acknowledge to herself that she should never have a house of her own
to manage, Fanny had but one desire, but this was an ardent one—to be
installed in a family which, if not her own, might prove as pleasant,
and where she could rule while appearing to obey. But where find this
ideal home?... She resolved to create it. And in this way: her old
mistress, Mme. Smithson’s sister, had a son named Albert, who was five
years older than Eugénie. Fanny had known him from his childhood. She
was attached to him, and, above all, she understood his disposition.
No one knew better than she that Albert would be the easiest, the most
manageable, in short, the mildest of masters. On the other hand, she
knew that Eugénie, energetic as she was, would not be difficult to
please. “Mademoiselle lives in the clouds,” she said to herself; “she
will be glad enough to have some one manage the house for her.”
Fanny, therefore, resolved to make a match between the two cousins.
There is reason to believe she made skilful overtures to her former
mistress and to the young man himself, and that these overtures were
well received. Albert was now preparing his thesis with a view to the
law. As he was not rich, his cousin’s fortune was a very pleasant
prospect, and still more so to his mother. Besides, Albert had always
known Eugénie and loved her, as is natural to love a cousin that is
pretty and intelligent. He and his mother, therefore, made Fanny their
intermediary, without committing themselves to too great an extent.
But Fanny had a good deal to overcome. Mr. Smithson was not partial
to lawyers. The profession was not, in his estimation, clearly
enough defined or very elevated. As to Eugénie, no one knew what her
sentiments were with regard to her cousin. Fanny thought she had, if
not a very strong attachment to him, at least an incipient affection.
But she was not sure. Thence resulted continual fears. Every young
man who entered the house was to her an object of alarm. Perhaps her
prospects, so slowly ripening and so dear, would be again overthrown by
this one!
It may be imagined that Fanny looked with an unfavorable eye on Louis’
connection with the manufactory. If Mr. Smithson had chosen another
kind of a man to aid him, one who was obscure, a mere common man of
business, she would not have minded it. But in the course of a week,
she was fully informed as to the history of the new-comer. She knew
he belonged to one of the best families of the city; that he had been
rich, and might become so again; that, till recently, he had been
regarded as one of the most brilliant young men in society; and he
was intelligent, well-educated, and of irreproachable morals. “I am
lost!” thought she. “All these people are linked together to ruin my
plans. This M. Louis comes here as an engineer?... Nonsense! it is
an arrangement between his father and Mr. Smithson. They wish him to
marry mademoiselle. What a contrivance! And that poor Albert, what will
become of him?...”
These suspicions quite upset her. She resolved to make inquiries, in
order to relieve her mind, if by chance she was mistaken. But whom
should she question?... Mr. Smithson?... That must not be thought of.
Eugénie? Fanny made the attempt. Eugénie, with her usual coolness
and wit, replied in such a way that Fanny retreated every time more
uncertain than before.
The day of which I am speaking—the notable day of the dinner—Fanny,
out of patience, could endure it no longer. She resolved to carry
matters so far that, whether she liked it or not, her mistress would
be forced to revive her hopes, or utterly destroy them. Hardly had she
entered the chamber before she opened fire:
“How shall I arrange mademoiselle’s hair?”
“As usual.”
“Then we will dress it differently this afternoon with ribbons and
flowers.”
“Why such a display?”
“Can mademoiselle have forgotten it is the day of the great dinner?”
“Great dinner? What do you mean by such nonsense, Fanny? Why, whom are
we to have at our table of so much importance? Nobody is invited that I
have not known a long time: our neighbor, M. Daumier, with his wife and
daughter, Dr. Ollivier, and M. Dupaigne. Really, it would be singular
for me to receive them with any ceremony.”
“Mademoiselle has not named all the guests.”
“Whom have I forgotten?”
“M. Louis Beauvais.”
“Ah! that is true. I overlooked him. But his coming will not change my
intention to remain as I am.”
These words were uttered in a tone of perfect indifference. Fanny was
overjoyed, but careful not to manifest it. Then, as she continued to
busy herself about her mistress, she began to reflect. “She does not
care for him,” she said to herself. “There is nothing to fear for the
moment, then. But who knows how it may be by-and-by?... I must at once
find out if, under favorable circumstances, she might not conceive an
affection for him, and try to prevent such a misfortune. I will take
the other side to find out the truth.”
“A charming young man, this M. Louis, and quite worthy of interest,”
said she, without appearing to attach any importance to her words.
“What do you find so charming in him?”
“He has a serious air, which I like.”
“Yes; it might even be called gloomy.”
“He may well have.”
“Really! Ah! Fanny, then you know his history?”
“Yes, mademoiselle; and a very curious one it is.”
“Well, relate it to me. Only suppress the details; you always give too
many.”
“Three months ago, M. Louis was the finest dancer and the gayest
young man in the city. Unfortunately, these young men are not always
remarkable for uniformity. He lived like a prince for six years, and
one fine morning found himself penniless.”
“And what did he do then?”
“They say—I am unwilling to believe it, but everybody says so—that he
tried to drown himself.”
“A weak brain. That is not to his credit.”
“They also say that M. Barnier, the journalist, saved him at the risk
of his life, and converted him so thoroughly that the poor fellow came
near entering a monastery.”
“A queer idea! That shows he has more imagination than reason!”
“But he did not stick to his first intention. He is now established
here, and will remain, I feel sure, ... and this alarms me!...”
“Why are you so sure? And how can this assurance cause you any alarm?”
“That is a secret. Mademoiselle will excuse me from replying. Though I
have known mademoiselle from her childhood, she intimidates me.”
“Not much, Fanny.”
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I do not understand you.”
“You understand me perfectly, but I have to dot your i’s for you. Well,
I will do so. I do not intimidate you much, I say. You dare not tell me
what you mean, but you give me a hint of it. What are you afraid of?
Tell me. I insist upon it.”
“As mademoiselle insists upon it, I feel obliged to tell her what she
wishes to know. Mademoiselle is not to be resisted. But I should prefer
keeping it to myself. If it were to displease mademoiselle ...”
“No; go on.”
“Well, then, mademoiselle, I have everything to fear! This young man
has lost his property.... He passes himself off here as a creditable
person.... He has secret designs ...”
“What designs?”
“Mademoiselle puts me in an awkward position.... It is such a delicate
point to speak to mademoiselle about.”
“That M. Beauvais aspires to my hand through interested motives?”
“I should not have dared say so.”
“Well, that would be audacious! I accept a man for a husband whom
poverty, disgraceful poverty, alone inclines towards me!”
“Without doubt, he has committed many faults, but there is mercy for
the greatest sinner, and he is so pious just now!”
“I know—he goes to church often, even during the week. That is his own
affair. That is enough, Fanny. Let there be no further question of this
between us. You take too much interest in what concerns me, as I have
told you before. I am astonished you should force me to repeat it.”
Fanny, thus dismissed, went away furious and more uneasy than ever. But
if she could have read Eugénie’s inmost thoughts, her fury would have
turned to joy. As soon as she was gone, Eugénie seated herself in a
low arm-chair, and began, as she sometimes laughingly said, to put her
thoughts in order.
“That malicious girl is no fool,” she said to herself. “This young
man may have entered my father’s service from secret motives, perhaps
suggested by his family. Who knows but my parents themselves smile
on his projects? My father seems to be on the best of terms with his
father. Perhaps they have come to an understanding with a mere word,
or even without speaking at all. That would be too much! Well, if it
is so, if the whole world conspires against me, I will defeat their
calculations.... In the first place, I do not fancy this M. Louis, and
I will soon let him see it, as well as those who favor him. The mere
supposition that I could ever be his wife makes me indignant and angry.
I marry a man who has ruined himself, who only aimed at my fortune, and
would squander it in a few years! I give my heart to a man who does
not love me, and, even if he sincerely vowed he loved me, would be in
such a position that I should always have reason to doubt it! And,
besides, what a weak mind this hare-brained fellow must have to play
so many _rôles_ one after the other! I wish my husband to have purer
motives and a stronger head. This man must have a false heart. He is an
intriguer, and that includes everything....”
CHAPTER XII.
MORE ABOUT EUGENIE—A REAL FRIEND.
THAT evening, Louis found himself for the first time in the midst of
the Smithson family. We often thought of him that night, and wished we
could know at once what kind of a reception he had met with, especially
from Eugénie. But we were obliged to wait for these interesting details
till Louis could relate them himself. We did not have to wait long.
When he came, he was gloomy and dispirited. Victor pretended not to
observe his dejection.
“Well,” said he, “you have now made the acquaintance of the Smithsons.
What do you think of them?”
“A good many things, but I can sum up my impressions in a word: they
are queer people!”
“Indeed! did they hurt your feelings in any way?”
“Yes; ... yet I do wrong to be angry, or even to be astonished. I
should have expected it.”
“This great dinner, then, did not turn out as I hoped—a means of
cementing amicable, if not affectionate, relations between you?”
“By no means.”
“You greatly astonish me!”
“It is just so.... The way things were managed shows the Smithsons to
be sagacious people. They invited me, in order to make me understand
at once the position I hold in their estimation—that of engineer and
superintendent, nothing more.”
“I am really amazed!”
“And I am equally so. I did not expect it, but the fact is too evident.”
“Well, tell me all that happened, without omitting anything.”
“Not to omit anything would make the story long, and it is not worth
the trouble. I will briefly relate what I think will interest you,
that you may have an idea of this first visit. There were but four
other guests, whom I only regarded with indifference. They were neither
pleasing nor displeasing, so it is useless to speak of them. We will
confine ourselves to the leading members of the household. I will first
speak of the real though unacknowledged head. My mind is made up on
this point. As I saw from the first, it is Mlle. Eugénie who rules the
house.”
“Even her father?”
“Yes; even her father; not as openly and directly as she does her
mother, but as unmistakably by dint of management.”
“Is she really a superior woman, as I have been told, or is she merely
shrewd and imperious?”
“Oh! no. Those who have sounded her praises have not deceived you.
She is by no means a common person. In the first place, it must
be confessed she is really handsome. There is especially a rare
intelligence and dignity in her appearance. She converses well, often
says something profound, and is always interesting. She is a lover of
the arts, and all she says, all she does, evinces an elevated mind.”
“Such a person as is seldom met with, then—a model of perfection?”
“She has all that is necessary to become so, ... and yet she is not.
One fault spoils everything, one or two at the most, but they are
serious. She is proud or egotistical, perhaps both.”
“Are you not too severe upon her? You scarcely know her, and yet you
are very decided in your condemnation.”
“I have reasons for my opinion. You shall judge for yourself. My
position with respect to Mr. Smithson is very trying. He knows, and
doubtless the rest of the family too, all the follies I have committed
within a few years, and how I regret them. He cannot be ignorant, nor
they either, that the office I hold under him, however respectable,
must awaken a susceptibility that is natural and excusable, even if
exaggerated. In this state of things, I had a right to expect that Mr.
Smithson and his family, if they were really people of any soul or
breeding, would treat me with a delicacy that, without compromising
them, would put me at my ease.”
“I am of your opinion. And have they been wanting therein?”
“Yes; and in a very disagreeable way. It is little things that betray
shades of feeling, and it was thereby I was hurt. In leaving the
_salon_ for the dining-room, each guest offered his arm to a lady. Mr.
Smithson, his daughter, and myself were the last. Mlle. Eugénie took
her father’s arm with an eagerness that was really uncivil.”
“It was from timidity, perhaps.”
“She timid?... I must undeceive you! She certainly is not bold, but she
is far from being timid. At table, I found myself consigned to the
lowest place. None of the guests were great talkers, and more than once
I took part in the conversation. Mlle. Smithson undisguisedly pretended
not to listen to me. She even interrupted me by speaking of something
quite foreign to what I was saying.”
“Her education has been defective.”
“Pardon me, she is perfectly well-bred. To see her an hour would
convince you of this. When she is deficient in politeness, it is
because she wishes to be.”
“I believe you, but cannot comprehend it all.”
“I have not told you everything. The worst is to come. Towards the
end of dinner, the conversation fell on a certain cousin of Mlle.
Eugénie’s. His name, I think, is Albert. She praised him highly,
to which I have nothing to say; but she added—and this was very
unreasonable or very malicious—that this dear cousin did not imitate
the young men of fashion, who were extravagant in their expenditures,
acquired nothing, and ended by falling into pitiful embarrassment. I
was, I confess, provoked and angry. I felt strongly tempted to make
Mlle. Smithson feel the rudeness and unkindness of her remark. But I
bethought myself that I was a Christian, and that, after all, the most
genuine proof of repentance is humility. Therefore I restrained my
feelings, and remained silent. The rest of the evening I cut a sorry
figure. Mlle. Smithson seemed perfectly unconcerned as to what I might
think.”
“Her behavior is so inexplicable,” said Victor, “that, if I had these
details from any one else, I should refuse to believe them.”
(At this part of her story, Mme. Agnes made a remark it may be well to
repeat to the reader: “You must bear in mind,” said she, “that neither
Victor nor I then had any means of knowing what I related a few moments
ago as to Fanny’s projects and Eugénie’s suspicions; and we were
completely ignorant of her turn of mind and romantic notions.”)
“Well,” resumed Louis, “her way of acting, at which you are astonished,
does not amaze me. I can easily explain it. Mlle. Eugénie imagines
that I aspire to her hand, or rather, to her fortune. She is mistaken;
I aspire to neither. I acknowledge she has a combination of qualities
calculated to please me, but her disdain excites my indignation. I
mean, therefore, to put a speedy end to her injurious suspicions. Then
I will leave the place. I have already begun to put my project into
execution.”
“Do not be precipitate, I beg of you. It is a delicate matter. What
steps have you taken?”
“None of any importance. This morning, the work-rooms being closed as
usual on Sunday, I went, before Mass, to sketch a delightful view not a
hundred steps from the manufactory. I was wholly absorbed in my work,
when Mlle. Smithson approached. I will not deny I was moved at seeing
her.”
“Then you are no longer indifferent to her?”
“Oh! I think I can vouch for the perfect indifference of my sentiments
for the moment. But would this coldness towards her always last
if I did not watch over my heart?... She has so many captivating
qualities! I have seen so few women to be compared to her! No, no; I
will not allow myself to be captivated unawares; that would be too
great a misfortune for me.... I have resolved to raise myself in her
estimation. I will clearly convince her she has calumniated me in her
heart; that I am in no respect the man she thinks; and, when I have
done that, I shall leave. So, when she approached, I bowed to her with
respect and politeness.
“‘You are sketching, monsieur?’ she said, bending down to look at my
work. ‘It is charming.’
“‘It ought to be, mademoiselle. There could not be a landscape better
calculated to inspire an artist. But while I am admiring what is before
me, I regret my unskilfulness in depicting it. It is my own fault. I
have so long neglected the art of drawing. I have acted like so many
other young men, and lost some of the best years of my life.’
“She understood the allusion—perhaps too direct—to her sally of the
other day. A slight blush rose to her face. ‘One would not suspect
it, monsieur,’ she said. ‘But as for that, even if you have lost your
skill, it can easily be regained in the midst of the delightful views
in this vicinity.’
“‘It is true, mademoiselle! A lovelier region it would be difficult to
find. I wish some of these views for my sketch-book, as I may leave any
day.’
“I uttered these words in a cool, deliberate tone, and then resumed my
work. Mlle. Eugénie seemed to wish to continue the conversation, but,
slightly abashed, had not the courage, I think, to make any advances. I
bowed ceremoniously, and she went away. My opinion is, she stopped out
of mere curiosity. She had shown how little she esteemed me, and was
not afraid of my attaching any importance to her speaking to me. Such a
course favors my plans.”
“Wonderfully! But—nothing headlong! Forbear leaving Mr. Smithson too
precipitately. You are now near your family. Time may show things to
you in a different light. And, above all, it seems to me great good can
be done there, and more easily than in most places. Tell me something
of your workmen. Have you thought of the two projects we talked about
the other day? Have you spoken to Mr. Smithson about them?”
“No; it seems to me they would not particularly please him. I really do
not know whether this Englishman has any heart or not. I am inclined to
regard him as an egotist, merely employing men to increase his wealth,
and not very solicitous about their welfare.”
“I must undeceive you. I have reason to think Mr. Smithson a very
different person from what you suppose. We have not many Protestants
here, you know, but still there are a few. Among them are some who
are really actuated by good motives. They assembled a few months
ago at the house of Mr. Carrand, the rich lawyer you are acquainted
with. They wished to establish a charitable society, in imitation of
our Conferences of S. Vincent de Paul, but did not succeed in their
plans. To effect such an enterprise, there must be the zeal and
charity that animate the Catholic Church. To her alone God grants
the sublime privilege of devoting herself with constancy and success
to the physical and moral welfare of mankind. Though their project
remained unfruitful, it revealed a generosity much to the credit of
the Protestants interested in it Mr. Smithson himself was one of the
foremost on this occasion to manifest how earnestly he had at heart the
welfare of the poor; and this without any evidence of being influenced
by selfish motives.”
“What you say surprises me, but it gives me great pleasure. I shall
henceforth be less reserved with him.”
“And you will do well. I even advise you to consult Mme. and Mlle.
Smithson about your charitable plans. They are Catholics, and will
comprehend you at once.”
“I have no great confidence in their piety.”
“My dear friend, I regard you with the affection of a brother....”
“Say, rather, of a father, as you are, in one sense, having saved my
life; and also by another title, in aiding me to become an earnest
Christian, such as I once was.”
“Well, then, let us use a medium term. My regard for you shall be
that of an elder brother. I thank you for allowing me this title. My
affection for you makes me take an interest in all that concerns you.
I have obtained very exact information respecting the Smithson ladies
from a reliable source. They are not as pious as they might be, but
they do not lack faith, and they fulfil the absolute requirements of
the church. I know that Mlle. Eugénie is keenly alive to the poetical
side of religion. You have, I believe, an important _rôle_ to fill
in the family and in the whole establishment. You can do good to
every one there, and, at the same time, to yourself. The course to be
pursued seems to me very simple. I feel sure Mlle. Smithson has some
misconception concerning you—some injurious suspicions. Endeavor
to remove them from her mind. Act prudently, but as promptly as
possible. That done, induce her to take an interest in the work you
are going to undertake. She will lead her father to participate in it.
In a short time, you will see the good effect on your workmen, and
derive from your charitable efforts the reward that never fails to
follow—an ever-increasing love of doing good, and a livelier desire of
sanctifying your own soul. The exercise of charity is of all things the
most salutary. I can safely predict that the Smithson ladies will both
become pious if they second you; and as for you, you will be more and
more strengthened in your good resolutions. Who knows?—perhaps you may
have the sweet surprise of seeing Mr. Smithson converted when he sees
that Catholicism alone enables us to confer on others a real benefit.”
“These are fine projects, and very attractive; but I foresee many
obstacles and dangers.”
“What ones?”
“Of all kinds. First, I expose myself to conceive an affection for
Mlle. Smithson it would be prudent to guard against. She does not
like me. I imagine she loves some one else—the cousin she praises so
willingly.”
“A supposition without proof! What I have heard from others, as well as
yourself, convinces me that Mlle. Smithson has not yet made her choice.
The praise she so publicly lavishes on her cousin is, in my opinion, a
proof of her indifference towards him.”
“But if I were to love her—love her seriously, and she continued to
disdain me; if her prejudice against me could not be overcome?...”
“I should be the first to regret it. But listen to me. You were once
truly pious, my friend, and wish to become so again. This desire is
sincere, I know. Well, it is time to take a correct view of life. For
the most of us, especially those who are called to effect some good in
the world, life is only one long sacrifice. Jesus Christ suffered and
died to redeem mankind; the way he chose for himself he also appointed
for those who become his disciples. It is by self-sacrifice that we
acquire the inappreciable gift of being useful to our fellow-men. Do
not cherish any illusion with regard to this!”
Louis and I exchanged a sorrowful glance as Victor spoke. Poor dear
fellow! how he realized what he was saying! He was about to die at
thirty-six years of age, in the very height of his usefulness, and this
because he likewise had voluntarily chosen the rough path of sacrifice
that was leading even unto death!
“My friend,” replied Louis, “what you say is true. I feel it. You are
yourself an eloquent proof of it—you whom I have stopped in the midst
of your career....”
“Do not talk so,” interrupted Victor; “you pain me. Your manner of
interpreting my words makes me regret uttering them. Do not mistake
my meaning. What I would say may be summed up thus: to effect a
reformation in Mr. Smithson’s manufactory, where there are many bad men
who corrupt the good; to enkindle a spirit of piety in the hearts of
the Smithson ladies, by associating them in the good you are to effect.
Whatever may be the result, devote yourself to this work without any
reserve. You must not hesitate! Your sufferings, if you have any to
endure, will not be without fruit, and perhaps God may not suffer them
to be of long duration.”
“You have decided me. I will begin to-morrow. I will commence with the
evening-school, and by visiting the most destitute families.”
“Do not forget that the destitution most to be pitied is moral
destitution. Visit those who have nothing, but especially those who are
depraved.”
Louis went away in a totally different frame of mind from that with
which he had come. Victor, in his gentle way, had increased his esteem
for Mr. Smithson, and inflamed him with the zeal—the ardent desire
of usefulness with which he was filled himself. When he was gone,
Victor and I talked a long time about him. I confessed I had no great
faith in his perseverance. Victor replied: “His mother’s piety and
careful training must lead to his thorough conversion. And how he has
already changed! He realizes the worthlessness of the aims to which he
once gave himself up. There is no fear of his receding. He has taken
the surest means of persevering—the apostolic work of doing good.
Nevertheless, I acknowledge I wish he could find some one to aid him.
And what a powerful aid it would be if he loved and felt himself loved!
Ardent as he is, he would communicate his piety to the object of his
affection. And how much good would result from their combined efforts!
But I fear it will not be thus! Our poor friend will, perhaps, purchase
the right of winning a few souls at the expense of his own happiness.”
CHAPTER XIII.
LOUIS AT WORK.
LOUIS took two whole days to reflect on the important subject of his
conversation with my husband. Was the profound love he subsequently
felt for Eugénie already springing up in his heart? Such is my
opinion, though I dare not say so positively. He probably was not
conscious himself of the real state of his mind. Since that time, I
have often dwelt on all that took place then and afterwards, and it
has always seemed to me that, from the very moment Louis first knew
and appreciated Mlle. Smithson, he conceived an affection for her
as serious as it was sudden. This affection was one of those that
seem destined, from the beginning, to a continual increase. Does this
mean that I have adopted the foolish and erroneous theory of novel
writers, who regard love as an overmastering passion to which one
is forced at all hazards to submit?... Neither religion nor reality
will allow one to yield to such an error. But they do not hinder me
from believing there are inclinations and affections that all at once
assert themselves with so much force that, if one would not be speedily
overcome by passion, he must at once raise an insurmountable barrier
against it, such as flight, reason armed with contempt, and, what is a
thousand times better than all—prayer. Such, in my opinion, was the
love Louis at once conceived for Mlle. Smithson.
How shall I account for his being so captivated, when Eugénie had
wounded him so deeply, and was so proud and every way original? For he
too was proud, and his pride was allied with an unvarying simplicity
which by no means accorded with Mlle. Smithson’s turn of mind.... I
account for this in many ways. Eugénie had very distinguished manners.
This naturally pleased Louis, for he had been brought up by a mother
who was a model of distinction. Eugénie had a noble soul. Her opinions
were not always correct, but they were always of an elevated nature.
She was, it is true, peculiar and romantic, and Louis was not. But he
liked all these peculiarities in her. They seemed to him charming.
Lastly, and this is one of my strongest reasons, I think it was because
Louis felt himself worthy of being Eugénie’s husband, and, seeing
himself slighted by her, was the more strongly tempted to win her.
As Victor and I were his confidential friends, he kept us informed of
all his proceedings, and, I may safely say, even of his thoughts. It is
therefore easy for me to retrace the story of his love, which I will do
without any exaggeration.
But first, let us return to his charitable projects, and the way
in which he executed them. Louis was not merely an engineer in Mr.
Smithson’s establishment, but a Christian, and all the more zealous
because he was anxious to expiate his past errors. He knew by
experience to what an abyss the passions lead, and was desirous of
warning others. If he had been a man of ordinary mind and heart, he
would no doubt have been animated by entirely different motives. After
his ruin, and rescue from a watery grave, desirous of regaining not
only his father’s esteem, but that of the world, he might have chosen
the very position he now occupied, but he would have taken care to live
as easily as possible. He would perhaps have sought to win Eugénie’s
affections, and in the end would have thought only of her and labored
for her alone. Such a life would not be worth relating. The lives of
ordinary men are as unworthy of interest as the egotism that is the
mainspring of their actions.
Louis’ life was a very different one. That is why I am desirous of
making it known. But do not suppose his nature was thus transformed
in an instant. God did not work one of those miracles that consist in
the complete, instantaneous change of a man’s character. Our faults
veil our better qualities, but do not suppress them; so a return to
piety gives them new brilliancy, but does not create them. Louis, as
I afterwards learned, had in his youth manifested uncommon elevation
and purity of mind, and the piety of a saint. After his arrival at
manhood, deprived of his mother’s influence, and led away by his
passions, he placed no bounds to his follies. But suddenly arrested
in the midst of his disorderly career, providentially saved at the
very moment of being for ever lost, he at once broke loose from his
pernicious habits. Like a traveller who returns to the right path
after going astray for awhile, he resumed his course in the way of
perfection with as much ardor as if he had never left it. There was
only one reproach to be made against him at the onset. With his earnest
nature and tendency to extremes, he manifested too openly the interior
operations of grace. The difference between the young exquisite whom
everybody knew, and the new convert observed of all eyes, was rather
too marked. Louis’ serious and somewhat stern air, his austere look,
and his habitual reserve, repelled those who had no faith in his entire
conversion. Thence arose backbitings, suspicions, and accusations of
hypocrisy which did not come to our poor friend’s ears, but were the
cause of more than one annoyance. I must, however, acknowledge, to Mr.
Smithson’s credit, that he showed a great deal of charity for Louis at
that time. If he sometimes accused him of undue zeal, he was from the
first disposed to believe it sincere.
I will briefly relate what Louis accomplished during the few weeks
subsequent to his last conversation with Victor. My husband had advised
him not to undertake anything till he had consulted Mr. Smithson.
Louis followed his advice, and begged an interview with his employer.
It was then in the month of June. The conversation took place without
witnesses, in the open air, on a fine summer evening. I give it as
related by Louis.
“Monsieur,” said he, “I am aware of your interest in benevolent
objects. The workmen you employ, and whom I superintend under your
orders, are not in your eyes mere instruments for the increase of
wealth, but men to whom you wish to be as useful as circumstances will
allow.”
Mr. Smithson was never lavish of his words. He made a sign of assent,
and appeared pleased with what was said.
Louis continued: “I also am desirous of being useful to my fellow-men.
I have done many foolish things, and would like to preserve others
from similar mistakes, for the consequences are often fatal. With your
permission, I will not content myself with aiding you in the management
of the mill, but beg the honor of being associated, in proportion to my
ability, with all the good you are desirous of doing.”
“Monsieur,” said Mr. Smithson, “your unexpected offer somewhat
embarrasses me. I am quite ready to accede to your wishes, but could
not, in truth, consider you my co-laborer. What I have hitherto done
has been but little, but I know not what else to do. I assist the
needy, and give good advice here and there; that is all. You can follow
my example. I shall be glad. Is that what you wish? Or do you happen to
have anything better and more extensive to propose? If so, go on. I am
ready to hear it.”
“Yes, monsieur; I have some other plans to suggest.”
“State them without any hesitation. I only hope they are of a nature
to second my views. The first condition for that is, to propose only
what is simple and practical. Doubtless too great an effort cannot
be made at this time to aid and improve our workmen, both for their
own interest and for ours. Everything is dear. The country is in a
ferment. Among those we employ, there are a number of turbulent fellows
and many wretchedly poor.”
“Precisely so. What I wish is, to aid the needy, and reform the bad.”
“Your design is worthy of all praise—as a theory; ... but its
realization will be difficult, not to say impossible. Listen to me,
monsieur; I have a frank avowal to make. I have been engaged in this
business but a short time. I know the common people but little. I
belong to a country and a religion that have a special way of aiding
the indigent. The government takes charge of that with us. In France,
it is different: private individuals take part in it. You find me
therefore greatly embarrassed. Enlighten me, if you can. I ask for
nothing better.”
“Well, monsieur, it seems to me that beneficence should be exercised in
three different ways. First, it is our duty to come to the assistance
of those in distress; ... only I cannot, in this respect, do all I
would like.... I could have done so once ... now ...”
“Do not let that worry you. My purse is open to you on condition that
you only aid those whose destitution you can personally vouch for. It
is also advisable to ascertain what use they make of that which is
given them.”
“I promise this, and thank you. No; it is not sufficient to give them
money. One must see it is made a good use of. The poor should be taught
to double their resources by economy. The assistance of the needy,
then, is the first benevolent effort I would propose. I now come to
moral beneficence. This does not refer to the indigence of the body,
but to that of the soul. I think it especially desirable to preserve
from corruption those of our workmen who are at present leading upright
lives, particularly the young. This does not hinder me from thinking it
necessary to bring those who have gone astray under good influences.”
“Fine projects! I, too, have made similar ones, as I said, but I was
discouraged by the difficulty of executing them. What means do you
propose to employ?”
“What would you say to the formation of a library in one of the rooms
of the manufactory—for instance, that which overlooks the river? It
is now unoccupied. The workmen might be allowed to go there and read
in the evening, and even to smoke, if they like.... This library could
be used, during the hours of cessation from labor, as a schoolroom,
where all could come to learn, in a social way, what they are
ignorant of.—Would not this be a means of keeping them away from the
wine-shops, and afford one an opportunity of conversing with them, and
giving them good advice—advice which comes from the heart?”
“I like the idea. It really seems to me you have conceived a happy
combination of plans; but nothing can be done without a person to put
them in execution.”
“I will do it if you will allow me. I am eager to try the experiment.”
“Your courage and enthusiasm will soon give out. At every step, you
will meet with difficulties impossible to be foreseen. I have mingled
only a little with the working classes, but enough to know they are
difficult to manage, and often ungrateful to those who try to be useful
to them.”
“God will aid me. He will reward me, and they may too. But I shall not
be difficult to please. If some of them correspond to my efforts, it
will be enough. I will forget the ingratitude of the rest.”
Mr. Smithson was amazed at his zeal. His own religion, cold and
formal, had never taught him to take so much pains for those who might
prove ungrateful. He and Louis separated quite pleased with each
other. Louis felt he had been comprehended. He had also the promise
of assistance. Mr. Smithson, with all his reserve, was captivated by
Louis’ enthusiasm for doing good. But though he had promised to aid
Louis, he pitied him. “He will fail,” he said to himself.
The work was begun a few days after, thanks to the co-operation of
Mr. Smithson, who smoothed away the difficulties inseparable from all
beginnings. At seven in the evening, Louis, laying aside the title and
functions of an engineer, became the friend and teacher of the workmen.
They assembled in a large room where benches, tables, and a library
were arranged. At first a certain number of workmen came through mere
curiosity. They found what they did not expect—a teacher who was
competent, kind, ready to converse with them and teach them what they
wished to learn, and this with a heartiness quite different from an
ordinary schoolmaster. Louis devoted himself with so much pleasure to
these evening exercises that his pupils soon learned to like them, and
gave so captivating an account of them to the rest that the number of
scholars increased from day to day. Thus the school was permanently
established without much delay, and numbered about thirty men of all
ages and varieties of character. Louis showed perfect tact in profiting
by so happy a commencement. Every evening, he gave oral instructions,
sometimes on historical subjects, sometimes on a question of moral or
political economy. In each of these lectures, the young master mingled
good advice, which was willingly listened to, given, as it was, in
the midst of instructions that excited the liveliest interest. The
workmen felt they were learning a thousand things they could never have
acquired from books. A book is a voiceless teacher that requires too
much application from unaccustomed pupils.
Mr. Smithson watched over the development of this work, and became more
and more interested in it in proportion as its success, which at first
he had doubted, became more probable, and its utility more evident.
At the same time, without acknowledging it to himself, suspicion and
distrust began to spring up in his heart. Even the best of men under
certain circumstances, unless checked by profound piety, are accessible
to the lowest sentiments. Mr. Smithson began to be jealous of his
assistant, and even to fear him.
“What!” he said to himself, “shall he succeed in a work I dared
not undertake myself! He will acquire a moral influence in the
establishment superior to mine!...” Then, as his unjust suspicions
increased: “It is not the love of doing good that influences him: it is
ambition,” he thought.
Louis had no suspicion of what was passing in his employer’s mind,
and therefore resolutely continued to pursue the course he had begun.
He had formerly accompanied his mother in her visits among the poor,
and thus learned how to benefit them. She had taught him it was not
sufficient to give them money: it was necessary to mingle with them,
talk with them, give them good advice—in a word, to treat them as
brethren and friends. Having organized his evening-school, he resolved
to visit the most destitute and ignorant families in the village, which
was about a kilometre and a half from the manufactory. He went there
every evening towards six, and spent an hour in going from one house to
another. Chance, as an unbeliever would say, or Providence, to speak
more correctly, led him to the house of a poor woman quite worthy of
his interest. She was fifty years of age, and slowly wasting away from
disease of the lungs, complicated with an affection of the heart.
This woman was one of those lovely souls developed by the Catholic
religion oftener than is supposed. People little suspected how much she
suffered, or with how much patience she bore her sufferings, but God
knew. She was a real martyr. Married to a drunken, brutal man of her
own age, she had endured all the abuse and ill-treatment with which he
loaded her without a murmur. She had brought up her son piously, and
labored as long as she was able to supply her own wants and those of
her child. Broken down by illness and the continual ill-treatment of
her husband, she would have died of want, had not Mlle. Smithson come
to her aid.
When Louis went to see this poor woman, whom we will call Françoise,
she spoke of Eugénie so enthusiastically, and with so much emotion,
that he was greatly impressed. It was sweet to hear the praises of one
whom he dreamed, if not of marrying, at least of associating in his
good works.
The next day, he repeated his call on the sick woman, and for several
days in succession. I think he had a secret hope of meeting Eugénie,
without daring to acknowledge it to himself. As yet, he had merely seen
her. He found her, as you know, handsome, stylish, and intelligent, but
cool towards him. He longed to observe her in this miserable dwelling.
Here, apart from other influences, she might show herself, as he hoped
she really was—exempt from the imperfections he had remarked in her
at home with regret. Without acknowledging it, he loved her, and it is
hard to be forced to pass an unfavorable judgment on those we love. But
days passed without their meeting. The sick woman was visibly failing.
One evening, Louis found her weaker than ever.
“My dear monsieur,” said she, “I am very happy. I am about to enter
the presence of the good God! But I have one cause for anxiety at the
hour of death. I depend on you to remove it. When the wealthy die,
they leave their friends valuable legacies, but we poor people have
only burdens to bequeath. Mlle. Eugénie has promised to watch over my
little boy. She is very kind!... And I have another favor to ask of
you, monsieur. Not far from the village is a family by the name of
Vinceneau. The father is employed in the tile works you have to pass in
coming to see me. Hereafter, when you come by, continue to think of me,
and pray for me!... But that is not the point. The man I am speaking of
is intemperate like my husband. The mother would be an excellent woman,
were it not for two faults. She is indolent and envious—always ready
to think evil of the rich. She works at your mill. It is not these two
people I am going to recommend to you, but their daughter. The poor
child is as handsome as a picture, and as pious as an angel. She often
comes to see me. I tremble lest she be lost through the bad example of
her parents, or through dangerous society. I have a feeling that, in
some way, you will find means of being useful to her, if necessary.
I should have recommended her to Mlle. Eugénie, but her father and
mother, as I have said, are good for nothing, and I should not like
to send mademoiselle where I know she is detested on account of her
wealth.”
Louis gladly acceded to her request. He left a few moments after to
attend his evening-school. Half-way home, he perceived Eugénie coming
from the mill, and could not help meeting her.
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE POLITICAL PRINCIPLE OF THE SOCIAL RESTORATION OF FRANCE.
BY F. RAMIERE, S.J.
FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES.
THE great danger of France at the present time is neither the
decline of her military power, nor the diminution of her political
influence, nor the deep wound inflicted on her finances by an enormous
war contribution, nor the aggrandizement of Prussia, nor even the
unchaining of the Revolution: it is the division among right-thinking
men.
Supposing that all men in or out of the Assembly, united by the
indissoluble bond of principle, sincerely desired the re-establishment
of order, the revolutionary monster would soon be rendered harmless.
The healthy influences now paralyzed would regain their action; with
security, legitimate interests would recover their power of expansion;
the vital strength of the country would develop rapidly; and, thanks
to the vigorous elasticity which characterizes our race, we would soon
resume the rank in Europe that belongs to us.
Let us recollect the wonderful promptitude with which France, reduced
to extremity by the religious wars, reached the apogee of her
prosperity under Louis XIII. We would rise again with equal facility,
if the good dispositions, not wanting in France, could be bound
together, and oppose a compact fasces to the revolutionary passions,
alas! too well united for destruction.
Unfortunately, it is not so. Unity of thought and action, which is the
supreme necessity of every government, is wanting to-day in those who
are alone able to save us, and it has become the exclusive privilege
of the party that is working for our ruin. M. Le Play, who, in a
recent treatise, warns us of the danger of the situation, sees but one
remedy: the abandonment for a time at least of political questions,
and the concentration of the efforts of all true men for the study and
solution of the social question. Says M. Le Play: “The enlightened men
who compose the majority of our Assembly render themselves powerless
by their division on what is called the political question—that is
to say, on the form of sovereignty. They may be assured that each
political party, when it advances its principle, raises against it
a majority formed by the coalition of rival parties. When, on the
contrary, this same party takes up the social question, that is to
say, the immediate interest of the family, it gains the majority,
sometimes even unanimity. It is sufficient to know the cause of the
evil to find the remedy. The conservatives have the power to establish
a strong majority. It is only necessary to avoid the subject that
divides them, and to devote themselves to the one that draws them
together.”
There is much truth in this observation, and we are far from wishing to
combat it on the whole. The eminent publicist who, in this same work,
accords so favorable an opinion to our studies on the rights of men,
knows with what warm sympathy we follow his useful labors for social
reform. We appreciate as fully as he the importance of the question to
which he desires to draw the attention of all true friends of order.
With him we believe that the social order is anterior to the political,
and that, at a time when society is disorganized even in its original
elements, it is there above all that the remedy must be applied.
How can a good government be given to a nation that the anti-social
propaganda has rendered ungovernable?
We must acknowledge, however, that, to the rule which M. Le Play
has laid down, objections arise which at the first glance appear
sufficiently grave. We have heard intelligent men doubt whether even
the temporary withdrawal of the political questions would be opportune
or possible, and that for several reasons.
In the first place, because these questions are irresistibly imposed
upon us. They are discussed every day in the debates of the Assembly or
by the press. If we give up treating them according to true principles,
they will certainly be determined in the sense of the Revolution.
In effect, and it is a second reason, if men of order deny themselves
entrance on this ground, it is indispensable that the revolutionary
party should promise to abstain likewise. But how can we hope that it
will make, much less that it will observe, this engagement? The first
aim of this party is evidently to possess itself of political power, by
means of which it will be easy to realize its anti-social theories. We
must put forth our whole strength in this contest, if we do not wish to
have it become impossible for us to defend the social interests.
Finally, here is a consideration which, to the eyes of the men whose
sentiments we express, appears still more decisive. They say that in
order to make it possible to abstract political questions, and give
ourselves exclusively to the study of the social, there should be a
line of demarcation drawn between these two domains so closely united.
This is what they cannot accomplish. Social and political rights repose
on the same basis, they have the same enemies, and are attacked with
the same arms. Why is the family disorganized? Why, in labor, is the
harmony so necessary between the employer and the employed replaced by
an antagonism equally hurtful to both? Is it not, above all, because
every rank of society suffers from the rebound of the attacks made
politically on the principle of authority?
We do not dispute the fatal influence of the false principles pointed
out by M. Le Play—the original perfection preached by Rousseau, the
native equality of men maintained by Alexis de Tocqueville, have
had their share, and their great share, in the disorders which have
totally overthrown society. But the principal cause of these disorders,
the revolutionary principle by excellence, is the negation of all
authority superior to that of man!
How shall we answer these arguments? It will not be difficult. We
can admit them without injury to the thesis of M. Le Play. We would
misapprehend him if we placed the Christian principle of authority
among the number of political questions which he counsels us to avoid.
This principle, in reality, is not less social than political. It is
the common foundation of these two orders, the fourth commandment of
the decalogue, and, consequently, constitutes one of the essential
articles of the social restoration, whose complete programme M. Le Play
finds in the decalogue.
What are the political questions we should avoid, if we would see union
and strength succeed to the divisions which now paralyze us? Those that
spring from opinions.
Opinions divide parties, and create among them interminable struggles.
S. Augustine has well said: _In necessariis, unitas; in dubiis,
libertas._ Necessary principles are the domain of unity; doubtful
opinions, by provoking liberty, engender division. It is in the very
essence of opinion to arouse against it other opinions, to which their
probability, more or less great, gives the right to struggle against
every light but that of proof. Here is, then, what experience teaches
us, and what the dangers of society command us: it is to lift ourselves
above this obscure and troubled region where opinions clash, and to
rise to the peaceful sphere that principles illumine with a steady
light. Here there can be no subject of division among sincere minds.
In the social as in the political order, principles convince by their
proofs all intellects which have not made a compact with error; and
their necessity, as incontestable as their truth, conquers the adhesion
of all just men.
We can, then, without contradicting M. Le Play, establish the following
proposition: to obtain this union among right-thinking men, without
which there is no salvation to be hoped for France, political parties
must be silent on the questions which divide them, and cling to
the immutable principle whose negation is the chief cause of our
misfortunes.
But what is this principle? This is the question we will endeavor to
answer with a precision which will leave no doubt in sincere minds; no
pretext for the division of parties.
Our aim is very clear, and we hope it will be understood by our
readers. We do not intend to discuss the various political opinions,
still less to ask their defenders to sacrifice them; we seek the
indisputable, the first principle of the political order, around which
can be immediately formed that union of honest and upright men which
will place them in a position to struggle against the Revolution, and
will prepare for the future a more complete harmony, and the permanent
restoration of France.
I.
We must, above all, distinguish clearly “the saving principle” from
the opinions with which it might be confounded. It will be easier to
understand what it is when we will have said what it is not.
In the first place, this principle is not that of _absolute monarchy_.
In the happiest period of our history, the power of the monarch was
modified by institutions of various kinds: by the states-general,
which, having the right to confirm or reject new taxes, afforded an
opportunity of laying at the foot of the throne the complaints and
the wishes of the country; by the magistrates, who, almost sovereign
in the judicial order, exercised an efficacious control over the
legislature; by the church above all, that energetically defended the
supremacy of divine law against the caprices of princes. Whatever may
be thought of the causes which, after the invasion of Protestantism,
led to the destruction of these guarantees, and to the concentration
of power; whatever may be said to excuse or glorify absolute monarchy
in the past, it evidently cannot now be presented as the immutable
principle through which we could ask our salvation.
It is not necessary to add that the inferior institutions which
surrounded the monarchy at divers epochs, merit still less the name
of principles. Formerly these institutions had a reason for existing,
but nothing proves that they should survive the circumstances which
gave them birth. Neither the warlike feudalism of the middle ages nor
the nobility disarmed, but still privileged, of later times, belongs
to those elements essential to all society, to which we are bound to
restore their energy as soon as possible, if we would not condemn
ourselves to perish.
Nor can we give the name of principle to _divine right_ as understood
by the Gallican school. According to this school, Providence, at
the commencement of society, chose a man or a family to exercise
the supreme power. The course of events which decided the form of
government of infant societies was, in its opinion, a manifestation of
the divine will sufficient to invest with the right of commanding those
who had the strength to enforce it. This right is then divine, since
it is held immediately from God; and, in the language of theology, the
power of divine right is that which comes from God without passing
through any human intermediary. The Gallican school recognized two
sovereignties of divine right: that of the temporal order, which was
royalty; and the papal sovereignty, which was spiritual—if it was
allowable to say in this system that the pope was sovereign, since,
contrary to the policy which sustained absolute political power,
they wished in the spiritual order that the pope should share his
sovereignty with the episcopate.
To dissimulate nothing, let us say here that lately theologians
and Catholic philosophers, strangers to the Gallican school, have
defended the thesis of divine right. But their adhesion, in giving new
weight to this doctrine, does not take it from the category of simple
opinions. It has always against it the arguments and authority of our
most illustrious doctors, according to whom the right of princes is
divine only in its first origin and in its abstract essence; but in
its immediate origin, its concrete form, and in the appointment of the
subject to be invested with it, this right is human, since it would
only receive the determinations indispensable to its exercise by the
expressed or tacit consent of society. The providential events of which
we have before spoken were more or less indicative of the divine will,
but the majority of doctors refuse to see in them a sufficient motive
for investing with the right of commanding a man previously supposed to
be without it.
The doctrine of the _absolute inamissibility of power_ generally
maintained by the partisans of divine right should also be ranked among
the disputed opinions. It is logic that he who has received power
immediately from God can only be deprived of it by God. The defenders
of the opposite opinion admit, on the contrary, that, in extreme
cases, power can be withdrawn from him who abuses it by only using for
the destruction of society what was given to him for its preservation.
And as it is difficult to distinguish in such cases, as error on such
occasions could only be disastrous, as anarchy could easily spring
from the most legitimate resistance to tyranny, Catholic theologians
do not wish that these doubtful cases of conscience should be left
to the passions of parties or to the blind fury of the mob; but they
find a guarantee qualified to defend every right and to reassure every
interest in the authority, ever impartial and paternal, of the Vicar of
Jesus Christ.
The first basis of social order which we are now seeking, can neither
be found in the _monarchical principle_.
In reality, whatever may be to the minds of the greatest philosophers
the prerogatives of a limited monarchy, they cannot maintain that it
is the only legitimate form of government; and consequently, as the
monarchical principle is neither universal, absolute, nor immutable, it
has none of the marks of a true principle.
Besides, the firmest partisans of monarchy do not assume for it this
universal necessity. In the states with which it is identified, by long
and legitimate possession, with the principle of right, they justly
claim for it all the prerogatives of that principle. Unreasonable as it
would be to pretend that monarchy is the only legitimate government for
all times and all peoples, equally absurd would it be to maintain that,
when it is legitimately established, it can be legitimately combated
and overthrown. There is no right against right. The monarchical
principle thus defended has no adversaries but those fanatical adorers
of the republican form whose absolutism is a hundred times more
unreasonable than ever was that of the most servile worshippers of
royal power.
These topsy-turvy legitimists condemn, from the height of their pride,
the immense majority of the human race, arrogating to themselves in
favor of their opinion the authority which they refuse to the church of
God; and they take to themselves, in remaking it, the motto with which
they have so often reproached us: No salvation outside of the republic!
After twenty-five centuries, they renew the foolish enterprise of
the Babylonian despot: they wish to compel all the nations under the
sun to prostrate themselves before the statue of their republic, and
acknowledge it as the only true divinity.
No more tyrannical intolerance can be imagined. Whence do these
absolutists derive the right of imposing their opinions on their
equals? From what have they taken the halo with which they surround
the cap of liberty, after having trampled all crowns under their feet?
Undoubtedly, government exists but for the people, but does it follow
that it should necessarily be exercised by the people? To refute
their exclusive theories, it would be sufficient to compel them to
make an application of them in their own families. In fact, from the
moment that the principle becomes absolute, it should be applied to
all authority; and there is no reason why the family and the workshop
should not share with the state the advantages of the republican form.
But it is waste of time to dwell on this fanaticism, of which, thank
God, we do not find a trace among the partisans of monarchy. The
necessity which they attribute to it is not absolute, but hypothetical.
They affirm that monarchy is the only form of government suited to
the characters, defects, customs, and traditions of certain peoples.
They say that nations, like individuals, have different temperaments;
and, consequently, it would be absurd to impose the same rule on all.
Nations, like individuals, when the constitution is formed, when
inveterate habits have become a second nature, cannot, without danger,
suddenly adopt new customs. What would become of a people who should
persist in making this dangerous experiment? Against their will, they
would carry their old customs into the new system; they would preserve
their monarchical manners in the midst of a nominal republic; and this
bastard government would have all the inconveniences of the monarchy,
without its stability and other advantages.
More even than individuals, nations live by traditions. By them, the
past extends its influence over the present, illumines it with the
reflection of its glory, and animates it with its spirit. Traditions
bind together the successive periods in a nation’s existence, and
preserve among its children the unity produced by a long community of
dangers and struggles, of triumphs and reverses. A people that breaks
with tradition is like an uprooted tree; its existence is similar to
that of a man, who, having lost his memory, cannot connect the present
with the past. Now, it is evident that a nation whose institutions
and customs for centuries have reposed on monarchy cannot have this
basis overthrown without breaking all traditions, and throwing society
entirely out of its beaten tracks.
These observations are evidently the dictates of good sense and
experience. It is impossible not to be vividly struck by them, when one
has lived among a people faithful to its traditions; as the English,
for example. Nothing is more striking than the contrast between the
general security, the vitality, the friendly enjoyments, whose source
is respect for tradition, with the instability and anxiety which the
Revolution has produced in our French society, formerly so calm and
joyous.
But however well grounded may be this induction, it cannot take the
place of the absolute and indisputable principle by which we wish to
bind together all true and earnest men.
Let us pursue our research, and congratulate ourselves on being
dispensed in our present position from pausing at the thorny
distinction between the _power of right_ and the _power of fact_.
For too long a period has this been a cause of incurable division
between the most honest and religious men. Of all the problems which
belong to the social order, it is perhaps the most difficult to
resolve practically. On one side, it is certain that the violation
of right cannot destroy it, and that the usurper who, to gratify his
ambition, imperils the gravest interests of society, does not become
legitimate, even though his attempt be crowned by success. On the
other side, however, the maintenance of public order being the reason
of the existence of the rights of power, obedience cannot be refused
to him who alone has the strength and the means of attaining this
indispensable end.
From this springs one of those conflicts of opinion which make the
social question so difficult. The same public order which commands
obedience to the usurper alone capable of defending it, forbids
encouraging the ambition of future usurpers by the full acceptation
of triumphant crime. The friends of order can then follow different
paths, according to the preference they may have for either of these
interests. The power of fact will attract men who, most affected
by present necessity, will hope to find in their adhesion to the
established order a safeguard against new convulsions. Others will see
in this adhesion to the revolution consummated an anticipated sanction
of future revolutions, and will think themselves obliged to provide
for the permanent necessities of society by remaining faithful to the
fallen power.
This is not the place to decide such a difficult question, where
even the supreme authority of the church has thought it often wiser
to abstain. We need only state as a fact, unfortunate as inevitable,
the division which springs from this conflict of duty. It will last
until the illegitimate power is overthrown, or until, by the lapse
of time, all trace of its origin is lost. In the first case, the
transitory right which the usurping government borrowed from fact
having disappeared with the fact, the power of right recovers its
preponderance. In the second case, fact is transformed into right by
becoming alone capable of defending society; and legitimacy, of which
social interest was the base, will disappear with the real possibility
of saving this supreme interest.
It is what happened in England, where the tories, the former partisans
of the Stuarts, have long since adhered to the reigning dynasty.
But in France, neither of the two dynasties which succeeded to that
of our ancient kings established its domination firmly enough, or
sufficiently renounced its revolutionary principle, to render evident
to all eyes this union of right and fact. For fifty years, we have seen
conservatives, religious men, and even the clergy, divided into two
or three political fractions; and this division has not been one of
the least causes of our weakness, and of the growing strength of the
Revolution.
The evil appeared irremediable, and each day it acquired fresh gravity;
for the government of fact, instead of seeing in the adhesion of men
of order a motive for returning openly to conservative principles,
believed it to be their interest to conciliate the men of disorder by
supporting the principle of the Revolution.
Providence has drawn us from this position, apparently inextricable,
and, by the result even of our faults, has made the cause of our
divisions disappear. The Revolution has destroyed the governments
blind enough to lean upon her. The power which exists to-day, and
whose strength lies in the Assembly, has more than once acknowledged
its provisional character. France is, then, free to return to the true
principles of order, and to reunite under one flag all those who are
sincerely devoted to the holy cause. Nothing prevents her fulfilling a
celebrated prediction, and to close, by the proclamation of the rights
of God, the revolution which opened with the proclamation of the rights
of man.
II.
Herein lies our salvation: to the revolutionary principle, which
weakens all powers and all social rights, in making them depend on
man’s caprice, we must oppose the Christian principle, which gives them
an immovable solidity, in reposing them on the supreme authority of God.
No innovation is required: we must simply return to the eternal law’s
of social order. If imprudent architects attempt to change the laws of
equilibrium, what should be done to repair the ruins accumulated by
their folly? Remember those laws, and enforce their observation. There
is also an equilibrium in the moral order, and it was the unpardonable
fault of our fathers that they overlooked its most essential condition.
Let us hasten to restore all splendor to the truth whose darkening was
the cause of our misfortunes. Foreseen and accepted without dispute by
the pagans themselves, this generative dogma of society was, in the
dawn of Christianity, promulgated by S. Paul as one of the principal
articles of revealed religion; and it did not cease to rule the nations
of Europe until the epoch when, with the law of Christ, order and peace
were driven from their confines. Reason and religion are in perfect
harmony when they proclaim the Christian principle. They tell us,
with one voice, that God, who directs all with so much wisdom in the
material world, wishes equally, and with much more reason, that order
should reign in the moral. In commanding men to unite in society, so
as to assure by their common efforts the happiness of all, he imposes
on them an obligation to bridle the selfish passions which unceasingly
conspire against the general interest. And as the only efficacious
means of keeping them in order is the institution of a power armed with
strength for the defence of the right, God wills that this power should
be created, if it does not exist, and obeyed when it exists.
Thus, according to the teaching of Christianity, civil power is divine
in its origin, and, although a human element must interpose in the
principle to determine the form and choose the depositary, he that
is once elected commands really in the name of God. “All power comes
from God,” says S. Paul; it is by order of God that it exists, and
consequently it cannot be resisted without resisting the order of God,
and without drawing down the damnation justly reserved for those who
revolt against God.
It is evident that between this principle which belongs to Catholic
faith, and the Gallican opinion of divine right, the difference is not
so great as would at first appear. Both parties agree as to the origin
of power, its mission, its rights, and its duties. Only on one point do
they differ: according to one, the man who, in the commencement, was
invested with power, received it immediately from God; while the other
holds that the investiture was made by the expressed or tacit consent
of society. This divergence is clearly more speculative than practical,
as, with this exception, they both believe the same doctrine.
It is therefore wrong to seek any analogy between the revolutionary
theory and the opinion of Catholic doctors the most favorable to
the primitive rights of society. It is only necessary to thoroughly
understand their doctrine to see this resemblance, which is merely
apparent, instantly vanish. According to them, it is true that power
depends for its first organization on those whom it will soon command;
but once constituted, it is independent of them in its exercise within
the limits inherent in the form of government. Society, in reality, is
not the source of the authority with which it invests its elect: it
is only the channel. If it has the right to determine the form and to
choose the subject, it is also obliged to make use of this right, and
to arm the power instituted by it with the full prerogatives necessary
for the maintenance of order.
Nothing is wanting to authority thus understood; it has a precise end
and an indispensable reason for being—the defence of individual
rights, and the maintenance of public order. It has an immutable
base—the will of God, the guarantee of rights and the protector
of order. It has a universal and inevitable sanction—the eternal
punishment which the contemners of the law cannot escape, even though
they succeed in avoiding temporal chastisement. In resting social
order on the first principle of all things, this doctrine places it
in perfect harmony with the general order of the universe; and it is
as satisfactory in theory to the mind of the philosopher as it is
efficacious in practice in maintaining the order of society. Equally
favorable to all legitimate interests, it elevates at the same time the
majesty of power and the dignity of obedience; for, if it is glorious
for rulers to command in the name of God, it is not less so for the
governed to obey only God.
What, on the contrary, is the effect of the revolutionary principle?
Instead of establishing authority, it destroys it; and, under the
pretext of elevating obedience, degrades it.
It destroys authority; for there is no true authority, except where
a superior will is invested with the right to command, and an
inferior one is obliged to obey. Now, these two conditions cannot be
realized in the revolutionary theory. The principle of this theory,
such as Rousseau laid it down in his _Social Contract_, is that the
power placed over civil society draws all its rights from the free
concession of those whom it is called to command. It is, then, their
mandatary, and not their superior; consequently, it has no more the
right to command them than they are bound to obey it. Rousseau says it
in these very terms: in obeying it, they only obey themselves; and,
consequently, they can, when they please, dispense themselves from
obedience.
Thus, instead of creating authority, the revolutionary principle
renders it impossible; and since authority is the essential condition
of the stability, strength, well-being, and existence even of society,
it cannot be denied that this principle is the overthrow of social
order.
But at the same time that it annihilates the majesty of power, it
debases the dignity of obedience. It is very well to say to the
members of society that, in obeying their mandatary, they only obey
themselves; it will not prevent them in a thousand circumstances from
being directed to do the contrary of what they would like. What will
then happen? If the discontented are numerous and strong enough to
make their will prevail over that of power, they will revolt; but, if
resistance is impossible, they will be compelled to obey. What will be
this obedience? The act of a slave who yields to force, and not the act
of a reasonable man and a Christian who conforms his will to that of
God.
Instead of the alliance which Christian doctrine establishes between
the majesty of power and the dignity of obedience, the revolutionary
theory creates an irreconcilable antagonism between these two essential
elements of society; it is only by degrading the subjects that the
rulers can ensure the execution of their orders.
This radical and absolute opposition between the two doctrines
necessarily extends to their consequences. Whilst the Christian
principle gives an inviolable stability to power, and guarantees with
equal efficacy the rights of the subjects, the revolutionary principle
has for result inevitable anarchy and tyranny.
Anarchy first; for how can a power which is absolutely without a base
sustain itself for any length of time? Consistently with itself, the
theory of the Revolution intends that society, in establishing power as
its mandatary, should not strip itself in any manner of sovereignty.
As society created it freely, by an act of its own will it can reverse
it when it seems desirable, without any one having the right to demand
an account of its acts. As a consequence, the revolutionary theory
involves daily appeals to new _plébiscites_ and to new elections
for the overthrow of the established power, and the substitution of
another more in accord with the present will of the nation; and, as the
triumph of the discontented of yesterday will infallibly create other
dissatisfied ones, these will have the right to organize to-morrow a
new agitation to overthrow everything.
The constitution cannot legitimately reprove or arrest these attempts;
for, emanating like the government from the national will, it is also
subordinate to the fluctuations of that capricious sovereign. The
small number of the agitators can be no objection; and you cannot
oppose to them the wishes and rights of the majority. If there is no
authority superior to that of man, all human wills are equal, and all
equally sovereign. The number of those who differ from me gives them a
preponderating force, but it does not confer on them a superior right.
If, then, I think my sentiment the best, nothing can hinder me from
working to make it prevail. By making use of intrigue and violence,
the smallest minority easily becomes the majority; and, with strength,
it acquires the right to do all that the revolutionary principle
attributes to majorities.
What can be opposed to this argument? Is it not perfectly logical?
If the consequences appear intolerable, there is but one means of
escape—the return to Christian principle, alone capable of preserving
social order from the convulsions to which it is condemned by these
attempts against power. Christian doctrine repels the attacks made upon
public order with much more severity than the violations of individual
rights; it brands them as crimes of treason against society. Except in
the extreme cases of which we have already spoken, it declares power
inviolable; not in virtue of the personal prerogative of him who is
invested with it, but in virtue of the interest of which he is the
necessary guarantee.
Thus we have heard S. Paul tell us that he who resists power resists
the order of God, and draws damnation on his head. This sentence, we
know, does not agree with the verdict of public opinion, as indulgent
in regard to political crimes as it is severe against those which come
under the head of crimes of common right.
On which side is the truth? If public power is the indispensable
bulwark of individual rights, can the attempt be made to overthrow it,
without, at the same time, attacking all those rights? If a man, who,
during the night, forces his entrance into a house, and seeks to enrich
himself to the prejudice of the legitimate possessor, is thrown into
prison as a criminal unworthy of compassion, how can he merit less
severe punishment who shakes the entire social edifice, to gratify his
cupidity and ambition at the expense of the public peace? Nothing is
clearer: in listening to the revolutionary theories in preference to
the Christian doctrine, public opinion is in complete disagreement with
reason.
Would to God that it was all limited to a theoretical opposition!
Unfortunately, nothing is more practical than revolutionary error; as,
for a century, the conclusions to which logic has led us have been but
too well confirmed by experience. Nothing, then, is wanting to enable
us to judge the two rival doctrines with full knowledge of the case. We
have seen them at work—one for fourteen centuries, the other during
the age nearest our own time; they have given their measure, and are
known by their fruits. One, in semi-barbarous times, endowed France
with the unity, glory, concentration of strength, and expansion which
placed her in the first rank among the nations of the world; the other,
in an age of advanced civilization and unheard-of material progress,
heaped ruins upon ruins on our unfortunate country—religious ruin,
moral ruin, social ruin, political ruin, financial ruin, military
ruin—nothing remained standing when with the principle of authority
the necessary foundation of society was overthrown.
And let it not be imagined that, in thus delivering the social body
to the ravages of anarchy, the revolutionary principle guarantees it
against the rigors of tyranny. No; it condemns it inevitably to suffer
those rigors. At the same time that it disarms power with regard to the
wicked passions, it arms it with an all-powerful force against the most
sacred rights. Rousseau avowed it frankly; and, from the Convention
to Prince Bismarck, all revolutionary governments have practised this
lesson. Nothing escapes the sovereignty of the state from the moment
that the state is emancipated from the authority of God. The soul
of the citizen belongs to it with the same title as his body; the
questions of doctrine are not more independent of its control than
those of policy; the church and the school are under its jurisdiction
as well as the public streets and the prison.
Since society recognizes no authority above it, and the state
represents the social will, it is absolute master, it is all-powerful,
it is God. It is the state that makes justice and truth, that creates
rights, that is the supreme arbiter of conscience; and its omnipotence,
as unlimited as fragile, leaves to the citizen but the choice between
two expedients: either to bend with docility under its yoke by
abdicating all moral dignity, or to overthrow it, with the certainty of
seeing it replaced by an equal tyranny.
Thus the revolutionary theory, which is permanent anarchy, is at the
same time organized despotism. At other periods, we have seen society,
deprived of its equilibrium, oscillate between these two extremes,
passing in turn from anarchy to tyranny, and from tyranny to anarchy.
Thanks to revolutionary progress, we can enjoy simultaneously the
advantages of these two states, and taste the vexations of despotism,
without escaping the agitations of anarchy. Since the proclamation of
the pretended liberal principles, we have seen disappear the liberties
which, under the most absolute systems, were considered as inviolable.
Provincial and communal franchises, the rights of the father over his
children, of the proprietor over his possessions, of the testator over
his estate—all have been grasped by the iron hand of the state. It
has broken all counterbalancing influences, and those that it has not
completely annihilated only subsist during its good pleasure.
How different is the theory of power, regarded by the light of
Christian principle! Instituted for the protection of rights and the
repression of injustice, it extends its jurisdiction only by the means
necessary for attaining its end. As soon as it would leave that sphere,
it becomes an usurper. Its power is limited in every sense by divine
law and by the pre-existing rights of the subjects; for, instead of
the revolutionary theory that the state creates the rights of private
individuals, it is Christian doctrine that the rights of individuals
incapable of defending themselves rendered necessary the creation of
the state.
According to the first, society is everything, the individual
nothing; according to the second, the individual alone has immortal
destinies, and civil society is but a temporary means to facilitate the
accomplishment of those destinies. The least of the subjects has, then,
the right to oppose his conscience as a brazen wall against the unjust
will of a despot; and, if this protestation is not heeded, another
voice will soon be heard which will resound to the extremities of the
universe—the voice of the incorruptible defender of justice, and the
protector of oppressed weakness; of him whom God has placed on the
earth to speak in his name, to promulgate his law, and to recall alike
princes and people to the respect of justice.
It is not necessary to give further proof of the doctrine we have
endeavored to explain. There is not one of our readers who will not
instantly understand the principle whose restoration we have declared
indispensable for putting an end to the fatal reign of the Revolution.
We were not wrong in giving it the name of principle, as from it flow
all the laws of political order, at the same time that itself is
immediately derived from the very idea of that order. It is, then,
necessary, universal, and absolute; it extends to all times, all forms
of government, all degrees of civilization. At once political and
religious, rational and revealed, it belongs to universal ethics, and
is part of the traditional dogma. He who denies it will be condemned
by the church as a heretic, and will be disowned by reason, as both a
rebel against evidence, and guilty of an attack on the essential laws
of social order.
III.
If we have succeeded in demonstrating this truth, it will not be
difficult to decide upon the duties it imposes upon us, and the means
we must employ to incline in the way of salvation the undecided balance
of the destinies of France.
Since the proclamation of the revolutionary principle in the last
century was the commencement of our ruin, we can only save ourselves
by denying it with all possible solemnity, and in placing the contrary
principle as the basis of the future constitution of our country.
We must, in fine, leave the ways which have misled and lost all the
powers that during fifty years have assumed in France the mission
of restoring public order. Undoubtedly, none of them accepted the
revolutionary theory to its full extent; they even by more than one act
implied its negation. But these isolated efforts, extorted from them
by the instinct of preservation, did not prevent them from habitually
submitting to the influences of the Revolution, and even often
rendering homage to its principles.
Sprung from its bosom, they dared not deny their origin, and they
did not understand that, while shrinking from this disavowal, they
condemned themselves to be overthrown by the blind force which
had lifted them on its shield. One after the other they deceived
themselves, and France with them, by taking “the great principles of
‘89” as the palladium of their thrones and their dynasties. It was
asking a guarantee of duration from the most energetic dissolvent,
and giving a solemn falsehood to France as a political creed. We have
shown elsewhere that, under ambiguous formulas intended to deceive
thoughtless good faith, the declaration of 1789 contains, in seventeen
articles, the pure theory of the Revolution. We willingly admit that
this hypocrisy of language might, at the first moment, put on the wrong
scent a generation intoxicated with the desire of reform; but to be
still seduced by it, after so many bloody revolutions have too clearly
commented this ambiguous text, would be intolerable.
If we push blindness to this excess, will we deserve to be called the
most intellectual people in the world? We have been duped by a comedy
of fifteen years; will it be so with a comedy of a hundred? It is thus
that posterity will name the century in which the principles of ‘89
were the theme of the most gigantic mystification found in history.
All the civilized nations have been more or less cheated by this
jugglery of the most precious liberties, in the name of liberalism;
but France has played a separate part. It is she who, after being
herself deceived, endeavored to make the entire universe share in her
deception, and thus took upon herself both the shame of the fraud, and
the responsibility of the imposture.
Let us be done with this odious falsehood, and return to reality.
Let us seek true liberties in the proclamation of true principles,
and ensure respect for the rights of man by the restoration of the
authority of God.
This is the first duty that the vital interest of France imposes on all
men called to take any part whatever in the re-establishment of power.
But henceforward we have another obligation to fulfil. Honest men of
all parties must unite in the proclamation of the Christian principle,
and renounce any alliance with the defenders of the Revolution. Former
parties must disappear, and only leave in the field the great armies of
order and disorder. This division alone has a reason for existing in
the present state of society. Old parties, on the contrary, can only be
divided by personal questions, to which it would be shameful to attach
any importance in presence of the dangers that menace society. All
parties, even those that seem to yield the most thorough allegiance to
the Revolution, contain a greater or less number of friends of order
whose equivocal connections do not prevent their disowning, in the
bottom of their hearts, the revolutionary principle.
The moment has come to separate these contrary elements united by
purely accidental affinities. We are approaching one of those fatal
dates that betokens the end of one world, and the commencement of
another; one of those partial judgments of Providence that prelude the
general one by which divine justice will close the era of time, to open
that of eternity. Now, as then, the terrible blows of the Almighty
dissipate illusions, crush adverse interests, and bring to light the
two contrary tendencies which have been hidden in the depths of hearts;
the two opposite loves that, since the beginning of the world, have
divided humanity into two hostile cities.
It is, then, indispensable to take a side; the time of tergiversation
and compromise is past; we must be for truth or falsehood, for order or
the Revolution, for Jesus Christ or the infernal chief of all rebels.
And it does not suffice to carry the truth in the heart: it must be
professed openly and courageously. The more evident is the necessity
of adhering to the Christian principle, the more manifest is the
double obligation that flows from it for honest men of all parties to
form a compact league, whatever may have previously been their mutual
estrangement, and to separate themselves from the revolutionists, with
whom circumstances may have connected them.
We will go on no further, for we have resolved not to leave the region
of principles; but the men to whom Providence has given the mission and
power to save us cannot stop there. They must bring down the saving
principle from the region of abstractions to that of facts, give it
a concrete existence, a determined form, a durable organization, a
strength sufficient to maintain itself, and to raise us up. It is not
our province to guide them in the accomplishment of this task; may God
give them, with the light which will show them the path of salvation,
strength to follow it, and draw France after them! They are called to
be nothing less than the saviours of their country and of Christendom;
for it is not only the destinies of France which they hold in their
hands, but those of Christian civilization, incapable, if France
yields, of escaping from the invasion of the double revolution of
Cæsarism and demagogism. May they feel the gravity of the situation,
and understand that such great peril demands heroic resolutions!
To worthily fulfil this mission, the most important, perhaps, ever
confided to a deliberative assembly, they must rise above all
consideration of persons, all interests of parties, and they must
choose, in the sincerity of their conscience, the man and the form
of government that will most surely guarantee the restoration of the
Christian principle, and the repudiation of the revolutionary, the
destruction of anarchy and Cæsarism, the protection of every right,
and the re-establishment of true liberty. This choice, which alone
can save us, will not be difficult from the moment that they agree on
the principle from which it must proceed, and the end which must be
attained; and once the choice made under the eye of God, it will be
still less difficult, with his help, to make it acceptable to France.
The Comte de Breda recently recalled to us, as appropriate to the time,
the consoling and prophetic words written by Joseph de Maistre in 1797,
at an epoch when the restoration of order appeared still more difficult
than at the present time: “Can we believe that the political world
moves by chance, and that it is not organized, directed, animated, by
the same wisdom which shines in the physical? The great criminals who
overthrow a state necessarily produce heart-rending wounds; but, when
man works to re-establish order, he associates himself with the Author
of order, he is favored by nature—that is to say, by the harmony of
secondary causes, which are the ministers of divine power. His action
has something in it of divine; it is at the same time gentle and
imperious; he forces nothing, and nothing resists him.”
GRAPES AND THORNS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE.”
CHAPTER I.
CRICHTON, AND THE CRICHTONIANS.
THE delicate exuberance of a New England spring was making amends for
the rigor of a New England winter, and for its own tardy coming. Up
through the faded sward pushed multitudinously all the little budding
progeny of nature; out through rough bark burst the tender foliage; and
all the green was golden-green. Light winds blew hither and thither;
light clouds chased each other over the sky, now and then massing their
forces to send a shower down, the drops so entangled with sunshine as
to look like a rain of diamonds. Birds soared joyously, singing as
they flew; and the channels of the brooks could scarcely contain their
frolicsome streams. Sometimes a scattered sisterhood of snowflakes
came down to see their ancestresses, and, finding them changed into
snowdrops, immediately melted into an ecstasy, and so exhaled.
This vernal freshness made the beautiful city of Crichton fairer yet,
with curtains waving from open windows, vines budding over the walls,
and all the many trees growing alive. It set a fringe of grasses
nodding over the edges of three yellow paths ravelled out from a new
road that, when it had travelled about a mile westward from the city,
gave up being a road for the present. One of these paths started off
southward, and sank into a swamp. In summer, this swamp was as purple
as a ripe plum with flower-de-luce, and those who loved nature well
enough to search for her treasures could find there also an occasional
cardinalflower, a pink arethusa, or a pitcherblossom full to the
brim with the last shower, or the last dew-fall. The second path ran
northward to the bank of the Cocheco River, and broke off on the top
of a cliff. If you should have nerve enough to scramble down the face
of this cliff, you would find there the most romantic little cave
imaginable, moss-lined, and furnished with moss cushions to its rock
divans. A wild cherry-tree had in some way managed to find footing just
below the cave, and at this season it would push up a spray of bloom,
in emulation of the watery spray beneath. Fine green vines threaded
all the moss; and, if one of them were lifted, it would show a line of
honey-sweet bell-flowers strung under its round leaves.
The third path kept on westward to a dusky tract of pine-woods about
two miles from the town. No newly-sprouting verdure was visible amid
this sombre foliage; but there was a glistening through it all like
the smile on a dark face, and the neighboring air was embalmed with its
fine resinous perfume.
Out from this wood came sounds of laughter and many voices, some
shrill and childish, others deeper voices of men, or softer voices of
women. Occasionally might be heard a fitful song that broke off and
began again, only to break and begin once more, as though the singer’s
hands were busy. Yet so dense was the border of the wood with thick,
low-growing branches that, had you gone even so near as to step on
their shadows, and slip on the smooth hollows full of cones and needles
they had let fall, not a person would you have seen.
A girlish voice burst out singing:
“‘The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled.
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!’
Only day is not at the morn,” the voice added correctingly; “for it is
near sunset. But,” singing again,
“‘The year’s at the spring;
The lark’s on the wing;
God’s in his heaven—
And all’s right with the world!’
—which may be called making a posy out of a poem.”
A young man’s voice spoke: “All will soon be wrong in a part of the
world, Pippa, if I do not call the sheep to fold.” And immediately a
loud bugle-call sounded through the forest, and died away in receding
echoes.
Presently a Maying-party came trooping forth into sight.
First, stooping low under the boughs, a score of boys and girls
appeared, their cheeks bright with exercise and pure air, their silken
hair dishevelled. After them followed, more sedately, a group of youths
and maidens, “Pippa,” otherwise Lily Carthusen, and the bugler, among
them. All these young people were decked with wreaths of ground pine
around their hats, waists, and arms, and they carried hands full of
Mayflowers.
Lastly, two gentlemen, one at either hand, held back the branches, and
Miss Honora Pembroke stepped from under the dark-green arch.
If you are a literal sort of person, and make a point of calling
things by their everyday names, you would have described her as a
noble-looking young woman, dressed in a graceful brown gown, belted
at the waist, after a Grecian fashion, and some sort of cloudy blue
drapery that was slipping from her head to her shoulders. You would
have said that her hair was a yellowish brown that looked bright in the
sun, her eyes about the same color, her features very good, but not so
classical in shape as her robe. You might have added that there was
an expression that, really—well, you did not know just how to name
it, but you should judge that the young woman was romantic, though not
without sense. If you should have guessed her age to be twenty-eight,
you would have been right.
If, on the other hand, you are poetically Christian, ever crowning with
the golden thorns of sacrifice whatever is most beautiful on earth,
you would have liked to take the Mayflower wreath from this womanly
maiden’s hand, place the palm-branch in its stead, and so send her to
heaven by the way of the lions. Her face need hardly have changed to go
that road, so lofty and delicate was the joy that shone under her quiet
exterior, so full of light the eyes that, looking straight before her
into space, seemed to behold all the glory of the skies.
The girl who came next was very different, not at all likely to suggest
poetical fancies, though when you looked closely you could see much
fineness of outline in the features and form. But she was spoilt in
the coloring—a sallow skin, “sandy” hair, and light eyes giving a
dingy look to her face. She was spoilt still more by the expression,
which was superficial, and by being overdressed for her size and the
occasion, and a little ragged from the bushes. This is Miss, or, as
she likes to be called, Mademoiselle, Annette Ferrier. If at some
moment, unawares, you should take the liberty to call her Niñon, with
an emphatic nasal, she would forgive you beamingly, and consider you
a very charming person. Mademoiselle, who, like three generations of
her ancestors, was born in America, and who had spent but three months
of her life in France, had no greater ambition than to be taken for a
French lady. But do not set her down as a simpleton. Her follies are
not malicious, and may wear off. Have you never seen the young birds,
when they are learning to fly, how clumsily they tumble about? yet
afterward they cleave the air like arrows with their strong pointed
wings. And have you not seen some bud, pushing out at first in a dull,
rude sheath that mars the beauty of the plant, open at last to disclose
petals of such rare beauty that the sole glory of the plant was in
upbearing it? Some souls have to work off a good deal of clinging
foolishness before they come to themselves. Therefore, let us not
classify Miss Ferrier just yet.
She had scarcely appeared, when one branch was released with a
discourteous haste that sent it against her dress, and a gentleman
quickly followed her, and, with a somewhat impatient air, took his
place at her side. Mr. Lawrence Gerald had that style of beauty which
suggests the pedestal—an opaque whiteness of tint as pure as the
petal of a camellia, clustering locks of dark hair, and an exquisite
perfection of form and feature. He and Miss Ferrier were engaged to be
married, which was some excuse for the profuse smiles and blushes she
expended on him, and which he received with the utmost composure.
The second branch swung softly back from the hand that carefully
released it, and Mr. Max Schöninger came into sight, brushing the brown
pine-scales from his gloves. He was the last in order, but not least
in consequence, of the party, as more than one backward glance that
watched for his appearance testified. This was a tall, fair-haired
German, with powerful shoulders, and strong arms that sloped to the
finest of sensitive hands. He had a grave countenance, which sometimes
lit up beautifully with animated expression, and sometimes also veiled
itself in a singular manner. Let anything be said that excited his
instinct of reserve or self-defence, and he could at once banish
all expression from his face. The broad lids would droop over those
changeful eyes of his, and one saw only a blank where the moment before
had shone a cordial and vivid soul.
When we say that Mr. Schöninger was a Jew who had all his life been
associated more with Christians than with his own people, this guarded
manner will not seem unnatural. He glanced over the company, and was
hesitatingly about to join Miss Pembroke, when one of the children left
her playmates, and ran to take his hand. Mr. Schöninger was never on
his guard with children, and those he petted were devotedly fond of
him. He smiled in the upturned face of this little girl, held the small
hand closely, and led her on.
The order of march changed as the party advanced. Those who had been
last to leave the wood were made to take precedence; the youths and
maidens dropped behind them, and, as both walked slowly forward, the
younger ones played about them, now here, now there. It was like an air
with variations.
The elders of the company were very quiet, Miss Carthusen a little
annoyed. She need not have wasted her eloquence in persuading Mr.
Schöninger to come with them, if he was going to devote himself to
that baby. Miss Carthusen was clever, and rather pretty, and she liked
to talk. What was the use of having ideas and fancies, if one was not
to express them? Why should one go into company, if one was to remain
silent? She considered Mr. Schöninger too superb by half.
The sun was setting, and it flooded all the scene with a light so rich
as to seem tangible. Whatever it fell upon was not merely illuminated,
it was gilded. The sky was hazy with that radiance, the many windows
on the twin hills of Crichton blazed like beacons, and the short green
turf glistened with a yellow lustre. Those level rays threw the long
shadows of the flower-bearers before them as they walked, dazzled the
faces turned sidewise to speak, turned the green wreaths on their heads
into golden wreaths, and sparkled in their hair. When Miss Pembroke
put her hand up to shade her eyes in looking backward, the ungloved
fingers shone as if transparent. She had been drinking in the beauty
of the evening till it was all ready to burst from her lips, and there
seemed to be no one who perceived that beauty but herself. She would
have liked to be alone, with no human witness, and to give vent to the
delight that was tingling in her veins. A strong impulse was working
in her to lift a fold of her dress at either side, slide out that
pretty foot of hers now hidden under the hem, and go floating round in
a dance, advancing as she turned, like a planet in its path. It would
have been a relief could she have sung at the very top of her voice.
She had looked backward involuntarily at Mr. Schöninger, expecting some
sympathy from him; but, seeing him engrossed in his little charge,
had dropped her hand, and walked on, feeling rather disappointed. “I
supposed he believed in the creation, at least,” she thought.
Miss Pembroke was usually a very dignified and quiet young woman, who
said what she meant, who never effervesced on small occasions, and
sometimes found herself unmoved on occasions which many considered
great ones. But when, now and then, the real afflatus came, it was hard
to have her lips sealed and her limbs shackled.
As she dropped her hand, faintly and fairylike in the distance she
heard all the bells of Crichton ringing for sunset.
_Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus_, she sang softly, clasping her hands, still
walking forward; and so went on with the rest of the hymn, not minding
where the others of the party were, or if there were any others,
till she felt a little pull at her dress, and became aware that Mr.
Schöninger’s young friend had urged him forward to hear the singing,
and was holding up her hand to the singer. But the Jew’s visor was down.
Miss Pembroke took the child’s hand, which thus formed a link between
the two, and continued her singing: _Benedictus qui venit in nomini
Domini_. She felt almost as if the man, thus linked to her by that
transparent, innocent nature of the little girl between them, were
spiritually joining her in the Hosanna. How deep or bitter his
prejudices might be she knew not. Their acquaintance had been short,
and they had never spoken of their theological differences. That his
unbelief could be profound, yet gentle and tolerant toward her belief,
had never occurred to her mind. She would have been scarcely more
shocked than astonished could she have known the thought that almost
escaped his lips. “She is too noble to be a worshipper of strange
gods,” he thought. “When will this miserable delusion be swept away!”
A slim, light hand stole into Miss Pembroke’s arm on the other side,
and Miss Carthusen’s cheek pressed close to her shoulder. Miss
Carthusen was a foundling, and had been adopted by a wealthy and
childless couple. Nothing whatever was known of her parentage.
“Lady Honora,” she whispered, “this scene reminds me of something. I
am like Mignon, with my recollections gathering fast into a picture;
only my past is further away than hers was. I almost know who I am, and
where I came from. It flashes back now. We were dancing on the green,
a ring of us. It was not in this land. The air was warm, the sward
like rose-leaves; there were palms and temples not far away. I had
this hand stretched forward to one who held it, and the other backward
to one who held it, and so we danced, and there were wreaths on our
heads, vine-leaves tangled in our hair. Suddenly something swept over
and through us, like a cold wind, or a sharp cry, or both, and we all
became fixed in a breath, the smile, the wreath, the tiptoe foot, and
we hardened and grew less, and the air inside the ring died with our
breaths in it, and the joy froze out of us, and the recollection of
all we were faded. We were like flames that have gone out. There was
nothing left but an antique vase with Bacchantes dancing round it in
a petrified circle. Have you ever seen such a vase, with one figure
missing?”
“Silly child!” said Honora, smiling, but shrinking a little. This girl
was too clinging, her imagination too pagan. “It is said that, at the
birth of Christ, that wail was heard through all the hosts of pagan
demons. ‘Pan is dead!’ they cried, and fled like dry leaves before a
November wind. Pan is dead, Lily Carthusen; and if you would kindle his
altars again, you must go down into the depths of perdition for the
spark.”
She spoke with seriousness, even with energy, and a light blush
fluttered into her cheeks, and faded out again.
Miss Carthusen, still clinging to the arm she had clasped, leaned
forward to cast a laughing glance into the face beyond. “To Mr.
Schöninger,” she said, “we are both talking mythology.”
Miss Pembroke freed her arm decidedly, and stepped backward, so as to
bring herself between Miss Ferrier and Lawrence Gerald. She took an arm
of each, and held them a moment as if she were afraid. “Annette, Lily
Carthusen must not help us to trim the altar,” she said. “It is not
fitting. We will do it ourselves, with Mother Chevreuse.”
“But Lily has such taste,” was the reluctant answer. “And she may be
displeased if we do not ask her.”
“Our Lady thinks more of devotion than of taste, Annette,” Miss
Pembroke said earnestly. “It seems to me that every flower ought to be
placed there by the hand of faith and love.”
The other yielded. People always did yield when Miss Pembroke urged.
And Miss Carthusen, fortunately, saved them the embarrassment of
declining her assistance by walking on, engrossed in a gay conversation
with the German. When she recollected, they were already far apart. She
and her companion were close to the town, and the others had stopped
where the three paths met.
The children gathered about Miss Ferrier, and began piling their
Mayflowers and green wreaths into her arms; for the flowers were all
to decorate the altar of Mary in the beautiful church of S. John the
Evangelist. These children were not half of them Catholic; but that
made no difference in Crichton, where the people prided themselves on
being liberal. Moreover, Miss Ferrier was a person of influence, and
could reward those who obliged her.
Then they scattered, dropping into different roads, one by one, and
two by two, till only three, heavily laden with their fragrant spoil,
were left walking slowly up South Avenue, into which the unfinished
road expanded when it reached the city. They were to take tea at Mrs.
Ferrier’s, and afterward go to the church; for this was the last day of
a warm and forward April, and on the next morning the exercises of the
Month of Mary were to begin. At the most commanding spot on the crown
of the hill stood Mrs. Ferrier’s house; and one has but to glance at it
to understand at once why mademoiselle is a person of influence.
Seventeen years before, those who knew them would have imagined almost
any change of fortune sooner than that the Ferriers should become
people of wealth. There was Mr. Ferrier, a stout, dull, uneducated,
hard-working man, who had not talent nor ambition enough to learn any
trade, but passed his life in drudging for any one who would give him
a day’s work. A man of obtuse intelligence, and utterly uncultivated
tastes, but for the spark of faith left in that poor soul of his, he
would have been a clod. But there the spark was, like a lamp in a tomb,
showing, with its faint but steady light, the wreck of the beautiful,
and the noble, and the sublime that was man as God made him; showing
the dust of lost powers and possibilities, and the dust of much
accumulated dishonor; showing the crumbling skeleton of a purpose that
had started perfect; and showing also, carven deep, but dimly seen, the
word of hope, _Resurgam!_
Those human problems meet us often, staggering under the primal curse,
ground down to pitiless labor from the cradle to the grave, losing in
their sordid lives, little by little, first, the strength and courage
to look abroad, then the wish, and, at last, the power, the soul in
them shining with only an occasional flicker through the _débris_ of
their degraded natures. But if faith be there buried with the soul in
that earthy darkness, the word of hope is still for them _Resurgam!_
There was Mrs. Ferrier, a very different sort of person, healthy,
thrifty, cheerful, with a narrow vein of stubborn good sense that
was excellent as far as it went, and with a kind heart and a warm
temper. The chief fault in her was a common fault: she wished to
shape and measure the world by her own compasses; and, since those
were noticeably small, the impertinence was very apparent. She was
religiously obedient to her husband when he raised his fist; but, in
most matters, she ruled the household, Mr. Ferrier being authoritative
only on the subject of his three meals, his pipe and beer, and his
occasional drop of something stronger.
And there were five or six young ones, new little souls in very soiled
bodies, the doors of life still open for them, their eyes open also to
see, and their wills free to choose. These little ones, happy in their
rags, baked mud pies, squabbled and made up twenty times a day, ate and
slept like the healthy animals they were, their greatest trial being
when their faces were washed and their hair combed, on which occasion
there was an uproar in the family. These occasions were not frequent.
The Ferrier mansion had but one room, and the Ferrier plenishing was
simple. The wardrobe also was simple. For state days, monsieur had
a state costume, the salient points of which were an ample white
waistcoat and an ancient and well-preserved silk hat which he wore very
far back on his head, both these articles being part of his wedding
gear. Madame had also her gala attire, with which she always assumed
an expression of complacent solemnity. This toilet was composed of a
dark-red merino gown, a dingy _broché_ shawl, and a large straw bonnet,
most unconsciously Pompadour, with its pink flowers and blue ribbons.
For great occasions, the children had shoes, bought much too large
that they might not be outgrown; and they had hats nearly as old as
themselves. The girls had flannel gowns that hung decently to their
heels; the boys, less careful of their finery, had to go very much
patched.
On Sundays and holidays, they all walked two miles to hear Mass, and
each one put a penny into the box. On Christmas Days, they each gave
a silver quarter, the father distributing the coin just before the
collector reached them, all blushing with pride and pleasure as they
made their offering, and smiling for some time after, the children
nudging and whispering to each other till they had to be set to rights
by their elders. Contented souls, how simple and harmless they were!
Into the midst of this almost unconscious poverty, wealth dropped
like a bombshell. If the sea of oil under their cabin and pasture had
suddenly exploded and blown them sky-high, they could not have been
more astounded; for oil there was, and floods of it. At almost any part
of the little tract of land they had bought for next to nothing, it was
but to dig a hole, and liquid gold bubbled up by the barrelful.
Mr. Ferrier, poor man! was like a great clumsy beetle that blunders
out of the familiar darkness of night into a brilliantly lighted room.
Perhaps something aspiring and only half dead in him cried out through
his dulness with a voice he could not comprehend; perhaps the sudden
brightness put out what little sight he had: who knows? He drank. He
was in a dream; and he drank again. The dream became a nightmare; and
still he drank—drank desperately—till at last nature gave way under
the strain, and there came to him an hour of such utter silence as he
had not known since he lay, an infant, in his mother’s lap. During that
silence, light broke in at last, and the imprisoned light shone out
with a strange and bewildered surprise. The priest, that visible angel
of God, was by his side, instructing his ignorance, calming his fears,
calling up in his awakening soul the saving contrition, leaving him
only when the last breath had gone.
After the husband went child after child, till but two were left,
Annette and Louis. These, the eldest, the mother saved alive.
We laugh at the preposterous extravagance and display of the newly
enriched. But is there not something pitiful in it, after all? How it
tells of wants long denied, of common pleasures that were so distant
from those hopeless eyes as to look like shining stars! They flutter
and run foolishly about, those suddenly prosperous ones, like birds
released from the cage, like insects when the stone is lifted from
them; but those who have always been free to practise their smooth
flight through a sunny space, or to crawl at ease over the fruits of
the world, would do well not to scorn them.
The house Mrs. Ferrier had built for herself in the newest and finest
avenue of Crichton was, it must be confessed, too highly ornamented.
Ultra-Corinthian columns; cornerstones piled to the very roof at each
angle, and so laboriously vermiculated that they gave one an impression
of wriggling; cornices laden with carving, festoons, fancy finials
wherever they could perch; oriels, baywindows, arched windows with
carven faces over them—all these fretted the sight. But the view from
the place was superb.
When our three flower-bearers reached the gate, they turned to
contemplate the scene.
All round, a circle of purple hills stood bathed in the sunset. From
these hills the Crichtonians had borrowed the graceful Athenian title,
and called their fair city the “city of the violet crown.” Forming
their eastern boundary flowed the stately Saranac, that had but lately
carried its last float of ice out to sea, almost carrying a bridge with
it. Swollen with dissolving snows, it glided past, a moving mirror,
nearly to the tops of the wharves. Northward was the Cocheco, an
untamed little river born and brought up amid crags and rocks. It cleft
the city in twain, to cast itself headlong into the Saranac, a line of
bubbles showing its course for half a mile down the smoother tide.
The Cocheco was in high feather this spring, having succeeded at last
in dislodging an unsightly mill that had been built at one of its most
picturesque turns. Let trade go up the Saranac, and bind its gentler
waters to grind wheat and corn, and saw logs, and act as sewer; the
Cocheco reserved itself for the beautiful and the contemplative. It
liked that lovers should walk the winding roads along its banks; that
children should come at intervals, wondering, half afraid, as if in
fairy-land; that troubled souls, longing for solitude, should find it
in some almost inaccessible nook among its crags; but, best of all,
it liked that some child of grace, divinely gifted to see everything
in God, should walk rejoicingly by its side. “O my God! how sweet are
those little thoughts of thine, the violets! How thy songs flow down
the waters, and roll out from the clouds! How tender is the shadow of
thy hand when at night it presses our heavy eyelids down, and folds us
to sleep in thy bosom, or when it wakens us silently to commune with
thee!” For such a soul, the river had an articulate voice, and answered
song for song.
Yes; that was what it had to do in the world. Away with mills and
traffic! Let trade go up the Saranac.
So for three years watery tongues had licked persistently at posts and
timbers, legions of bubbles had snapped at splinters till they wore
away, and the whole river had gathered and flung itself against the
foundations, till at last, when the spring thaw came, over went the
mill, and was spun down stream, and flung into the deeper tide, and so
swept out to sea. Let trade go up the Saranac!