“Poor widow! her heart must be full of sorrow.”
“But what does she want with that axe?”
“It is to defend her wolf,” again replied Matheline, who carried a
pitch-fork.
Pol Bihan held an enormous holly stick which resembled a club. Every
one was armed either with threshing flails or rakes or hoes; some even
bore scythes, carried upright; for they had not only come to look on,
but to make an end of the man-wolf.
Again was heard the chime of the Matin-bells of the convent of Ruiz,
and immediately a smothered cry ran from group to group:
“Wolf! wolf! wolf!”
Josserande heard it, for she paused in her descent and cast an anxious
look around; but, seeing no one, she raised her eyes to heaven and
clasped her hands over the handle of her axe.
The wolf, in the meantime, with fuming nostrils and eyes which looked
like burning coals, leaped over the stones of the enclosure and began
to run around the circle.
“See, see!” said Pol Bihan, “he no longer limps.”
And Matheline, dazzled by the red light from his eyes, added: “It seems
he is no longer one-eyed!”
Pol brandished his club and continued:
“What are we waiting for? Why not attack him?”
“Go you first,” said the men.
“I caught cold the other day, and my leg is stiff, which keeps me from
running,” answered Pol.
“Then I will go first!” cried Matheline, raising her pitch-fork. “I
will soon show how I hate the wretch!”
Dame Josserande heard her and sighed:
“Girl, whom I blessed in baptism, may God keep me from cursing you
now!”
This Matheline, whose pearls were worth nothing, was no coward; for she
carried out her words, and marched straight up to the wolf, while Bihan
stayed behind and cried:
“Go, go, my friends; don’t be afraid! Ah! but for my stiff leg I would
soon finish the wolf, for I am the strongest and bravest.”
Round and round the circle galloped the wolf as quickly as a hunted
stag; his eyes darted fire, his tongue was hanging from his mouth.
Josserande, seeing the danger that threatened him, wept and cried out:
“O Bretons! is there among you all not one kind soul to defend the
widow’s son in the hour when he bitterly expiates his sin?”
“Let us alone, godmother,” boldly replied Matheline.
And from afar Pol Bihan added:
“Don’t listen to the old woman; go!”
But another voice was heard in answer to Dame Josserande’s appeal, and
it said:
“As last night, we are here!”
Standing in front of Matheline, and barring the passage, were two
ragged beggars with their wallets, leaning upon their staffs.
Josserande recognized the two poor men who had so charitably aided her
the night before; and one of them, who had snow-white hair and beard,
said:
“Christians, my brethren, why do you interfere in this? God rewards and
punishes. This poor man-wolf is not a damned soul, but one expiating a
great crime. Leave justice to God, if you do not wish some great
misfortune to happen to you.”
And Josserande, who was kneeling down, said imploringly:
“Listen, listen to the saint!”
But from behind Pol Bihan cried out:
“Since when have beggars been allowed to preach sermons? Ah! if it were
not for my stiff leg.... Kill him, kill him! ... wolf! wolf! wolf!”
“Wolf! wolf!” repeated Matheline, who tried to drive off the old beggar
with her pitch-fork.
But the fork broke like glass in her hands, as it touched the poor
man’s tatters, and at the same time twenty voices cried:
“The wolf! the wolf! Where has the wolf gone?”
Soon was seen where the wolf had gone. A black mass dashed through the
crowd, and Pol Bihan uttered a horrible cry:
“Help! help! Matheline!”
You have often heard the noise made by a dog when crunching a bone.
This was the noise they heard, but louder, as though there were many
dogs crunching many bones. And a strange voice, like the growling of a
wolf, said:
“The strength of a man is a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat. Bihan,
traitor, I eat your strength!”
The black mass again bounded through the terrified crowd, his bloody
tongue hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting fire.
This time it was from Matheline that a scream still more horrible than
that of Pol’s was heard; and again there was the noise of another
terrible feast, and the voice of the wild beast, which had already
spoken, growled:
“The pearls of a smile make a dainty morsel for a wolf to eat.
Matheline, serpent that stung my heart, seek for your beauty. I have
eaten it!”
XIII.
The white-haired beggar had endeavored to protect Matheline against the
wolf, but he was very old, and his limbs would not move as quickly as
his heart. He only succeeded in throwing down the wolf. It fell at
Josserande’s feet and licked her knees, uttering doleful moans. But the
people, who had come thither for entertainment, were not well pleased
with what had happened. There was now abundance of light, as men with
torches had arrived from the abbey in search of their holy saint,
Gildas the Wise, whose cell had been found empty at the hour of
Compline.
The glare from the torches shone upon two hideous wounds made by the
wolf, who had devoured Matheline’s beauty and Pol’s strength—that is to
say, the face of the one and the arms of the other: flesh and bones. It
was frightful to behold. The women wept while looking at the repulsive,
bleeding mass which had been Matheline’s smiling face; the men sought
in the double bloody gaps some traces of Pol’s arms, for the powerful
muscles, the glory of the athletic games; and every heart was filled
with wrath.
The legend says that the tenant of Coat-Dor, Matheline’s poor father,
knelt beside his daughter and felt around in the blood for the
scattered pearls, which were now as red as holly-berries.
“Alas!” said he, “of these dead stained things, which when living were
so beautiful, which were admired and envied and loved, I was so proud
and happy.”
Alas! indeed, alas! Perhaps it was not the girl’s fault that her heart
was no larger than a little bird’s; and yet for this defect was not
Matheline most cruelly punished?
“Death to the wolf! death to the wolf! death to the wolf!”
From all sides was this cry heard, and brandishing pitch-forks,
cudgels, ploughshares, and mallets, came rushing the people toward the
wolf, who still lay panting, with open jaws and pendent tongue, at the
feet of Dame Josserande. Around them the torch-bearers formed a circle:
not to throw light upon the wolf and Dame Josserande, but to render
homage to the white-haired beggar, in whom, as though the scales had
suddenly fallen from their eyes, every one recognized the Grand-Abbot
of Ruiz, Gildas the Wise.
The grand abbot raised his hand, and the armed crowd’s eager advance
was checked, as if their feet had been nailed to the ground. Calmly he
surveyed them, blessed them, and said:
“Christians, the wolf did wrong to punish, for chastisement belongs to
God alone; therefore the wolf’s fault should not be punished by you. In
whom resides the power of God? In the holy authority of fathers and
mothers. So here is my penitent Josserande, who will rightfully judge
the wolf and punish him, since she is his mother.”
When Gildas the Wise ceased speaking you could have heard a mouse run
across the heath. Each one thought to himself: “So the wolf is really
Sylvestre Ker.” But not a word was uttered, and all looked at Dame
Josserande’s axe, which glistened in the moonlight.
Josserande made the sign of the cross—ah! poor mother, very slowly, for
her heart sank within her—and she murmured:
“My beloved one, my beloved one, whom I have borne in my arms and
nourished with my milk—ah! me, can the Lord God inflict this cruel
martyrdom upon me?”
No one replied, not even Gildas the Wise, who silently adjured the
All-Powerful, and recalled to him the sacrifice of Abraham.
Josserande raised her axe, but she had the misfortune to look at the
wolf, who fixed his eyes, full of tears, upon her, and the axe fell
from her hands.
_It was the wolf who picked it up_, and when he gave it back to her he
said: “I weep for you, my mother.”
“Strike!” cried the crowd, for what remained of Pol and Matheline
uttered terrible groans. “Strike! strike!”
While Josserande again seized her axe the grand abbot had time to say:
“Do not complain, you two unhappy ones, for your suffering here below
changes your hell into purgatory.”
Three times Josserande raised the axe, three times she let it fall
without striking; but at last she said in a hoarse tone that sounded
like a death-rattle: “I have great faith in the good God!” and then,
says the legend, she struck boldly, for the wolf’s head split in two
halves.
XIV.
A sudden wind extinguished the torches, and some one prevented Dame
Josserande from falling, as she sank fainting to the ground, by
supporting her in his arms. By the light of the halo which shone around
the blessed head of Gildas the Wise, the good people saw that this
somebody was the young tenant, Sylvestre Ker, no longer lame nor
one-eyed, but with two straight legs and two perfect eyes.
At the same time there were heard voices in the clouds chanting the _Te
Deum_. Why? Because heaven and earth quivered with emotion at
witnessing this supreme act of faith soaring from the depth of anguish
in a mother’s heart.
XV.
This is the legend that for many centuries has been related at
Christmas time on the shores of the Petite-Mer, which in the Breton
tongue is called _Armor bihan_, the Celtic name of Brittany.
If you ask what moral these good people draw from this strange story, I
will answer that it contains a basketful. Pol and Matheline, condemned
to walk around the Basin of the Pagans until the end of time, one
without arms, the other without a face, offer a severe lesson to those
fellows who are too proud of their broad shoulders and brute force, and
gossiping flirts of girls with smiling faces and wicked hearts; the
case of Sylvestre Ker teaches young men not to listen to the demon of
money; the blow of Josserande’s axe shows the miraculous power of
faith; the part of Gildas the Wise proves that it is well to consult
the saints.
Still further, that you may bind together these diverse morals in one,
here is a proverb which is current in the province: “Never stoop to
pick up the pearls of a smile.” After this ask me no more.
As to the authenticity of the story, I have already said that the
chestnut-grove belongs to the mayor’s nephew, which is one guaranty;
and I will add that the spot is called Sylvestreker, and that the
ruins, hung with moss, have no other name than “The Wolf-Tower!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MR. FROUDE ON THE DECLINE OF PROTESTANTISM.[102]
We have seen what Mr. Froude thinks of the “Revival of Romanism.” Let
us now see what he has to say on a subject nearer his heart—the decline
of Protestantism.
He has much to say; and, to use an ordinary phrase, he makes no bones
about saying it. At the outset we would dispose of what seems a fair
objection. If, it may be urged, you make Mr. Froude so very
untrustworthy a witness against Catholics and the Catholic Church, why
should he not be equally untrustworthy when assailing Protestantism?
The objection is more plausible than real. Mr. Froude is a professed
Protestant. In the cause of Protestantism he is earnest even to
aggressiveness. He believes in and loves it with all his heart and
soul, as really as he disbelieves in and detests Catholicity. He can
say nothing that is too good of the early Protestant Reformers and of
their “Reform.” He doubts about nothing, apologizes for nothing,
attempts to palliate nothing either in the Reformers or their Reform.
He sees nothing in either to apologize for or to palliate. He can only
regret that, so far as Protestant belief and work and workers go, the
nineteenth century is not as the sixteenth. He is altogether on his own
ground here; and we submit that the testimony of such a man in such a
matter is of value, the more so when it is confirmed to-day by
concurrent Protestant testimony on all sides. The only difference
between Mr. Froude and the great mass of non-Catholic writers on this
subject is that he is more frank than they, and lays his finger
unshrinkingly on very tender Protestant spots.
Of the actual state of Protestantism he has little that is good or
hopeful to say, with one notable exception—North Germany—which will be
considered later on. Protestantism to-day Mr. Froude finds weak-kneed
as well as weak-headed. It has not that aggressive strength of the
early teachers and preachers of Reform. The modern teachers have lost
that pronounced faith in themselves and in their doctrines, that
burning zeal, that fierce hatred of Catholicity, of falsehood, and of
sham, that Mr. Froude is pleased to discover in the early Reformers.
“Religion speaks with command,” he says very rightly. It “lays down a
set of doctrines, and says, ‘Believe these at your soul’s peril.’ A
certain peremptoriness being thus of the essence of the thing, those
religious teachers will always command most confidence who dare most to
speak in positive tones.” All of which is, of course, most true.
Speaking “in positive tones,” however, does not necessarily imply a
divine mission, or even an erroneous sense of a divine mission. It may
be bluster; it may be calculated lying; it may be the mistaken
enthusiasm of a weak intellect and fervid imagination. To be real it
must stand the severest tests. Of a man who asserts his mission from
heaven as a teacher of religion something more than his own word is
demanded, however positive that word may be. In the preaching and the
teaching of the truth there is in all ages a unity of voice, a
community of feeling and of purpose, a singleness of eye, of aim, of
method, a union of heart and of soul, that is unmistakable and carries
conviction with it. There is no change in it; no fleck or flaw. What is
new agrees with what is old; is generally a consequence flowing out of
the old. It preaches only one God and one law from the beginning. It
never contradicts itself; it never narrows or broadens its moral lines
to suit the convenience or the whim of persons or of nationalities. It
never compromises with humanity. It enlightens the intellect while
appealing to the heart of man. It makes no divisions between men or
nations; no special code for this or for that. It is awful in its
inflexibility; majestic in its calm; eternal in its vigilance; “the
same, yesterday, to-day, and for ever.” This is living Truth; this is
God’s; and he who speaks the word of God is known by these signs.
Mr. Froude is at a loss to find this spirit now abroad in the world.
The nearest approach to it he finds, oddly enough for him, in the
Catholic Church. But, of course, that is owing to some devilish
ingenuity of which the Catholic Church alone has the secret. As for
Protestants, “it is no secret,” he says, “that of late years Protestant
divines have spoken with less boldness, with less clearness and
confidence, than their predecessors of the last generation.” “They are
not to be blamed for it,” he adds, and we quite agree with him. “Their
intellectual position has grown in many ways perplexed. Science and
historical criticism have shaken positions which used to be thought
unassailable” (p. 99). We pointed out one of those “positions”—the
Protestant Reformation in England—but that is not in the contemplation
of Mr. Froude. To him, even if to him alone, that position still
stands, “unassailable.”
“Doctrines once thought to carry their own evidence with them
in their inherent fitness for man’s needs have become, for some
reason or other, less conclusively obvious. The state of mind
to which they were addressed has been altered—altered in some
way either for the worse or for the better. And where the
evangelical theology retains its hold, it is rather as
something which it is unbecoming to doubt than as a body of
living truth which penetrates and vitalizes the heart” (p. 99).
It is to be regretted that Mr. Froude does not specify these
“doctrines.” He fails to do so in any place, and in such matters, as
indeed in all, there is nothing like accuracy in order to arrive at a
clear understanding of what is wrong. Some of them, however, may be
easily guessed at. In these days it would be hard to discover what
precise “doctrines” “evangelical” or any but Catholic theologians do
hold, if hard pushed and driven to make an explicit statement of what
they do and what they do not believe. The expression “evangelical
theology” may help to enlighten us as to Mr. Froude’s meaning. That we
take to mean a theology based on the Bible as the first, final, and
only guide to man’s knowledge of God and all implied in that knowledge.
This view of his meaning is confirmed by another passage (p. 100),
wherein, contrasting the doctrinal position of the Catholic and
Protestant, he says:
“It” (the Catholic Church) “stands precisely on the same
foundation on which the Protestant religion stands—on the truth
of the Gospel history. Before we can believe the Gospel history
we must appeal to the consciousness of God’s existence, which
is written on the hearts of us all.”
There is a mistake here which will be obvious to any instructed reader.
There is no more reason “to appeal to the consciousness of God’s
existence” for the truth of “the Gospel history” than for the truth of
any other history. As a history, history it is and no more, to be
judged as to its accuracy on the known laws of historical criticism. It
contains a written record of events, and stands or falls on the truth
of what it records, just as does Mr. Froude’s own history. If it can be
shown that it is false, there is an end of it; false it is, and no man
is bound to believe it. The foundation of Protestantism, as Mr. Froude
very rightly says, stands “on the truth of the Gospel history”—that is,
on the Bible, and the Bible alone. Christ, however, did not build his
church on the Bible, but on Peter, the chief of the apostles: “I say to
thee, Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and
the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” Those are very plain,
strong, and unmistakable words; and in their comprehension lies a
fundamental difference between Catholics and Protestants.
Out of this difference comes a singular effect, more noticeable in
these than in former days. Catholics reverence the Bible more really
because more truly than do Protestants. Over-reverence is irreverence.
They never made the mistake of accepting the Bible as the foundation of
Christ’s church, any more than in human affairs we should take a
history of a commonwealth, with the digest of its laws, the sayings of
some of its wise men, their documents to their contemporaries and to
posterity, as the commonwealth itself. Protestants withdrew from the
body of the church, which may have had, and had, sore spots and
diseased members; they took up the written record and said: Here are
the laws; here are the words of Christ; here are the sayings of the
fathers; here is truth; here let us build our church anew—each one
judging for himself as to what the church was and ought to be.
Difficulties that were essential to such a position and that are
obvious at sight arose at once and continued all the way down, until at
last, in these days of all others, there sprang up in the very bosom of
Protestantism a school of assailants of the Bible itself. This is the
school of modern scientists, which rejects revelation, rejects God,
rejects the truth of the Bible history, rejects Christ—rejects, in a
word, everything, save what approves itself to it by so-called positive
testimony. Hence arises the perplexity of the “intellectual position”
of Protestant divines, which Mr. Froude notices. The very foundation of
their creed is questioned, and questioned at every inch. So, until
everything is satisfactorily cleared up and the “scientists” absolutely
refuted, Protestantism is in a state of dissolution. It has no
foundation on which to stand, while Catholics have their living church,
to which they adhered steadfastly from the very beginning, which
existed, and was called into being, entirely independent of the Bible,
and which would have been what it is had the Bible never been written
at all. So that, _per impossibile_, even were the Bible shown to be
false, it would not affect the fundamental Catholic position. Of course
we do not intimate for a moment that the Bible is false, and that the
scientists can prove anything against it. We only bring forward this
instance of an essential difference between Catholics and Protestants,
and the effect of it on their minds, as showing the reason why
Catholics take the criticism of the new school of inquirers very
calmly, while the result of this criticism on Protestants is
disastrous.
Catholics are just as steadfast in their belief as they ever were;
Protestants are daily becoming less and less so. Inquiry, or
“criticism,” as it is called, while it strengthens, if possible,
Catholicity, destroys Protestantism. Truth can stand all things.
“Science and historical criticism _have_ shaken positions which used to
be thought unassailable” by Protestants, who find themselves in the
false position of being compelled to question or reject as false what
their fathers pinned their faith to—Germany always excepted, according
to Mr. Froude. It is a hard thing indeed to preach and teach as divine
truth a doctrine, or by our very profession to subscribe to a doctrine,
which in our heart we doubt about or disbelieve. This is a moral
phenomenon which Protestantism presents to us every day, and in no one
of its infinite branches more conspicuously than in the Anglican.
If men are preaching what they disbelieve or are in grave doubt about,
it is simply natural that “where truth” (or what was taken for truth)
“was once flashed out like lightning, and attended with oratorical
thunders, it is now uttered with comparative feebleness.”
“The most honest, perhaps, are the most uncomfortable and most
hesitating, while those who speak most boldly are often
affecting a confidence which in their hearts they do not feel”
(p. 99). “From some cause, it seems they” (Protestant
preachers) “dare not speak, they dare not think, like their
fathers. Too many of them condescend to borrow the weapons of
their adversaries. _They are not looking for what is true; they
are looking for arguments to defend positions which they know
to be indefensible._ Their sermons are sometimes sophistical,
sometimes cold and mechanical, sometimes honestly diffident.
Any way, they are without warmth and cannot give what they do
not possess” (p. 100).
This is a very heavy indictment; we leave to others to judge of its
truth. It is a mistake, however, to draw the line at “their fathers.”
These men are what their fathers have made them. The characteristics
that mark the present teachers of Protestantism run down the whole line
of the Protestant tradition. Incoherency and inconsistency, not to use
harsher terms, necessarily stamped Protestantism from the first.[103]
These characteristics are only more apparent to-day because the
constant fire of criticism has exposed and brought them more
prominently into view.