expression of
determined contempt which she very certainly had never felt. In short,
she suggested the absurd idea of a solemn, gawky Marlborough disguised
as a cook.
She served unvarying meats with inglorious sauces; and as soon as the
dish was on the table she stood at attention, waiting to know whether it
was good. She was imposing and devoted--quite insufferable. Durtal, on
edge with irritation, found it all he could do not to dismiss her to the
kitchen, and finally buried his nose in a book that he might not have to
answer her, might not see her.
This day, provoked by his silence, Madame Mesurat lifted the window
curtain, and for the sake of saying something, exclaimed,--
"Good heavens! What weather! Impossible!"
And in fact the sky offered no hope of consolation. It was all in tears.
The rain fell in uninterrupted streams, unwinding endless skeins of
water. The Cathedral was standing in a pool of mud lashed into leaping
drops by the falling torrent, and the two spires looked drawn together,
almost close, linked by loose threads of water. This indeed was the
prevailing impression--a briny atmosphere full of strings holding the
sky and earth together as if tacked with long stitches, but they would
not hold; a gust of wind snapped all these endless threads, which were
whirled in every direction.
"My arrangement to meet the Abbé Plomb to go over the Cathedral is
evidently at an end," said Durtal to himself. "The Abbé will certainly
not turn out in such weather."
He went into his study; this was his usual place of refuge. He had his
divan there, his pictures, the old furniture he had brought from Paris;
and against the walls, shelves, painted black, held thousands of books.
There he lived, looking out on the towers, hearing nothing but the
cawing of the rooks and the strokes of the hours as they fell one by one
on the silence of the deserted square. He had placed his table in front
of a window, and there he sat dreaming, praying, meditating, making
notes.
The balance of his personal account was struck by internal damage and
mental disputations; if the soul was bruised and ice-bound, the mind was
no less afflicted, no less fagged. It seemed to have grown dull since
his residence at Chartres. The biographies of Saints which Durtal had
intended to write, remained in the stage of charcoal sketches; they blew
off before he could fix them. In reality he had ceased to care for
anything but the Cathedral; it had taken possession of him.
And besides, the lives of the Saints as they were written by the
inferior Bollandists were enough to disgust anybody with saintliness.
Offered to publisher after publisher, carted from the Paris libraries to
the provincial workshops, this barrow of books had at first been hauled
by a single nag, Father Giry; then a second horse had been added, the
Abbé Guérin, and, harnessed to the same shafts, these two men pulled
their heavy truck over the broken road of souls.
He had only to open a bale of this prosy dulness, taking down a volume
at random, to light on sentences of this quality:
"Such an one was born of parents not less remarkable for their rank than
for their piety;" or, on the other hand, "His parents were not of
illustrious birth, but in them might be seen the distinction of all the
virtues which are so far above rank."
And then the dreadful style of the Pont Neuf: "His historian does not
hesitate to say he would have been mistaken for an angel if the maladies
with which God afflicted him had not shown that he was a man."--"The
Devil, not enduring to see him advancing by rapid leaps on the way of
perfection, adopted various means of hindering him in the happy progress
of his career."
And on turning over to a fresh page he came upon a passage in the life
of one of the Elect who was mourning for his mother, excusing him in
this solemn rigmarole: "After granting to the feelings of nature such
relief as grace cannot forbid on these occasions--"
Or again, here and there were such pompous and ridiculous definitions as
this, which occurs in the life of César de Bus: "After a visit to Paris,
which is not less the throne of vice than the capital of the kingdom--"
And this went on in meagre language through twelve to fifteen volumes,
ending by the erection of a row of uniform virtue, a barrack of pious
idiotcy. Now and again the two poor nags seemed to wake up and trot for
a little space, though gasping for breath, when they had some detail to
record which no doubt moved them to rapture; they expatiated
complacently on the virtues of Catherine of Sweden or Robert de la
Chaise-Dieu, who as soon as they were born cried for sinless wet-nurses,
and would suck none but pious breasts; or they spoke with ravishment of
the chastity of Jean the Taciturn, who never took a bath, that he might
not shock "his modest eyes," as the text says, by seeing himself; and
the bashful purity of San Luis de Gonzagua, who had such a terror of
women that he dared not look at his mother for fear of evil thoughts!
In consternation at the poverty of these distressing non-sequiturs,
Durtal turned to the less familiar biographies of the Blessed Women; but
here again, what a farrago of the commonplace, what glutinous unction,
what a hash by way of style! There was certainly some curse from Heaven
on the old women of the Sacristy who dared take up a pen. Their ink at
once turned to stickiness, to bird-lime, to pitch, which smeared all it
touched. Oh, the poor Saints! the hapless Blessed Women!
His meditations were interrupted by a ring at the bell:
"Why, has the Abbé Plomb really come out in spite of the gale?"
It was indeed the priest that Madame Mesurat showed in.
"Oh," said he to Durtal, who lamented over the rain, "the weather will
clear up all in good time; at any rate, as you had not put me off I was
determined not to keep you waiting."
They sat chatting by the fire; and the room took the Abbé's fancy, no
doubt, for he settled himself at his ease. He threw himself back in an
arm-chair, tucking his hands into his cincture. And when, in answer to
his question as to whether Durtal were not too dull at Chartres, the
Parisian replied, "It seems to me that I live more slowly, and yet am
not such a burthen to myself," the Abbé went on,--
"What you must feel painfully is the lack of intellectual society; you,
who in Paris lived in the world of letters--how can you endure the
atmosphere of this provincial town?"
Durtal laughed.
"The world of letters! No, Monsieur l'Abbé, I should not be likely to
regret that, for I had given it up many years before I came to live
here; and besides, I assure you it is impossible to be intimate with
those train-bands of literature and remain decent. A man must
choose--them or honest folks; slander or silence; for their speciality
is to eliminate every charitable idea, and above all to cure a man of
friendship in the winking of an eye."
"Really?"
"Yes, by adopting a homoeopathic pharmacopoeia which still makes use
of the foulest matter--the extract of wood-lice, the venom of snakes,
the poison of the cockchafer, the secretions of the skunk and the matter
from pustules, all disguised in sugar of milk to conceal their taste and
appearance; the world of letters, in the same way, triturates the most
disgusting things to get them swallowed without raising your gorge.
There is an incessant manipulation of neighbours' gossip and play-box
tittle-tattle, all wrapped up in perfidious good taste to mask their
flavour and smell.
"These pills of foulness, exhibited in the required doses, act like
detergents on the soul, which they almost immediately purge of all
trustfulness. I had enough of this regimen, which acted on me only too
successfully, and I thought it well to escape from it."
"But the pious world, too, is not absolutely free from gossip," said the
Abbé, smiling.
"No doubt, and I am well aware that devotion does not always sweeten the
mind, but--
"The truth is," said he after reflection, "that the assiduous practice
of religion generally results in some intense effects on the soul. Only
they may be of two kinds. Either it develops the soul's taint and
evolves in it the final ferments which putrefy it once for all, or it
purifies the spirit and makes it clean and clear and exquisite. It may
produce hypocrites or good and saintly people; there is really no
medium.
"But when such divine husbandry has completely cleansed souls, how
guileless and how pure they may be! Nor am I speaking of the Elect, such
as I saw at La Trappe--merely of young novices, little priestlings whom
I have known. They had eyes like clear glass, undimmed by the haze of a
single sin; and, looking into them, behind those eyes you would have
seen their open soul burning like a soaring crown of fire framing the
smiling face in a halo of white name.
"In fact, Jesus simply fills up all the room in their soul. Do not you
think, Monsieur l'Abbé, that these youths occupy their bodies just
enough for suffering and to expiate the sins of others? Without knowing
it, they have been sent into the world to be safe tenements of the Lord,
the resting-place where Jesus finds a home after wandering over the
frozen steppes of other souls."
"Yes," said the Abbé, taking off his spectacles to wipe them on his
bandana, "but to acquire so fine a strain of being, how much
mortification, penance, and prayer have been needed in the generations
that have ended by giving them birth! The spirits of whom you speak are
the flower of a stem long nourished in a pious soil. The Spirit, of
course, bloweth where it listeth, and may find a saint in the heart of a
listless family; but this mode of operation must always be an exception.
The novices you have known must certainly have had grandmothers and
mothers who frequently incited them to kneel and pray by their side."
"I do not know--I knew nothing of the origin of these lads--but I feel
that you are right. It is obvious, indeed, that children, slowly brought
up from their earliest years, and sheltered from the world under the
shadow of such a sanctuary as this at Chartres, must end in the
blossoming of an unique flower."
And when Durtal told him of the impression made on him by the angelic
service of the Mass, the Abbé smiled.
"Though our boys are not unique, they are no doubt rare. Here, the
Virgin Herself trains them, and note, the little lad you saw is neither
more diligent nor more conscientious than his fellows; they are all
alike. Dedicated to the priesthood from the time when they can first
understand, they learn quite naturally to lead a spiritual life from
their constant intimacy with the services."
"What then is the system of this Institution?"
"The Foundation of the Clerks of Our Lady dates from 1853, or rather it
was reconstituted in that year--for it existed in the Middle Ages--by
the Abbé Ychard. Its purpose is to increase the number of priests by
admitting poor boys to begin their studies. It receives intelligent and
pious children of every nationality, if they are supposed to show any
vocation for Holy Orders. They remain in the choir school till they are
in the third class, and are then transferred to the Seminary.
"Its funds?--are, humanly speaking, nothing, based on trust in
Providence, for it has altogether, for the maintenance of eighty pupils,
nothing but the pay earned by these children for various duties in the
Cathedral, and the profits from a little monthly magazine called 'The
Voice of the Virgin,' and finally and chiefly the charity of the
faithful. All this does not amount to a very substantial income; and
yet, to this day, money has never been lacking."
The Abbé rose and went to the window.
"Oh, the rain will not cease," said Durtal. "I am very much afraid,
Monsieur l'Abbé, that we cannot examine the Cathedral porches to-day."
"There is no hurry. Before going into the details of Notre Dame, would
it not be well to contemplate it as a whole, and let its general purpose
soak into the mind before studying each page of its parts?
"Everything lies contained in that building," he went on, waving his
hand to designate the church; "the scriptures, theology, the history of
the human race, set forth in broad outline. Thanks to the science of
symbolism a pile of stones may be a macrocosm.
"I repeat it, everything exists within this structure, even our material
and moral life, our virtues and our vices. The architect takes us up at
the creation of Adam to carry us on to the end of time. Notre Dame of
Chartres is the most colossal depository existing of heaven and earth,
of God and man. Each of its images is a word; all those groups are
phrases--the difficulty is to read them."
"But it can be done?"
"Undoubtedly. That there may be some contradictions in our
interpretations I admit, but still the palimpsest can be deciphered. The
key needed is a knowledge of symbolism."
And seeing that Durtal was listening to him with interest, the Abbé came
back to his seat, and said,--
"What is a symbol? According to Littré it is a 'figure or image used as
a sign of something else;' and we Catholics narrow the definition by
saying with Hugues de Saint Victor that a symbol is an allegorical
representation of a Christian principle under a tangible image.
"Now symbolism has existed ever since the beginning of the world. Every
religion adopted it, and in ours it came into being with the Tree of the
Knowledge of Good and Evil in the first chapter of Genesis, while it
still is in full splendour in the last chapter of the Apocalypse.
"The Old Testament is an anticipatory figure of all the New Testament
tells us. The Mosaic dispensation contains, as in an allegory, what the
Christian religion shows us in reality; the history of the People of
God, its principal personages, its sayings and doings, the very
accessories round about it, are a series of images; everything came to
the Hebrews under a figure, Saint Paul tells us. Our Lord took the
trouble to remind His disciples of this on various occasions, and He
Himself, when addressing the multitude, almost always spoke in parables
as a means of conveying one thing by an illustration from another.
"Symbols, then, have a divine origin; it may be added that from the
human point of view this form of teaching answers to one of the least
disputable cravings of the human mind. Man feels a certain enjoyment in
giving proof of his intelligence, in guessing the riddle thus presented
to him, and likewise in preserving the hidden truth summed up in a
visible formula, a perdurable form. Saint Augustine expressly says:
'Anything that is set forth in an allegory is certainly more emphatic,
more pleasing, more impressive, than when it is formulated in technical
words.'"
"That is Mallarmé's idea too," thought Durtal, "and this coincidence in
the views of the saint and the poet, on grounds at once analogous and
different, is whimsical, to say the least."
"Thus in all ages," the Abbé went on, "men have taken inanimate objects,
or animals and plants, to typify the soul and its attributes, its joys
and sorrows, its virtues and its vices; thought has been materialized to
fix it more securely in the memory, to make it less fugitive, more near
to us, more real, almost tangible.
"Hence the emblems of cruelty and craft, of courtesy and charity,
embodied by certain creatures, personified by certain plants; hence the
spiritual meanings attributed to precious stones, and to colours. And it
may be added that in times of persecution, in the early Christian times,
this hidden language enabled the initiated to hold communication, to
give each other some token of kinship, some password which the enemy
could not interpret. Thus, in the paintings discovered in catacombs, the
Lamb, the Pelican, the Lion, the Shepherd, all meant the Son; the Fish
_Ichthys_, of which the characters express the Greek formula: 'Jesus,
Son of God, Saviour,' figures, in a secondary sense, the believer, the
rescued soul, fished out from the sea of Paganism; the Redeemer having
told two of His Apostles that they should be fishers of men.
"And of course the period when human beings lived in closest intercourse
with God--the Middle Ages--was certain to follow the revealed tradition
of Christ, and express itself in symbolical language, especially in
speaking of that Spirit, that essence, that incomprehensible and
nameless Being who to us is God. At the same time it had at its command
a practical means of making itself understood. It wrote a book, as it
were, intelligible to the humblest, superseding the text by images, and
so instructing the ignorant. This indeed was the idea put into words by
the Synod of Arras in 1025: 'That which the illiterate cannot apprehend
from writing shall be shown to them in pictures.'
"The Middle Ages, in short, translated the Bible and Theology, the
lives of the Saints, the apocryphal and legendary Gospels into carved or
painted images, bringing them within reach of all, and epitomizing them
in figures which remained as the permanent marrow, the concentrated
extract of all its teaching."
"It taught the grown-up children the catechism by means of the stone
sentences of the porches," exclaimed Durtal.
"Yes, it did that too. But now," the Abbé went on, after a pause,
"before entering on the subject of architectural symbolism, we must
first establish a distinct notion of what Our Lord Himself did in
creating it, when, in the second chapter of the Gospel according to
Saint John, He speaks of the Temple at Jerusalem, and says that if the
Jews destroy it He will rebuild it in three days, expressly prefiguring
by that parable His own Body. This set forth to all generations the form
which the new temples were thenceforth to take after His death on the
Cross.
"This sufficiently accounts for the cruciform plan of our churches. But
we will study the inside of the church later; for the present we must
consider the meanings of the external parts of a cathedral.
"The towers and belfries, according to the theory of Durand, Archbishop
of Mende in the thirteenth century, are to be regarded as preachers and
prelates, and the lofty spire is symbolical of the perfection to which
their souls strive to rise. According to other interpreters of the same
period, such as Saint Melito, Bishop of Sardis, and Cardinal Pietro of
Capua, the towers represent the Virgin Mary, or the Church watching over
the salvation of the Flock.
"It is a certain fact," the Abbé went on, "that the position of the
towers was never rigidly laid down once for all in mediæval times; thus
different interpretations are admissible according to their position in
the structure. Still, perhaps the most ingeniously refined, the most
exquisite idea is that which occurred to the architects of Saint Maclou
at Rouen, of Notre Dame at Dijon, and of the Cathedral at Laon, for
example, who built rising from the centre of the transepts--that is
above the very spot where, on the Cross, the breast of Christ would lie,
a lantern higher than the rest of the roof, often finishing outside in a
tall and slender spire, starting as it were from the Heart of Christ to
leap with one spring to the Father, to soar as if shot up from the bow
of the vaulting in a sharp dart to reach the sky.
"The towers, like the buildings they overshadow, are almost always
placed on a height that commands the town, and they shed around them
like seed into the soil of the soul, the swarming notes of their bells,
reminding all Christians by this aerial proclamation, this bead-telling
of sound, of the prayers they are commanded to use and the duties they
must fulfil; nay, at need, they may atone before God for man's apathy by
testifying that at least they have not forgotten Him, beseeching Him
with uplifted arms and brazen tongues, taking the place as best they may
of so many human prayers, more vocal perhaps than they."
"With its ship-like character," said Durtal, who had thoughtfully
approached the window, "this Cathedral strikes me as amazingly like a
motionless vessel with spires for masts and the clouds for sails, spread
or furled by the wind as the weather changes; it remains the eternal
image of Peter's boat which Jesus guided through the storm."
"And likewise of Noah's Ark--the Ark outside which there is no safety,"
added the Abbé.
"Now consider the church in all its parts. Its roof is the symbol of
Charity, which covereth a multitude of sins; its slates or tiles are the
soldiers and knights who defend the sanctuary against the heathen,
represented by the storm, its stones, all joined, are, according to
Saint Nilus, emblematic of the union of souls, or, as the _Rationale_ of
Durand of Mende has it, of the multitude of the faithful; the stronger
stones figuring the souls that are most advanced in the way of
perfection and hinder the weaker brethren, represented by the smaller
stones, from slipping and falling. However, to Hugues de Saint Victor, a
monk of the abbey of that name in the twelfth century, this collection
of stones is merely the mingled assembly of the clerks and the laity.
"Again, these blocks of stone of various shapes are bound and held
together by mortar, of which Durand of Mende will tell you the meaning.
'Mortar,' saith he, 'is compounded of lime and sand and water; lime is
the burning quality of charity, and it combines by the aid of water,
which is the Spirit, with the sand, of the earth earthy.'
"Thus these united stones form the four walls of the church, which
Prudentius of Troyes tells us are the four evangelists; or, according
to other interpreters, they represent in stone the cardinal virtues of
religion: Justice, Fortitude, Prudence, and Temperance, already
prefigured by the walls of the City of God in the Apocalypse.
"Thus you see each part may be regarded as having more than one meaning,
but all included in one general idea common to all."
"And the windows?" asked Durtal.
"I am coming to them; they are emblematic of our senses, which are to be
closed to the vanities of the world and open to the gifts of Heaven;
they are also provided with glass, giving passage to the beams of the
true Sun, which is God. But Dom Villette has most clearly set forth
their symbolical meaning: 'They are,' says he, 'the Scriptures, which
receive the glory of the sun and keep out the wind, the hail and the
snow, the images of false doctrine and heresies.'
"As to the buttresses, they symbolize the moral force that sustains us
against temptation; they are likewise the hope which upholds the soul
and strengthens it; others see in them the image of the temporal powers
who are called upon to defend the power of the Church; and others again,
regarding more especially the flying buttresses which resist the thrust
of the span, say that they are imploring arms clinging to the
safe-keeping of the Ark in time of danger.
"The principal entrance, the great portal of so many churches, such as
those of Vézelay, Paray-le-Monial and Saint German l'Auxerrois, in
Paris, was approached through a covered vestibule, often very deep and
intentionally dark, called the Narthex. The baptismal pool was in this
porch. It was a place for probation and forgiveness, emblematical of
Purgatory, an ante-room to Heaven, where, before being permitted access
to the sanctuary, penitents and neophytes had their place.
"Such, briefly, is the allegorical meaning of the parts. If we now
regard it again as a whole, we may observe that the cathedral, built
over a crypt symbolical of the contemplative life, and also of the tomb
in which Christ was laid, was naturally obliged to have its apse towards
that point of the heavens where the sun rises at the equinox, so as to
convey, says the Bishop of Mende, that it is the Church's mission to
show moderation in its triumphs as in its reverses. All the liturgical
commentators are agreed that the high altar must be placed at the
eastern end, so that the worshippers, as they pray, may turn their eyes
towards the cradle of the Faith; and this rule was held absolute, and so
well approved by God that He confirmed it by a miracle. The Bollandists
in fact have a legend that Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury, seeing a
church that had been built on another axis, made it turn to the East by
a push with his shoulder, thus placing it in its right position.
"The church has generally three doors, in honour of the Holy Trinity;
and the portal in the middle, called the Royal Porch, is divided by a
pier and a pillar surmounted by a statue of Our Lord, who says of
Himself in the Gospel, 'I am the door,' or of the Virgin, if the Church
is consecrated to Her, or even of the patron Saint in whose name it is
dedicated. The door, thus divided, typifies the two roads which man is
free to follow. Indeed, in most cathedrals this symbol is emphasized by
a representation of the Last Judgment placed above the entrance.
"This is the case in Paris, at Amiens, and at Bourges. At Chartres, on
the contrary, the Judgment of Souls is relegated, as at Reims, to the
tympanum of the northern porch; but here it is to be seen in the
rose-window over the western portal, in contradiction to the system
usual in the Middle Ages of treating in the windows above the doors the
subject carved in the porch; thus presenting on the same side a
repetition of the same symbols, in glass as seen from within, and in
stone without."
"Good; but how then can you account, by the ternary rule so universally
adopted, for that marvellous cathedral at Bourges, where, instead of
three porches and three aisles, we find five?"
"Nothing can be simpler--we cannot account for it. At most can we
suppose that the architect of Bourges intended by those five doors to
figure the five wounds of Christ. Even then we should be left to wonder
why he placed all the wounds in a single line; for that church has no
transept, no arms at the end of which the holes in the hands may be
symbolized by doors, which is the usual course."
"And the cathedral at Antwerp, which has two more aisles?"
"They no doubt typify the seven avenues, the seven gifts of the
Paraclete. This question of number leads me to speak of theological
enumeration, a peculiar element which plays a part in the varied subject
of symbolism," the Abbé went on. "The allegorical science of numbers is
a very old one. Saint Isidor of Seville, and Saint Augustine studied it.
Michelet, who talks nonsense as soon as he has to do with a cathedral,
is hard on the mediæval architects for their belief in the meaning of
figures. He accuses them of having observed mystic rules in the
arrangement of certain parts of the buildings; of having, for instance,
restricted the number of windows, or arranged pillars and bays in
accordance with some arithmetical combination. Not understanding that
each detail of a church had a meaning and was a symbol, he could not
understand that it was important to calculate each, since its meaning
might be modified or even completely altered. Thus a pillar by itself
may not necessarily typify an Apostle, but if there should be twelve,
they evidently show the meaning attributed to them by the builder, since
they recall the exact number of Christ's disciples. Sometimes, indeed,
to prevent any mistake, the answer is supplied with the problem; as in
an old church at Étampes, where I read, inscribed on the twelve
Romanesque shafts, the names of the Apostles in relief, in the
traditional setting of a Greek cross.
"At Chartres they had adopted a still better plan: statues of the twelve
Apostles were placed in front of the pillars of the nave: but the
Revolution took offence at these figures, overthrew and destroyed them.
"In considering the system of symbolism it is necessary to study the
significance of numbers. The secrets of church building can only be
discerned by recognizing the mysterious idea of the unity of the figure
I., which is the image of God Himself. The suggestion of II., which
figures the two natures of the Son, the two dispensations, and,
according to Saint Gregory the Great, the two-fold law of love of God
and man. Three is the number of the Persons of the Trinity, and of the
theological virtues. Four typifies the cardinal virtues, the four
Greater Prophets, the Gospels and the elements. Five is the number of
Christ's wounds, and of our senses, whose sins He expiated by a
corresponding number of wounds. Six records the days devoted by God to
the creation, determines the number of the Commandments promulgated by
the Church, and, according to Saint Melito, symbolizes the perfection of
the active life. Seven is the sacred number of the Mosaic law; it is the
number of the gifts of the Holy Ghost, of the Sacraments, of the words
of Jesus on the Cross, of the canonical hours, and of the successive
orders of priesthood. Eight, says Saint Ambrose, is the symbol of
regeneration, Saint Augustine says of the Resurrection, and it recalls
the idea of the eight Beatitudes. Nine is the number of the angelic
hierarchy, of the special gifts of the Spirit as enumerated by Saint
Paul; and it was at the ninth hour that Christ died. Ten is the number
of laws given by Jehovah, the law of fear; but Saint Augustine explains
it otherwise, saying that it includes the knowledge of God, since it may
be decomposed into three, the symbol of a triune God, and seven,
figuring the day of rest after the Creation. Eleven, the same saint
explains as an image of transgressing the law and an emblem of sin; and
Twelve is the great mystic number, the tale of the patriarchs and the
Apostles, of the tribes, the minor prophets, the virtues, the fruits of
the Holy Ghost, and the articles of faith embodied in the _Credo_. And
this might be repeated to infinity. Hence it is quite evident that the
artists of the Middle Ages added to the meaning they assigned to certain
creatures and certain things, that of quantity, supporting one by the
other, emphasizing or moderating a suggestion by this added-means,
working back sometimes on a former idea, and expressing this duplication
in a different form or concentrating it in the energetic conciseness of
a cipher. They thus produced a whole at once speaking to the eye and, at
the same time, giving synthetical expression to the complete text of a
dogma in a compact allegory."
"But what hermetic concentration!" exclaimed Durtal.
"Very true; these various meanings of persons and objects, resulting
from numerical differences, are at first very puzzling."
"And do you suppose that, on the whole, the height, breadth, and length
of a cathedral reveal a specialized idea, a particular purpose on the
part of the architect?"
"Yes; but I must at once confess that the key to these religious
calculations is lost. Those archæologists who have racked their brains
to find it have vainly added together the measurements of naves and
clerestories; they have not yet succeeded in formulating the idea they
expected to see emerge from the sums total.
"In this matter we must confess ourselves ignorant. Besides, have not
the standards of measurement been different at different times? As with
the value of coins in the Middle Ages, we know nothing about them. So,
in spite of some very interesting investigations carried out from this
point of view by the Abbé Crosnier at the Priory of Saint Gilles, and
the Abbé Devoucoux at the Cathedral of Autun, I remain sceptical as to
their conclusions, which I regard as very ingenious, but far from
trustworthy.
"The method of numbers is to be seen in perfection only in the details,
such as the pillars of which I spoke just now; it is no less evident
when we find the same number prevailing throughout the edifice, as for
instance at Paray-le-Monial, where all things are in threes. There the
designer has not been content to reproduce the sacred number in the
general scheme of the structure; he has applied it in every part. The
church has, in fact, three aisles; each aisle has three compartments;
each compartment is formed by three arches surmounted by three windows.
In short, it is the principle of the Trinity, the primary Three, applied
to every part."
"Well, but do you not think, Monsieur l'Abbé, that, apart from such
instances of indisputable meaning, there are in such symbolism some very
fine-drawn and obscure similitudes?"
The Abbé smiled.
"Do you know," said he, "the theories of Honorius of Autun as to the
symbolism of the censer?"
"No."
"Well, then, after having pointed out the natural and very proper
interpretation that may be applied to this vessel, as representing the
Body of Our Lord, while the incense signifies His Divinity, and the fire
is the Holy Spirit within Him; and after having defined the various
interpretations of the metal of which it is made--if of gold, it answers
to the perfection of His Divinity; if of silver, to the matchless
excellence of His Humility; if of copper, to the frailty of the flesh He
assumed for our salvation; if of iron, to the Resurrection of that Body
which conquered death--the scholiast comes to the chains.
"And then, indeed, his elucidation becomes somewhat thin and fine-drawn.
"If there are four chains, he says, they represent the four cardinal
virtues of the Lord, and the chain by which the cover is lifted from the
vessel answers to the Soul of Christ quitting His Body. If, on the other
hand, there are but three chains, it is because the Person of the
Saviour includes three elements: a human organism, a soul, and the
Godhead of the Word. And Honorius adds: 'the ring through which the
chains run represents the Infinite in which all these things are
included.'"
"That is subtle, with a vengeance!"
"Less so than Durand de Mende when he speaks of the snuffers," replied
the Abbé; "after that, we will kick away that ladder.
"The snuffers for trimming the lamps are, he asserts, 'the divine words
off which we cut the letter of the law, and by so doing reveal the
Spirit which giveth light.' And he adds, 'the pots in which the snuff is
extinguished are the hearts of the faithful who observe the law
literally.'"
"It is the very madness of Symbolism!" cried Durtal.
"At least, it is a too curious excess of it; but if this interpretation
of the snuffers is certainly grotesque, if even the theory of the censer
seems beaten somewhat thin on the whole, you must admit that it is
fascinating and exact so far as it is applied to the chain which lifts
the upper part of the vessel in a cloud of fragrance, and thus
symbolizes the ascent of Our Lord into Heaven.
"That certain exaggerations should creep in through this use of parables
was difficult to prevent; but, on the other hand, what marvels of
analogy, and what purely mystical notions are revealed through the
meanings given by the liturgy to certain objects used in the services.
"To the tapers, for instance, when Pierre d'Esquilin explains the
purport of the three component parts: the wax, which is the spotless
Body of the Saviour born of a Virgin; the wick, which, enclosed in the
wax, is His most Holy Soul hidden in the veil of the flesh; and the
light, which is emblematic of His Godhead.
"Or, again, take the substances used by the Church in certain
ceremonies: water, wine, ashes, salt, oil, balsam, incense. Incense,
besides representing the divinity of the Son, is likewise the symbol of
prayer, '_thus devotio orationis_' as it is described by Raban Maur,
Archbishop of Mayence in the ninth century. I happen to remember also,
_à propos_ of this resin and the censer in which it is burnt, a verse I
read long since in the 'Monastic Distinctions' of the anonymous English
writer of the thirteenth century, which sums up their signification more
neatly than I can:
'_vas notatur,
Mens pia; thure preces; igne supernus amor._'
The vase is the spirit of piety; the incense, prayer; the fire, divine
love.
"As to water, wine, ashes, and salt, they are used in compounding a
precious ointment used by the bishop when consecrating a church. They
are mingled to sign the altar with the cross, and to sprinkle the
aisles: the water and wine symbolize the two natures united in Our Lord;
the salt is divine wisdom; the ashes are in memory of His Passion.
"Balsam, as you know, is emblematical of virtue and good repute, and is
combined with oil, signifying peace and wisdom, to compose the
sacramental ointment.
"Think, too," the priest went on, "of the pyx, in which the
transubstantiated elements are preserved, the consecrated oblations, and
note that in the Middle Ages these little cases were formed in the
figure of a dove and contained the Host in the very image of the
Paraclete and the Virgin; this was well done, but here is something
better. The jewellers of the time carved ivory and gave these little
shrines the form of a tower. Is not the sentiment exquisite of our Lord
dwelling in the heart of the Virgin, the Ivory Tower of the Canticles?
Is not ivory indeed the most admirable material to serve as a sanctum
for the most pure white flesh of the Sacrament?"
"It is certainly mystical, and far more appropriate than the vessels of
every form, the _ciboria_ of silver-gilt, of aluminum, of silver of
these days."
"And need I remind you that the liturgy assigns a meaning to each
vestment, each ornament of the Church, according to its use and form?
"Thus, for instance, the surplice and alb signify innocence; the cord
that serves as a girdle is an emblem of chastity and modesty; the amice,
of purity of heart and body--the helmet of salvation mentioned by Saint
Paul. The maniple, of good works, vigilance, and the tears and sweat
poured out by the priest to win and save souls; the stole, of obedience,
the clothing on of immortality given to us in baptism; the dalmatic, of
justice, of which we must give proof in our ministrations; the chasuble,
of the unity of the faith, and also of the yoke of Christ.
"But the rain has not ceased, and I must nevertheless be gone, for I
have a penitent waiting for me," exclaimed the Abbé, looking at his
watch. "Will you come the day after to-morrow at about two o'clock? We
will hope it may be fine enough to examine the outside of the
Cathedral."
"And if it still rains?"
"Come all the same. But I must fly."
He pressed Durtal's hand and was gone.