Such words were not the words of wisdom. It is easy to imagine the
feelings of Monsignor Talbot. 'Newman's work none here can understand,'
he burst out to his friend. 'Poor man, by living almost ever since he
has been a Catholic, surrounded by a set of inferior men who idolise
him, I do not think he has ever acquired the Catholic instincts.' As for
his views on the Temporal Power--'well, people said that he had actually
sent a subscription to Garibaldi. Yes, the man was incomprehensible,
heretical, dangerous; he was "uncatholic and unchristian."' Monsignor
Talbot even trembled for the position of Manning in England.
'I am afraid that the old school of Catholics will rally round Newman in
opposition to you and Rome. Stand firm, do not yield a bit in the line
you have taken. As I have promised, I shall stand by you. You will have
battles to fight because every Englishman is naturally anti-Roman. To be
Roman is an effort to an Englishman an effort. Dr. Newman is more English than
the English. His spirit must be crushed.'
His spirit must be crushed! Certainly there could be no doubt of that.
'What you write about Dr Newman,' Manning replied, 'is true. Whether he
knows it or not, he has become the centre of those who hold low views
about the Holy See, are anti-Roman, cold and silent, to say no more,
about the Temporal Power; national, English, critical of Catholic
devotions, and always on the lower side.... You will take care,' he
concluded, 'that things are correctly known and understood where you
are.'
The confederates matured their plans. While Newman was making his
arrangements for the Oxford Oratory, Cardinal Reisach visited London.
'Cardinal Reisach has just left,' wrote Manning to Monsignor Talbot: 'he
has seen and understands all that is going on in England.' But Newman
had no suspicions. It was true that persistent rumours of his
unorthodoxy and his anti-Roman leanings had begun to float about, and
these rumours had been traced to Rome. But what were rumours? Then, too,
Newman found out that Cardinal Reisach had been to Oxford without his
knowledge, and had inspected the land for the Oratory. That seemed odd;
but all doubts were set at rest by the arrival from Propaganda of an
official ratification of his scheme. There would be nothing but plain
sailing now. Newman was almost happy; radiant visions came into his mind
of a wonderful future in Oxford, the gradual growth of Catholic
principles, the decay of liberalism, the inauguration of a second Oxford
Movement, the conversion--who knows?--of Mark Pattison, the triumph of
the Church.... 'Earlier failures do not matter now,' he exclaimed to a
friend. 'I see that I have been reserved by God for this.'
Just then a long blue envelope was brought into the room. Newman opened
it. 'All is over,' he said, 'I am not allowed to go.' The envelope
contained a letter from the Bishop announcing that, together with the
formal permission for an Oratory at Oxford, Propaganda had issued a
secret instruction to the effect that Newman himself was by no means to
reside there. If he showed signs of doing so, he was blandly and suavely
('blande suaviterque' were the words of the Latin instrument) to be
prevented. And now the secret instruction had come into
operation--blande suaviterque: Dr. Newman's spirit had been crushed.
His friends made some gallant efforts to retrieve the situation; but, it
was in vain. Father St. John hurried to Rome and the indignant laity of
England, headed by Lord Edward Howard, the guardian of the young Duke of
Norfolk, seized the opportunity of a particularly virulent anonymous
attack upon Newman, to send him an address in which they expressed their
feeling that 'every blow that touches you inflicts a wound upon the
Catholic Church in this country'. The only result was an outburst of
redoubled fury upon the part of Monsignor Talbot. The address, he
declared, was an insult to the Holy See. 'What is the province of the
laity?' he interjected. 'To hunt, to shoot, to entertain. These matters
they understand, but to meddle with ecclesiastical matters they have no
right at all.' Once more he warned Manning to be careful.
'Dr. Newman is the most dangerous man in England, and you will see that
he will make use of the laity against your Grace. You must not be afraid
of him. It will require much prudence, but you must be firm. The Holy
Father still places his confidence in you; but if you yield and do not
fight the battle of the Holy See against the detestable spirit growing
up in England, he will begin to regret Cardinal Wiseman, who knew how to
keep the laity in order.' Manning had no thought of 'yielding'; but, he
pointed out to his agitated friend that an open conflict between himself
and Newman would be 'as great a scandal to the Church in England, and as
great a victory to the Anglicans, as could be'. He would act quietly,
and there would be no more difficulty. The Bishops were united, and the
Church was sound.
On this, Monsignor Talbot hurried to Father St. John's lodgings in Rome
to express his regret at the misunderstanding that had arisen, to wonder
how it could possibly have occurred, and to hope that Dr. Newman might
consent to be made a Protonotary Apostolic. That was all the
satisfaction that Father St. John was to obtain from his visit to Rome.
A few weeks later, the scheme of the Oxford Oratory was finally quashed.
When all was over, Manning thought that the time had come for a
reconciliation. He made advances through a common friend; what had he
done, he asked, to offend Dr. Newman? Letters passed, and, naturally
enough, they only widened the breach. Newman was not the man to be
polite.
'I can only repeat,' he wrote at last, 'what I said when you last heard
from me. I do not know whether I am on my head or my heels when I have
active relations with you. In spite of my friendly feelings, this is the
judgment of my intellect.' 'Meanwhile,' he concluded, 'I propose to say
seven masses for your intention amid the difficulties and anxieties of
your ecclesiastical duties.'
And Manning could only return the compliment.
At about this time, the Curate of Littlemore had a singular experience.
As he was passing by the Church he noticed an old man, very poorly
dressed in an old grey coat with the collar turned up, leaning over the
lych gate, in floods of tears. He was apparently in great trouble, and
his hat was pulled down over his eyes as if he wished to hide his
features. For a moment, however, he turned towards the Curate, who was
suddenly struck by something familiar in the face. Could it be--? A
photograph hung over the Curate's mantelpiece of the man who had made
Littlemore famous by his sojourn there more than twenty years ago--he
had never seen the original; but now, was it possible--? He looked
again, and he could doubt no longer. It was Dr. Newman. He sprang
forward, with proffers of assistance. Could he be of any use? 'Oh no,
no!' was the reply. 'Oh no, no!' But the Curate felt that he could not
run away and leave so eminent a character in such distress. 'Was it not
Dr. Newman he had the honour of addressing?' he asked, with all the
respect and sympathy at his command. 'Was there nothing that could be
done?' But the old man hardly seemed to understand what was being said
to him. 'Oh no, no!' he repeated, with the tears streaming down his
face, 'Oh no, no!'