The day had come for Durtal to strap his portmanteau and set out with
the Abbé Plomb.
He became fidgety with waiting as the hours went by. At last, unable to
sit still, he went out to kill the time, but a drizzling rain drove him
for shelter into the cathedral.
After offering his devotions to the Virgin of the Pillar, he seated
himself amid a camp of vacant chairs to meditate.
"Before interrupting the quiet monotony of my life at Chartres by this
journey, shall I not do well to look into myself, if only for a minute,
and take stock of what I have gained before and since settling in this
town?
"The gain to my soul? Alas! it consists less in acquisitions than in
exchanges; I have merely found aridity in the place of indolence; and
the results of the exchange I know only too well; of what use is it to
go through them once more? The gains to my mind seem to me less
distressing and more genuine, and I can make a brief catalogue of them
under three heads: Past, Present, and Future.
"In the Past.--When I least expected it, in Paris, God suddenly seized
me and drew me back to the Church, taking advantage of my love of Art,
of mysticism, of the Liturgy, and of plain-song.
"Still, during the travail of this conversion, I could not study
mysticism anywhere but in books; I knew it only in theory and not in
practice. On the other hand, in Paris, I never heard any but dull,
lifeless music, watered down, as it were, in women's throats, or utterly
disfigured by the choir schools. In most of the churches I found only a
colourless ceremonial, a meagre form of service.
"This was the situation when I set out for La Trappe: under that strict
rule I found mysticism not only in its simplest expression, written out
and set forth in a body of doctrine, but mysticism as a personal
experience, in action, simply an element of life to those monks. I could
convince myself that the science of the soul's perfection was no
delusion, that the assertions of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the
Cross were strictly true, and in that cloister it was also vouchsafed to
me to be familiar with the enjoyment of an authentic ritual and genuine
plain-song.
"In the Present.--At Chartres I have entered on new exercises, I have
followed other traces. Haunted by the matchless grandeur of this
cathedral, under the guidance of a very intelligent and cultivated
priest I have studied religious symbolism, worked up that great science
of the Middle Ages which is in fact a language peculiar to the Church,
expressing by images and signs what the Liturgy expresses in words.
"Or, to be more exact, it would be better to say that part of the
Liturgy which is more particularly concerned with prayer; for that part
of it which relates to forms, and injunctions as to worship, is itself
symbolism, symbolism is the soul of it. In fact, the limit-line of the
two branches is not always easy to trace, so often are they grafted
together; they inspire each other, intertwine, and at last are almost
one.
"In the Future.--By going to Solesmes I shall complete my education; I
shall see and hear the most perfect expression of that Liturgy and that
Gregorian chant of which the little convent of Notre Dame de l'Atre, by
reason of the limited number of the Brethren, could only afford a
reduced copy--very faithful, it is true, but yet reduced.
"By adding to this my own studies of the religious paintings removed now
from the sanctuaries and collected in museums, and supplementing them by
my remarks on the various cathedrals I may explore, I shall have
travelled round the whole cycle of mysticism, have extracted the essence
of the Middle Ages, have combined in a sort of sheaf these separate
branches, scattered now for so many centuries, and have investigated
more thoroughly one especially--Symbolism namely, of which certain
elements are almost lost from sheer neglect.
"Yes. Symbolism has lent the principal charm to my life at Chartres; it
occupied and comforted me when I was suffering from finding my soul so
importunate and yet so low."
And he tried to recapitulate the science, to view it as a whole.
He saw it as a thickly branched tree, the root deep set in the very soil
of the Bible; from thence, in fact, it drew its substance and its
nourishment: the trunk was the Symbolism of the Scriptures, the Old
Testament prefiguring the Gospels; the branches were the allegorical
purport of architecture, of colours, gems, flowers, and animals; the
hieroglyphics of numbers; the emblematical meaning of the vessels and
vestments of Church use. A small bough represented Liturgical perfumes,
and a mere twig, dried up from the first and almost dead, represented
dancing.
"For religious dancing once existed," Durtal went on. "In ancient times
it was a recognized offering of adoration, a tithe of light-heartedness.
David leaping before the Ark shows this.
"And in the earliest Christian times the faithful and the priesthood
shook themselves in honour of the Redeemer, and fancied that by choric
motion they were imitating the joy of the Blessed, the glee of the
Angels described by Saint Basil as executing figures in the radiant
assemblies of Heaven.
"One is soon accustomed to endure Masses of the kind called at Toledo
_Mussarabes_, during which the congregation dance and gambol in the
cathedral; but these capers presently lose the pious character that they
are supposed to bear; they become an incentive to the revelry of the
senses, and several Councils have prohibited them.
"In the seventeenth century sacred dances still survived in some
provinces; we hear of them at Limoges, where the Curé of St. Leonard and
his parishioners pirouetted in the choir of the church. In the
eighteenth century their traces are found in Roussillon, and at the
present day religious dancing still survives; but the tradition of this
saintly frisking is chiefly preserved in Spain.
"Not long since, on the day of Corpus Christi at Compostella, the
procession was led through the streets by a tall man who danced carrying
another on his shoulders. And to this day, at Seville, on the festival
of the Holy Sacrament, the choir-children turn in a sort of slow waltz
as they sing hymns before the high altar of the cathedral. In other
towns, on the festivals of the Virgin, a saraband is slowly danced round
Her statue, with striking of sticks, and the rattle of castanets; and to
close the ceremony by way of Amen the people fire off squibs.
"All this, however, is of no great interest, and I cannot help wondering
what meaning can have been attributed to cutting capers and spinning
round. I find it difficult to believe that _farandoles_ and _boleros_
could ever represent prayer; I can hardly persuade myself that it can be
an act of thanksgiving to trample peppers under foot or appearing to
grind at an imaginary coffee-mill with one's arms.
"In point of fact no one knows anything about the symbolism of dancing;
no record has come down to us of the meanings ascribed to it of old.
Church dancing is really no more than a gross form of rejoicing among
Southern races. We need mention it merely as noteworthy, and that is
all.
"Now, from a practical point of view, what has the influence of
symbolism been on souls?"
Durtal could answer himself.
"The Middle Ages, knowing that everything on earth is a sign and a
figure, that the only value of things visible is in so far as they
correspond to things invisible--the Middle Ages, when consequently men
were not, as we are, the dupes of appearances--made a profound study of
this science, and made it the nursing mother and the handmaid of
mysticism.
"Convinced that the only aim that it was incumbent on man to follow, the
only end he could really need, was to place himself in direct
communication with Heaven, and to out-strip death by merging himself,
unifying himself to the utmost, with God, it tempted souls, subjecting
them to a moderate claustral course, purged them of their earthly
interests, their fleshly aims, and led them back again and again to the
same purpose of renunciation and repentance, the same ideas of justice
and love; and then to retain them, to preserve them from themselves, it
enclosed them in a fence, placed God all about them, as it were, under
every form and aspect."
Jesus was seen in everything--in the fauna, the flora, the structure of
buildings, in every decoration, in the use of colour. Whichever way man
could turn, he still saw Him.
And at the same time he saw his own soul as in a mirror that reflected
it; in certain animals, certain colours, and certain plants he could
discern the qualities which it was his duty to acquire, the vices
against which he had to defend himself.
And he had other examples before his eyes, for the symbolists did not
restrict themselves to turning botany, mineralogy, natural history, and
other sciences to the uses of a catechism; some of them, and among
others Saint Melito, ended by applying the process to the interpretation
of every object that came in their way. A cithara was to them the breast
of the devout man; the members of the human frame became emblematical:
the head was Christ, the hairs were the saints, the nose meant
discretion, the nostrils the spirit of faith, the eye contemplation, the
mouth symbolized temptation, the saliva was the sweetness of the inner
life, the ears figured obedience, the arms the love of Jesus, the hands
stood for good works, the knees for the sacrament of penance, the legs
for the Apostles, the shoulders for the yoke of Christ, the breast for
evangelical doctrine, the belly for avarice, the bowels for the
mysterious precepts of the Lord, the body and loins for suggestions of
lust, the bones typified hardness of heart, and the marrow compunction,
the sinews were evil members of Anti-Christ. And these writers extended
this method of interpretation to the commonest objects of daily use,
even to tools and vessels within reach of all.
Thus there was an uninterrupted course of pious teaching. Yves de
Chartres tells us that priests instructed the people in symbolism, and
from the researches of Dom Pitra we know that in the Middle Ages Saint
Melito's treatise was popular and known to all. Thus the peasant learnt
that his plough was an image of the Cross, that the furrows it made were
like the hearts of saints freshly tilled; he knew that sheaves were the
fruit of repentance, flour the multitude of the faithful, the granary
the Kingdom of Heaven; and it was the same with many pursuits. In short,
this method of analogies was a bidding to everybody to watch and pray
better.
Thus utilized, symbolism became a break to check the forward march of
sin, and at the same time a sort of lever to uplift souls and help them
to overleap the stages of the mystical life.
This science, translated into so many languages, was no doubt
intelligible only in broad outline to the masses, and sometimes, when it
percolated through the labyrinthine maze of such minds as that of the
worthy Bishop of Mende, it appeared overwrought, full of contradictions,
and of double meanings. It seems then as if the symbolist were splitting
a hair with embroidery scissors. But, in spite of the extravagance it
tolerated and smiled at, the Church succeeded, nevertheless, by these
tactics of repetition, in saving souls and carrying out on a large scale
the production of saints.
Then came the Renaissance, and symbolism was wrecked at the same time as
church architecture.
Mysticism in the stricter sense of the word, more fortunate than its
handmaidens, survived that period of festive dishonour; for it may be
safely asserted that, though it was unproductive while living through
that period, it flourished anew in Spain, producing its noblest blossoms
in Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa.
Since then doctrinal mysticism seems dried up at the source. Not so,
however, as regards personal mysticism, which still dwells acclimatized
and flourishing in convents.
As to the Liturgy and plain-song, they too have gone through very
various phases. After being dissected and filtered in the numberless
provincial Uses, the Liturgy was brought back to the standard of Rome by
the efforts of Dom Guéranger, and it may be hoped that the Benedictines
at last will also bring all the churches back to the strict use of
plain-song.
"And this church above all!" sighed Durtal.
He looked at his cathedral, loving it better than ever now that he was
to part from it for a few days. To impress it the better on his memory
he tried to sum it up, to concentrate it, saying to himself,--
"It is the epitome of Heaven and Earth; of Heaven by showing us the
serried phalanx of its inhabitants--Prophets, Patriarchs, Angels and
Saints, lighting up the interior of the church by their transparent
figures; by singing to the glory of the Mother and the Son. Of Earth,
for it connotes the elation of the soul, the ascension of man; it
points out quite clearly to Christian souls the path of the perfect
life. They, to apprehend its symbolism, should enter by the Royal
doorway, and pass up the nave, the transept and the choir--the three
successive phases of Asceticism; reach the top of the Cross where,
surrounded by the chapels of the apse as by a Crown, the head of the
Saviour lies, His neck bent, as we see them symbolized by the altar and
the deflected axis of the church.
"There the pilgrim has reached the united ways, close to the Virgin, who
mourns no more as she does in the agonizing scene on Calvary, at the
foot of the Tree, but, under the figure of the Sacristy, remains veiled
by the side of Her Son's countenance, getting closer to Him the better
to comfort and to see Him.
"And this allegory of the mystical life as set forth by the interior of
the cathedral, is carried out by the exterior, in the suppliant effect
of the whole building.
"The Soul, distraught by the joy of union, heart-broken at having still
to live, only aspires now to escape for ever from the Gehenna of the
flesh; thus it beseeches the Bridegroom with the uplifted arms of its
towers, to take pity on it, to come to fetch it, to take it by the
clasped hands of its spires and snatch it from earth, to carry it up
with Him into Heaven.
"In short, this church is the finest expression of art bequeathed to us
by the Middle Ages. The great front has neither the awful majesty of
that of Reims, pierced as it is with tracery, nor the dull melancholy of
Notre Dame de Paris, nor the gigantic grace of Amiens, nor the massive
solemnity of Bourges; but it is full of imposing simplicity, a
lightness, a spring, which no other cathedral has attained to.
"The nave of Amiens alone grows beautifully less as it rises with as
eager a spring from the earth; but the body of the Amiens church is
light and uncomforting, and that of Chartres is mysterious and hushed;
of all cathedrals it is that which best suggests the idea of a delicate,
saintly woman, emaciated by prayer, and almost transparent by fasting.
"And then its windows are matchless, superior even to those of Bourges,
where, again, the sanctuary blossoms with glorious clumps of holy
persons. And finally, the sculpture of the west front, the Royal Portal,
is the most beautiful, the most superterrestrial statuary ever wrought
by the hand of man.
"And it is almost unique in having none of the woeful and threatening
solemnity of its noble sisters. Scarce a demon is to be seen watching
and grinning on its walls to torture souls; in a few small figures it
shows indeed the variety of penance, but that is all; and within, the
Virgin is above all else the Mother of Bethlehem. Jesus, too, is more or
less Her Child; He yields to Her when she entreats Him.
"It proclaims the plenitude of Her patience and charity by the length of
the crypt and the breadth of the nave, which are greater than those of
other churches.
"In fact, it is the mystical cathedral--that where the Madonna is most
graciously ready to receive the sinner.
"Now," said Durtal, looking at his watch, "the Abbé Gévresin must have
finished his breakfast. It is time to take leave of him before joining
the Abbé Plomb at the station."
He crossed the forecourt of the palace and rang at the priest's door.
"So you are sure you are going!" said Madame Bavoil, who opened the
door, and admitted him to her master.
"Well, yes--"
"I envy you," sighed the Abbé, "for you will be present at wonderful
services and hear admirable music."
"I hope so. And if only that could relieve the tension, could release me
a little from this incoherent frame of mind in which I wander, and allow
me to feel at home once more in my own soul and not in a strange place
open to all the winds!--"
"Ah, your soul wants locks and latches," said Madame Bavoil, laughing.
"It is a public mart where every distraction meets to chatter. I am
constantly driven out, and when I want to go home again they are in
possession."
"Oh, I quite understand that. You know the proverb, 'Who goes hunting
loses his seat by the hearth.'"
"That is all very well to say, but--"
"But, our friend, the Lord foresaw your case, when, with reference to
such distractions which flutter about the soul like this, He replied to
the Venerable Jeanne de Matel, who complained of such annoyances, that
she should imitate the hunter, who, when he misses the big game he is
seeking, seizes the smaller prey he may find."
"Ay, but even then he must find it!"
"Go and live in peace, then," said the Abbé. "Do not fret yourself with
wondering whether your soul is enclosed or no; and take this piece of
advice: You are accustomed--are you not?--to repeat prayers that you
know by heart, and it is especially under those circumstances that
wandering supervenes. Well, then, set those prayers aside, and restrict
yourself to following, very regularly, the prayers of the services in
the convent-chapel. You are less familiar with them, and merely to
follow them you will be obliged to read them with care. Thus you will be
less likely to have a divided mind."
"No doubt," replied Durtal. "But when I have not repeated the prayers I
am wont to say, I feel as though I had not prayed at all. I know that
this is absurd; still, there is no faithful soul who does not know the
feeling when the text of his prayers is altered."
The Abbé smiled.
"The best prayers," said he, "are those of the Liturgy, those which God
Himself has taught us, those alone which are expressed in language
worthy of Him--in His own language. They are complete, and supreme; for
all our desires, all our regrets, all our wailing are contained in the
Psalms. The prophet foresaw and said everything; leave him, then, to
speak for you, and thus, as your interpreter before God, give you his
help.
"As to the prayers you may feel moved to address to God apart from the
hours devoted to the purpose, let them be short. Imitate the Recluses of
Egypt, the Fathers in the Desert, who were masters in the art of
supplication. This is what old Isaac said to Cassian: 'Pray briefly and
often, lest, if your orisons be long, the enemy will come to disturb
them. Follow these two rules, they will save you from secret upheaval.
"So, go in peace; and if any trouble should overtake you, do not
hesitate to consult the Abbé Plomb."
"Eh, our friend," cried Madame Bavoil, laughing, "and you might also
cure yourself of wandering thoughts by the method employed by the Abbess
of Sainte-Aure when she chanted the Psalter: she sat in a chair of which
the back was garnished with a hundred long nails, and when she felt
herself wandering she pressed her shoulder firmly against the points;
there is nothing better, I can tell you, for bringing folks back to
reality and recalling their wandering attention."
"Thank you, indeed!"
"There is another thing," she went on, not laughing now. "You ought to
postpone your departure for a day or two; for the day after to-morrow is
a festival of the Virgin. They expect pilgrims from Paris, and the
shrine containing our Mother's veil will be carried in procession
through the streets."
"Oh no!" cried Durtal, "I have no love for worship in common. When our
Lady holds these solemn assizes to gel out of the way. I wait till She
is alone before I visit her. Hosts of people shouting canticles with
eyes straight to Heaven or looking for Jesus on the ground by way of
unction are too much for me. I am all for the forlorn Queens, for the
deserted churches and dark chapels. I am of the opinion of Saint John of
the Cross, who confesses that he does not love the pilgrimage of crowds
because one comes back more distracted than when one started.
"No. What it is really a grief to me to leave in quitting Chartres is
that very silence, that solitude in the cathedral, those interviews with
the Virgin in the gloom of the crypt and the twilight of the nave. Ah,
here alone can one feel near Her, and see Her!
"In fact," he went on after a moment's reflection, "one does see Her in
the strictest sense of the word--or at least, can fancy that She is
there. If there is a spot where I can call up Her face, Her attitude--in
short Her portrait--it is at Chartres."
"And how is that?"
"Well, Monsieur l'Abbé, we have no trustworthy information as to our
Mother's face or figure. Her features are unknown--intentionally, I feel
sure, in order that each one may contemplate Her under the aspect that
best pleases him, and incarnate Her in the ideal beauty of his dreams.
"For instance, Saint Epiphanius describes her as tall, with olive eyes
arched and very black eyebrows, an aquiline nose a rosy mouth, and a
golden-toned skin. This is the vision of an oriental.
"Take Maria d'Agreda, on the other hand. She thinks of the Virgin as
slender, with black hair and eyebrows, eyes dark and greenish, a
straight nose, scarlet lips, and a brown skin. You recognize here the
Spanish ideal of beauty imagined by the Abbess.
"Again in, turn to Sister Emmerich. According to her, Mary was
fair-haired, with large eyes, a rather long nose, a narrow-pointed chin,
a clear skin, and not very tall. Here we have the description given by a
German who does not admire dark beauty:
"And yet both of these women were real Seers, to whom the Madonna
appeared, assuming in each case the only aspect that could fascinate
them; just as she was seen to be the model of mere prettiness--the only
type they could understand--by Mélanie at La Salette and Bernadette at
Lourdes".
"Well, I, who am no visionary, and who must appeal to my imagination to
picture Her at all, I fancy I discern Her under the forms and
expressions of the cathedral itself; the features are a little confused
in the pale splendour of the great rose window that blazes behind Her
head like a nimbus. She smiles, and Her eyes, all light, have the
incomparable effulgence of those pure sapphires which light up the
entrance to the nave. Her slight form is diffused in a clear robe of
flame, striped and ribbed like the drapery of the so-called Berthe. Her
face is white like mother-of-pearl, and her hair, a circular tissue of
sunshine, radiates in threads of gold. She is the Bride of Canticles.
_Pulchra ut Luna, electa ut Sol_.
"The church which is Her dwelling-place, and one with Her, is luminous
with Her grace; the gems of the windows sing to Her praise; the slender
columns shooting upwards, from the pavement to the roof, symbolize Her
aspirations and desires; the floor tells of Her humility; the vaulting,
meeting to form a canopy over Her, speaks of Her charity; the stones and
glass echo hymns to Her. There is nothing, down to the military aspect
of certain details of the sanctuary, the chivalrous touch which is a
reminiscence of the Crusades--the sword-blades and shields of the lancet
windows and the roses, the helm-shaped arches, the coat of mail that
clothes the older spire, the iron trellis-pattern of some of the
panes--nothing that does not arouse a memory of the passage at Prime and
the hymn at Lauds in the minor office of the Virgin, and typify the
_terribilis ut castrorum acies ordonata_, the privilege She possesses
when She chooses to use it, of being 'terrible as an army arrayed for
battle.'
"But She does not often choose to exert here, I believe; this cathedral
mirrors rather Her inexhaustible sweetness, Her indivisible glory."
"Ah! Much shall be forgiven you because you have loved much," cried
Madame Bavoil.
And Durtal having risen to say good-bye, she kissed him affectionately,
maternally, and said,--
"We will pray with all our might, our friend, that God may enlighten you
and show you your path, may lead you Himself into the way you ought to
go."
"I hope, Monsieur l'Abbé, that during my absence your rheumatism will
grant you a little respite," said Durtal, pressing the old priest's
hand.
"Oh, I must not wish to have no sufferings at all, for there is no cross
so heavy as having none," replied the Abbé. "So do as I do, or rather,
do better than I, for I still repine; put a cheerful face on your
aridity, and your trials.--Goodbye, God bless you!"
"And may the great Mother of Madonnas of France, the sweet Lady of
Chartres, protect you!" added Madame Bavoil.
And when the door was shut, she added with a sigh,--
"Certainly, I should be very grieved if he left our town for ever, for
that friend is almost like a child of our own! At the same time I should
be very, very happy to think of him as a true monk!"
Then she began to laugh.
"Father," said she, "will they cut his moustache off if he enters the
cloister?"
"Undoubtedly."
She tried to imagine Durtal clean-shaven, and she concluded with a
laugh,--
"I do not think it will improve his beauty."
"Oh, these women!" said the Abbé, shrugging his shoulders.
"And what, in short," asked she, "may we hope for from this journey?"
"It is not of me that you should ask that, Madame Bavoil."
"Very true," said she, and clasping her hands she murmured,--
"It depends on Thee! Help him in his poverty, remember that he can do
nothing without Thine aid, Holy Temptress of men, Our Lady of the
Pillar, Virgin of the Crypt."
THE END.