"If you are a follower of Renan, sir, you had better admit it before
proceeding further in your studies," he said irately,--"The Church is
too much troubled in these days by the members of a useless and
degenerate apostasy!" Whereupon the young man had left his presence
abashed, puzzled, and humiliated; but scarcely penitent, inasmuch as
his New Testament taught him that he was right and that the Archbishop
was wrong.
Truth to tell, the Archbishop was very often wrong. Wrapped up in
himself and his own fixed notions as to how life should be lived, he
seldom looked out upon the larger world, and obstinately refused to
take any thoughtful notice of the general tendency of public opinion in
all countries concerning religion and morality. All that he was unable
to explain, he flatly denied,--and his prejudices were as violent as
his hatred of contradiction was keen. The saintly life and noble deeds
of Felix Bonpre had reached him from time to time through various
rumours repeated by different priests and dignitaries of the Church,
who had travelled as far as the distant little Cathedral-town embowered
among towering pines and elm trees, where the Cardinal had his abiding
seat of duty;--and he had been anxious to meet the man who in these
days of fastidious feeding and luxurious living, had managed to gain
such a holy reputation as to be almost canonized in some folks'
estimation before he was dead. Hearing that Bonpre intended to stay a
couple of nights in Rouen, he cordially invited him to spend that time
at his house,--but the invitation had been gratefully yet firmly
refused, much to the Archbishop's amazement. This amazement increased
considerably when he learned that the dingy, comfortless, little Hotel
Poitiers had been selected by the Cardinal as his temporary
lodging,--and it was not without a pious murmur concerning "the pride
which apes humility" that he betook himself to that ancient and
despised hostelry, which had nothing whatever in the way of a modern
advantage to recommend it,--neither electric light, nor electric bell,
nor telephone. But he felt it incumbent upon him to pay a fraternal
visit to the Cardinal, who had become in a manner famous without being
at all aware of his fame,--and when finally in his presence, he was
conscious not only of a singular disappointment, but an equally
singular perplexity. Felix Bonpre was not at all the sort of personage
he had expected to see. He had imagined that a Churchman who was able
to obtain a character for saintliness in days like these, must needs be
worldly-wise and crafty, with a keen perception and comprehension of
the follies of mankind, and an ability to use these follies
advantageously to further his own ends. Something of the cunning and
foresight of an ancient Egyptian sorcerer was in the composition of the
Archbishop himself, for he judged mankind alone by its general
stupidity and credulity;--stupidity and credulity which formed
excellent ground for the working of miracles, whether such miracles
were wrought in the name of Osiris or Christ. Mokanna, the "Veiled
Prophet," while corrupt to the core with unnameable vices, had managed
in his time to delude the people into thinking him a holy man;
and,--without any adequate reason for his assumption,--the Archbishop
had certainly prepared himself to meet in Felix Bonpre, a shrewd,
calculating, clever priest, absorbed in acting the part of an excessive
holiness in order to secure such honour in his diocese as should
attract the particular notice of the Vatican. "Playing for Pope," in
fact, had been the idea with which the archbishop had invested the
Cardinal's reputed sanctity, and he was astonished and in a manner
irritated to find himself completely mistaken. He had opened the
conversation by the usual cordial trivialities of ordinary greeting, to
which Bonpre had responded with the suave courtesy and refined
gentleness which always dignified his manner,--and then the Archbishop
had ventured to offer a remonstrance on the unconventional--"Shall we
call it eccentric?" he suggested, smiling amicably,--conduct of the
Cardinal in choosing to abide in such a comfortless lodging as the
Hotel Poitiers.
"It would have been a pleasure and an honour to me to welcome you at my
house"--he said--"Really, it is quite a violation of custom and usage
that you should be in this wretched place; the accommodation is not at
all fitted for a prince of the Church."
Cardinal Felix raised one hand in gentle yet pained protest.
"Pardon me!" he said, "I do not like that term, 'prince of the Church.'
There are no princes in the Church--or if there are, there should be
none."
The archbishop opened his eyes widely.
"That is a strange remark!" he ejaculated--"Princes of the Church there
have always been since Cardinals were created; and you, being a
Cardinal and an Archbishop as well, cannot be otherwise than one of
them."
Felix Bonpre sighed.
"Still, I maintain that the term is a wrong one," he answered, "and
used in the wrong place. The Church has nothing, or should have nothing
to do with differing titles or places. The ordinary priest who toils
among his congregation day and night, scarcely resting himself, working
and praying for the spiritual welfare of others, should to my thinking
be as greatly held in honour as the bishop who commands him and who
often--so it chances--is able to do less for our Lord than he. In
things temporal, owing to the constant injustice of man practised
against his brother-man, we can seldom attain to strict impartiality of
judgment,--but in things spiritual, there surely should be perfect
equality."
"Seriously speaking, are those your views?" enquired the Archbishop,
his features expressing more and more astonishment.
"Assuredly!" responded the Cardinal gently,--"Are they not yours? Did
not the Master Himself say 'Whosoever will be chief among you, let him
be your servant'? And 'Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased'?
These statements are plain and true,--there is no mistaking them."
The Archbishop was silent for a minute or so.
"Unfortunately we cannot apply our Lord's words literally to every-day
exigencies," he murmured suavely--"If we could do so--"
"We SHOULD do so," said the Cardinal with emphasis--"The outside world
may be disinclined to do so,--but we--we who are the representatives of
a God-given faith, are solemnly bound to do so. And I fear--I very much
fear--that it is because in many cases we have not shown the example
expected of us, that heresy and atheism are so common among the people
of the present day."
"Are you a would-be reformer?" asked the Archbishop good-humouredly,
yet not without a touch of satire in his tone,--"If so, you are not
alone--there have already been many!"
"Nay, I desire no reforms," responded the Cardinal, a faint flush
warming the habitual pallor of his cheeks--"I simply wish to
maintain--not alter--the doctrine of our Lord. No reform is necessary
in that,--it is clear, concise, and simple enough for a child to
understand. His command to His disciples was,--'Feed my sheep'--and I
have of late been troubled and perplexed, because it seems to me that
the sheep are not fed;--that despite churches and teachers and
preachers, whole flocks are starving."
The Archbishop moved uneasily in his chair. His habitual violent spirit
of contradiction rose up rebelliously in him, and he longed to give a
sharp answer in confutation of the Cardinal's words, but there was a
touch of the sycophant in his nature despite his personal pride, and he
could not but reflect that Cardinals ranked above Archbishops, and that
Felix Bonpre was in very truth a "prince of the Church" however much he
himself elected to disclaim the title. And as in secular affairs lesser
men will always bow the knee to royalty, so the Archbishop felt the
necessity of temporising with one who was spiritually royal. Therefore
he considered a moment before replying.
"I think," he said at last, in soft persuasive tones, "that your
conscience may perhaps be a little tender on this subject. But I cannot
agree with you in your supposition that whole flocks are starving;--for
Christianity dominates the better and more intellectual part of the
civilized world, and through its doctrines, men are gradually learning
to be more tolerant and less unjust. When we recollect the barbarous
condition of humanity before the coming of Christ--"
"Barbarous?" interrupted the Cardinal with half a smile,--"You would
hardly apply that term to the luxury-loving peoples of Tyre and
Babylon?--or to the ancient splendours of Athens and Rome?"
"They were heathens," said the Archbishop sententiously.
"But they were men and women," replied Bonpre, "And they too had
immortal souls. They were all more or less struggling towards the
fundamental Idea of good. Of course then, as now that Idea was
overgrown by superstitious myths and observances--but the working
tendency of the whole universe being ever towards Good, not Evil, an
impulse to press on in the right direction was always in the brain of
man, no matter how dimly felt. Primitive notions of honour were strange
indeed; nevertheless honour existed in the minds of the early
barbarians in a vague sense, though distorted out of shape and noblest
meaning. No,--we dare not take upon ourselves to assert that men were
altogether barbarous before the coming of Christ. They were cruel and
unjust certainly,--and alas! they are cruel and unjust still! Eighteen
hundred years of Christian teaching have not eradicated these ingrained
sins from any one unit of the entire mass."
"You are a severe judge!" said the Archbishop.
Cardinal Bonpre lifted his mild blue eyes protestingly.
"Severe? I? God forbid that I should be severe, or presume to sit in
judgment on any poor soul that sought my sympathy! I do not judge,--I
simply feel. And my feelings have for a long time, I confess, been
poignantly sorrowful."
"Sorrowful! And why?"
"Because the impression has steadily gained upon me that if our Church
were all it was originally intended to be by its Divine Founder, we
should at this time have neither heresies or apostasies, and all the
world would be gathered into the 'one fold under one Shepherd.' But if
we, who are its ministers, persist in occupying ourselves more with
'things temporal' than 'things spiritual,' we fail to perform our
mission, or to show the example required of us, and we do not attract,
so much as we repel. The very children of the present day are beginning
to doubt our calling and election."
"Oh, of course there are, and always have been heretics and atheists,"
said the Archbishop,--"And apparently there always will be."
"And I venture to maintain that it is our fault that heretics and
atheists continue to exist," replied the Cardinal; "If our Divine faith
were lived divinely, there would be no room for heresy or atheism. The
Church itself supplies the loophole for apostasy."
The Archbishop's handsome face crimsoned.
"You amaze me by such an expression!" he said, raising his voice a
little in the indignation he could scarcely conceal--"you talk--pardon
me--as if you yourself were uncertain of the Church's ability to
withstand unbelief."
"I speak but as I think," answered the Cardinal gently. "And I admit I
AM uncertain. In the leading points of reed I am very steadfastly
convinced;--namely, that Christ was divine, and that the following of
His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask me
whether I think we do truly follow that Gospel, I must own that I have
doubts upon the matter."
"An elected favourite son of the Church should surely have no doubts!"
said the Archbishop.
"Ah, there you come back to the beginning from which we started, when I
ventured to object to your term 'prince of the Church.' According to
our Master, all men should be equal before Him; therefore we err in
marking differences of rank or favoritism in questions of religion. The
very idea of rank is anti-Christian."
At this the Archbishop began to look seriously annoyed.
"I am afraid you are indulging in very unorthodox ideas," he said with
impatience--"In fact I consider you altogether mistake your calling and
position."
These were the words which had reached the attentive ears of the Patoux
children on their way up to bed, and had caused Henri to declare that
the Archbishop and the Cardinal were quarrelling. Felix Bonpre took the
somewhat violent remark, however, with perfect equanimity.
"Possibly I may do so," he responded peaceably. "We are all subject to
error. My calling, as I take it, is that of a servant of Christ, whose
instructions for work are plainly set down in His own words. It is for
me to follow these instructions as literally and exactly as I can. With
regard to my position, I am placed as the spiritual head of a very
small diocese, where the people for the most part lead very innocent
and harmless lives. But I should be selfish and narrow in spirit if I
allowed myself to limit my views to my own circle of influence. My
flock are mere rustics in intellectual capacity, and have no conception
of the manner in which the larger tide of human events is flowing. Now
and then one or two of the people grow weary of their quiet pastures
and woodlands,--and being young, hopeful, and ardent, start forth into
the great world, there to seek fairer fortunes. Sometimes they come
back to their old homes. Far more frequently they never return. But
those who do come back are changed utterly. I recognise no more the
young men and maidens whom I confirmed in their faith, and laid my
hands on in blessing ere they fared forth to other lives and scenes.
The men are grown callous and worldly; without a heart,--without a
thought,--save for the gain or loss of gold. The women are--ruined!"
He paused a moment. The Archbishop said nothing.
"I love my people," went on the Cardinal pathetically--"No child is
baptised in our old Cathedral without my praying for its future
good,--without my hope that it may grow into that exquisite mingling of
the Divine and Human which our Lord taught us was the perfection of
life, and His desire to see fulfilled in those He called His own.
Yes,--I love my people!--and when any of them go away from me, and then
return to the scenes of their childhood broken-hearted, I cannot meet
them with reproach. My own heart is half broken to see them thus cast
down. And their sorrows have compelled me naturally to meditate on the
sorrows of others,--to consider what it is in the world which thus
corrodes the pure gold of innocence and robs life of its greatest
charm. For if Christ's spirit ruled us all, then innocence should be
held more sacred. Life should engender happiness. I have studied, read,
and thought long, upon these matters, so that I not only feel, but know
the truth of what I say. Brother!--" and the Cardinal, strongly moved,
rose suddenly and confronted the Archbishop with a passionate
gesture--"My great grief is that the spirit of Christ does NOT rule the
world! Christ is being re-crucified by this generation! And the Church
is looking on, and silently permitting His second murder!"
Startled by the force of this expression, the Archbishop sprang up in
his turn, his lips parted as if to speak--then--his angry glance met
the clear, calm, steadfast look of Felix Bonpre, and he faltered. His
eyes drooped--and his massive figure seemed for a moment to shrink with
a sort of abasement. Like an inspired apostle the Cardinal stood, one
hand outstretched,--his whole frame sentient with the strong emotion
which possessed him.
"You know that what I say is true," he continued in quieter but no less
intensely passionate accents--"You know that every day sees our Master
crowned with new thorns and exposed to fresh torture! You know that we
do nothing!--We stand beside Him in His second agony as dumb as though
we were unconscious of it! You know that we MIGHT speak and will not!
You know that we fear the ephemera of temporary governments, policies,
and social conventionalities, more than the great, real, and terrible
judgment of the world to come!"
"But all these things have been said before," began the Archbishop,
recovering a little from the confusion that had momentarily seized
him,--"And as I just now observed, you should remember that there have
always been heretics from the very beginning."
"Oh, I remember!" and the Cardinal sighed, "How is it possible that any
of us should forget! Heretics, whom we have tortured with unheard-of
agonies and burned in the flames, as a proof of our love and sympathy
with the tenderness of Christ Jesus!"
"You are going too far back in time!" said the Archbishop quickly. "We
erred in the beginning through excess of zeal, but now--now--"
"Now we do exactly the same thing," returned Bonpre--"Only we do not
burn physically our heretics, but morally. We condemn all who oppose
us. Good men and brave thinkers, whom in our arrogance we consign to
eternal damnation, instead of endeavouring to draw out the heart of
their mystery, and gather up the gems of their learning as fresh proofs
of the active presence of God's working in, and through all things!
Think of the Church's invincible and overpowering obstinacy in the case
of Galileo! He declared the existence of God to us by the utterance of
a Truth,--inasmuch as every truth is a new message from God. Had he
pronounced his theories before our divine Master, that Master would
have confirmed, not denied them! Have we one single example of Christ
putting to the torture any poor soul that did not believe in Him?
Nay--He Himself submitted to be tortured; but for those who wronged
Him, His prayer was only--'Father, forgive them, for they know not what
they do.' THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO! The ministers of truth should
rather suffer themselves than let others suffer. The horrors of the
Inquisition are a blot on religious history; our Master never meant us
to burn and torture men into faith. He desired us to love and lead them
into the way of life as the shepherd leads a flock into the fold. I
repeat again, there would have been no room for atheism if we--we--the
servants of Christ, had been strictly true to our vocation."
By this time the Archbishop had recovered his equanimity. He sat down
and surveyed the up-standing figure of the Cardinal with curiosity and
a touch of pity.
"You think too much of these things," he said soothingly--"You are
evidently overwrought with study and excessive zeal. Much that you say
may be true; nevertheless the Church--OUR Church--stands firm among
overwhelming contradictions,--and we, its ministers, do what we can. I
myself am disposed to think that the multitude of the saved is greater
than the multitude of the lost."
"I envy you the consolation such a thought must give," responded the
Cardinal, as he resumed his seat opposite his visitor--"I, on the
contrary, have the pained and bitter sense that we are to blame for all
this 'multitude of the lost,' or at any rate that we could have done
more in the way of rescue than we have done." He paused a moment,
passing one hand across his forehead wearily. "In truth this is what
has for a long time weighed upon my mind, and depressed my spirits even
to the detriment of bodily health. I am nearing the grave, and must
soon give an account of my stewardship;--and the knowledge of the
increasing growth of evil in the world is almost more than I can bear."
"But you are not to blame," said the Archbishop wonderingly,--"In your
own diocese you have fulfilled your duty; more than this is not
expected of you. You have done your best for the people you serve,--and
reports of your charities and good works are not lacking--"
"Do not credit such reports," interrupted the Cardinal, almost
sternly,--"I have done nothing--absolutely nothing! My life has been
too peaceful,--too many undeserved blessings have been bestowed upon
me. I much fear that the calm and quiet of my days have rendered me
selfish. I think I should long ago have sought some means of engaging
in more active duties. I feel as if I should have gone into the thick
of the religious contest, and spoken and fought, and helped the sick
and wounded of the mental battle,--but now--now it is too late!"
"Nothing is too late for one in your position," said the
Archbishop--"You may yet sit in St. Peter's chair!"
"God forbid!" ejaculated Bonpre fervently--"I would rather die! I have
never wished to rule,--I have only sought to help and to comfort. But
sixty-eight years of life weigh heavily on the faculties,--I cannot
wear the sword and buckler of energetic manhood. I am old--old!--and to
a certain extent, incapacitated for useful labour. Hence I almost
grudge my halcyon time spent among simple folk,--time made sweet by all
the surroundings of Nature's pastoral loveliness;--the sorrow of the
wider world knocks at my heart and makes it ache! I feel that I am one
of those who stand by, idly watching the Master's second death without
one word of protest!"
The archbishop listened in silence. There was a curious shamed look
upon his face, as if some secret sin within himself had suddenly been
laid bare in all its vileness to the light of day. The golden crucifix
he wore moved restlessly with a certain agitated quickness in his
breathing, and he did not raise his eyes, when, after a little pause,
he said--
"I tell you, as I told you before, that you think too much; you are
altogether too sensitive. I admit that at the present day the world is
full of terrible heresies and open blasphemy, but this is part of what
we are always bound to expect,--we are told that we must 'suffer for
righteousness' sake--'"
"We!" said the Cardinal--"Yes, WE! that is, OURSELVES;--the Church--WE
think, when we hear of heresies and blasphemies that it is we who are
'suffering for righteousness' sake,' but in our egotism we forget that
WE are not suffering at all if we are able to retain our faith! It is
the very heretics and blasphemers whom we condemn that are
suffering--suffering absolute tortures--perchance 'for righteousness'
sake'!"
"Dare we call a heretic 'righteous'?" enquired the Archbishop--"Is he
not, in his very heresy, accursed?"
"According to our Lord, no one is accursed save traitors,--that is to
say those who are not true. If a man doubts, it is better he should
admit his doubt than make a pretence of belief. The persons whom we
call heretics may have their conception of the truth,--they may say
that they cannot accept a creed which is so ignorant of its own tenets
as to condemn all those who do not follow it,--inasmuch as the very
Founder of it distinctly says--'If any man hear my words and believe
not, I judge him not; for I came not to judge the world, but to save
the world.' Now we, His followers, judge, but do not save. The atheist
is judged by us, but not rescued from his unbelief; the thinker is
condemned,--the scientist who reveals the beauty and wisdom of God as
made manifest in the composition of the lightning, or the germinating
of a flower, is accused of destroying religion. And we continue to pass
our opinion, and thunder our vetoes and bans of excommunication against
our fellowmen, in the full front of the plain command 'Judge not, that
ye be not judged'!"
"I see it is no use arguing with you," said the Archbishop, forcing a
smile, with a vexation the smile could not altogether conceal,--"You
are determined to take these sayings absolutely,--and to fret your
spirit over the non-performance of imaginary duties which do not exist.
This Church is a system,--founded on our Lord's teaching, but applied
to the needs of modern civilization. It is not humanly possible to
literally obey all Christ's commands."
"For the outside world I grant it may be difficult,--but for the
ministers of religion, however difficult it may be, it should be done,"
replied the Cardinal firmly. "I said this before, and I deliberately
maintain it. The Church IS a system,--but whether it is as much founded
on the teaching of our Lord, who was divine, as on the teaching of St.
Paul, who was NOT divine, is a question to me of much perplexity."
"St. Paul was directly inspired by our Lord," said the Archbishop--"I
am amazed that you should even hint a doubt of his apostleship!"
"I do not decry St. Paul," answered Bonpre quietly--"He was a gifted
and clever man, but he was a Man--he was not God-in-Man. Christ's
doctrine leaves no place for differing sects; St. Paul's method of
applying that doctrine serves as authority for the establishment of any
and every quarrelsome sect ever known!"
"I cannot agree with you," said the Archbishop coldly.
"I do not expect to be agreed with"--and Bonpre smiled a little--"An
opinion which excites no opposition at all is not worth having! I am
quite honest in my scruples, such as they are;--I do not think we fit,
as you say, the Church system to the needs of modern civilization. On
the contrary, we must fail in many ways to do this, else there would
not be such a crying out for help and comfort as there is at present
among all Christian peoples. We no longer speak with a grand certainty
as we ought to do. We only offer vague hopes and dubious promises to
those who thirst for the living waters of salvation and
immortality,--it is as if we did not feel sure enough of God ourselves
to make others sure. All this is wrong--wrong! It forebodes heavy
punishment and disaster. If I were younger, I could express perhaps my
meaning more clearly,--but as it is, my soul is weighted with
unutterable thoughts,--I would almost call them warnings,--of some
threatening evil; . . . and today--only this afternoon--when I sat for
an hour in the Cathedral yonder and listened to the music of the great
organ--"
The Archbishop started.
"What did you say?"