CHAPTER IV

_How Messire St. Berthold, and Mesdames Saints Liberetta and Oliveria

came to their blissful consummation._

Liberetta having arrived at the dwelling of the blessed Berthold alone,

found him in a contemplative attitude quite dead. His body, attenuated

by fasting, exhaled a delicious fragrance. With her own hands she buried

him. From this day forward the virgin Liberetta, having taken leave of

the world, led the eremitical life on the other side of the torrent, in

a hut by the edge of a spring, which has since been known as the well of

St. Liberetta, or Liberia, whose miraculous waters cure fevers as well

as divers maladies with which cattle are afflicted.

The two sisters never saw one another again in this world. But, by the

intercession of the blessed Berthold, God sent into the Ardennes from

the country of the Lombards the deacon Vulfaï, or Valfroy, who

overturned the idol of Diana and converted the inhabitants of the Pays

Porcin to the Christian faith. Thereupon Oliveria and Liberetta were

overwhelmed with joy.

But a little time after this the Lord called to Himself his servant

Liberetta, and sent the unicorn to dig a grave and bury the body of the

saint. Oliveria was aware, through a revelation, of the blissful death

of her sister, Liberetta, and a voice said to her—

“Because you asked for a sign before you would believe, and took a prop

to lean upon, the hour of your blissful death will be delayed and the

day of your consummation postponed.”

And Oliveria replied to the voice—

“May the will of the Lord be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

She lived ten years longer in expectation of eternal beatitude, which

commenced for her in the month of October, in the year of Our Lord 364.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ST. EUPHROSINE

TO GASTON-ARMAN DE CAILLAVET

ST. EUPHROSINE

_The acts of St. Euphrosine of Alexandria, in religion Brother

Smaragdus, as they were set forth in the Laura on Mount Athos by

George the Deacon._

Euphrosine was the only daughter of a rich citizen of Alexandria, named

Romulus, who was careful to have her instructed in music, dancing, and

arithmetic in such fashion that at the close of her childhood she

displayed a subtle and unusually adorned intelligence. She had not yet

completed her eleventh year when the magistrates of Alexandria caused to

be announced in the streets that a golden cup would be awarded as a

prize to whomsoever should produce an exact reply to the three following

questions.

First Question: I am the dusky child of a luminous sire; a wingless

bird, yet I rise to the clouds. With no spark of malice, I yet draw

tears from the eyes I encounter. Scarcely am I born when I vanish into

air. Tell me, friend, what is my name?

Second Question: I beget my mother, yet am by her brought forth, and

sometimes I am longer and sometimes shorter. Tell me, friend, what is my

name?

Third Question: Antipater possesses as much as Nicomedes and a third of

the share of Themistius. Nicomedes possesses as much as Themistius and a

third of what Antipater owns. Themistius possesses ten minas and a third

of what Nicomedes owns. What is the sum which belongs to each?

Now, on the day set apart for the gathering, a number of young men

presented themselves before the judges in the hope of winning the golden

cup, but not one of them gave correct replies. The president was about

to bring the sitting to an end when the youthful Euphrosine, in her turn

drawing near to the tribunal, asked to be heard. Every one admired the

modesty of her bearing and the winsome shamefacedness which lent a blush

to her cheeks.

“Most illustrious judges,” she said, lowering her eyes, “after having

given the glory to our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning and the end of

all wisdom, I will endeavour to reply to the questions which your

worships have propounded, and I will begin with the first. The dusky

child is smoke, which is born of fire, rises in the air, and by its

pungency draws tears from our eyes. So much for the first question.

“Now to reply to the second. That which begets its mother and is by her

brought forth is nothing other than the day, which is sometimes long and

sometimes short, according to the season. So much for the second

question.

“And now to answer the third. Antipater possesses forty-five minas,

Nicomedes has but thirty-seven and a half, whilst Themistius has

twenty-two and a half. That is my third answer.”

The judges, marvelling at the correctness of these replies, awarded the

prize to the youthful Euphrosine. Thereupon the most venerable among

them, having risen, presented her with the golden cup, and encircled her

forehead with a garland of papyrus by way of honouring the keen

intelligence she had displayed. Then the virgin was conducted home to

her father’s house to the sound of flutes amidst a great concourse of

people.

But as she was a Christian and pious in no ordinary degree, far from

being puffed up with these honours, she recognized their emptiness, and

resolved that in the future she would apply the keenness of her

intelligence to the solution of problems more worthy of attention—as,

for example, the computation of the sum of the numbers represented by

the letters of the name of Jesus, and the consideration of the wonderful

properties of these numbers.

Meanwhile she grew in wisdom and in beauty, and was sought in marriage

by very many young men. Amongst these was the Count Longinus, who

possessed great wealth. Romulus received this suitor favourably, hoping

that an alliance with this powerful man might assist him in the

rehabilitation of his own affairs, which had got into disorder through

his vast expenditure upon his palace, his plate, and his gardens.

Romulus, who was one of the most lavish amongst the inhabitants of

Alexandria, had above all squandered considerable sums in gathering

together in his mansion, beneath a vast cupola, the most wonderful

examples of mechanism, such as a globe as brilliant as a sapphire,

bearing on it the heavenly constellations set out with exactitude in

precious stones. There were also to be seen in this chamber a fountain,

constructed by Hero, which distributed perfumed waters, and two mirrors

so cunningly contrived that they converted the gazer, the one into a

person of extreme height and slenderness, and the other into a person

equally short and stout. But the most marvellous sight in this mansion

was a hawthorn bush all covered with birds, which by ingenious mechanism

both sang and fluttered their wings as if they had been alive. Romulus

had expended the remains of his wealth in the acquisition of these

mechanical toys, which fascinated him. This, then, was the reason for

his favourable reception of the Count Longinus, the possessor of great

wealth. He urged forward by all means in his power the consummation of a

marriage from which he anticipated both happiness for his daughter and

relief from anxiety in his old age. But each time that he recounted to

Euphrosine the claims of Count Longinus, she turned her glance aside

without making any reply. One day he said to her—

“Will you not admit, my daughter, that he is the handsomest, the

wealthiest, and the noblest citizen in all Alexandria?”

Euphrosine replied discreetly—

“Willingly do I admit it, dear father. Indeed, I am convinced that Count

Longinus surpasses all the citizens of this town in noble birth, worldly

possessions, and personal beauty. Consequently, if I refuse to accept

him as a husband there is little likelihood that any other will succeed

where he has failed, and induce me to change my resolution, which is to

consecrate my virginity to Jesus Christ.”

When he heard of this determination Romulus fell into a violent passion,

and swore that he knew well enough how to force Euphrosine to espouse

Count Longinus; and without breaking forth into idle threats, he added

that this marriage was resolved upon in his mind, and that it would be

carried through without delay, whilst if his paternal authority did not

suffice he would add to it that of the Emperor, who being divine, would

not allow a daughter to disobey her father in a matter which was of so

much public and State importance as the marriage of a woman of patrician

rank.

Euphrosine was aware that her father had great influence with the

Emperor, who at that time lived at Constantinople. She perceived that in

this perilous situation she had no hope of assistance except from Count

Longinus himself. On this account she entreated him to come to her in

the basilica for a private interview.

Impelled by hope as well as curiosity, Count Longinus betook himself to

the basilica all bedecked with gold and precious stones. The maiden did

not make him wait. But when he saw her appear with dishevelled hair,

wrapped in a black veil like a suppliant, he drew an evil augury from

the sight, and his heart was disturbed.

Euphrosine was the first to speak.

“Most illustrious Longinus,” she said to him, “if you love me as much as

you declare, you will fear to do aught displeasing to me; and, indeed,

it would be giving me a mortal blow were you to lead me away to your

house to have your pleasure of this body, which, with my soul, I have

dedicated to Our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning and the end of all

love.”

But Count Longinus answered her—

“Most illustrious Euphrosine, love is stronger even than our wills; that

is why it behoves us to bow before him as before a jealous master. I

shall act towards you after the fashion he ordains, which is to take you

for my wife.”

“Is it becoming that a man—an illustrious man, too—should rob the Lord

of His betrothed?”

“As to that, I shall take counsel from the bishops rather than from

you.”

These plans threw the young girl into the most lively consternation. She

realized that she had no compassion to expect from this man of violence,

governed altogether by his senses, and that the bishops could not

enforce recognition of secret vows made by her to God in solitude. And

in the excess of her uneasiness she had recourse to an artifice so

singular that it is more to be marvelled at than held up as an example.

Her resolution being taken, she feigned to yield to the wishes of her

father and the entreaties of her lover. She even suffered them to fix a

day for the ceremony of betrothal. Count Longinus had already caused the

jewels and ornaments destined for his bride to be placed in the marriage

coffers; he had ordered for her twelve gowns, upon which were

embroidered scenes from the Old and the New Testament, the legends of

the Greeks, the history of animals, as well as the divine presentments

of the Emperor and Empress, with their retinue of lords and ladies. One

of these coffers, moreover, contained books upon theology and arithmetic

written in letters of gold upon sheets of parchment, purple tinctured,

and preserved between plates of ivory and gold.

Euphrosine, however, remained the day long shut up alone in her chamber,

and the reason she gave for her withdrawal was that it behoved her to

make ready her wedding garments.

“It would be most unfitting,” she said, “if certain portions of my

vesture should be shaped and sewn by any other hands than mine.”

And in very truth she wielded her needle from morning till night. But

that which she made ready secretly in this fashion was neither the

symbolical veil of the virgin nor the white robe of the betrothed. What

she prepared was the rough hood, short tunic, and loose breeches which

the young artisans in towns are accustomed to wear while engaged in

their labours. And whilst she fulfilled this undertaking she constantly

invoked Jesus Christ, the beginning and the end of all the achievements

of the upright. For this cause, then, she happily completed her

clandestine task on the eighth day before that which had been fixed for

the solemnization of the marriage. She remained all that day in prayer;

then, after having presented herself, according to her custom, to

receive her father’s kiss, she returned to her chamber and cut off her

hair, which fell to her feet like skeins of gold, donned her short

tunic, fastened the breeches about her waist with woollen straps, drew

the hood down over her eyes, and, night having fallen, noiselessly left

the house whilst all, masters and servants alike, were sleeping. Only

the dog was still awake, but as he knew her he followed her for a short

time in silence, and then returned to his kennel.

With rapid steps she made her way through the deserted city, where the

only sounds audible were the occasional cries of drunken sailors and the

heavy tread of the watchmen on duty in pursuit of robbers. And since God

was with her she suffered no insult from man. Then, having passed

through one of the gates of Alexandria, she set out towards the desert,

following the course of the canals covered with papyrus and blue lotus.

At the break of day she passed through a wretched village of working

people. An old man was singing in front of his door whilst he polished a

coffin made of sycamore wood. When she came abreast of him, he raised

his hairy and featureless face, and cried out—

“By Jupiter! here comes the infant Eros, carrying a little pot of

ointment to his mother! How delicate and pretty he is. In truth, he

sparkles with attractiveness. They are liars who say that the gods have

departed. For this youth is a veritable little god.”

Then the prudent Euphrosine, informed by this speech that the old man

was a pagan, had pity upon his ignorance, and prayed to God for his

salvation. That prayer was granted. The old man, who was a coffin-maker,

bearing the name of Porou, was in course of time converted, and took the

name of Philotheos.

Now, after a journey of a whole day, Euphrosine arrived at a monastery

where, under the governance of the abbot Onophrius, six hundred monks

observed the admirable rule of St. Pacomius. She asked to be led before

Onophrius, and said to him—

“My father, I am called Smaragdus, and I am an orphan. I beg you to

receive me into your holy habitation, to the end that I may there enjoy

the delights of fasting and repentance.”

The abbot Onophrius, who had then attained the age of one hundred and

six years, replied—

“Smaragdus, my child, beautiful are your feet, for they have guided you

to this dwelling; beautiful are your hands, for they have knocked at

this door. You hunger and thirst after fasting and abstinence. Come, and

you shall be satisfied. Happy the child who flies from the world whilst

yet he wears his robe of innocence. The souls of men are exposed to

deadly perils in the towns, and particularly in Alexandria, on account

of the women who flock there in great numbers. Woman is to man so great

a danger that even at my age the thought alone sends a shudder through

all my frame. If one with sufficient effrontery should presume to enter

into this holy house, my arm would suddenly recover its strength to hale

her hence with heavy blows from this pastoral cross. It is our duty, my

son, to worship God in all His works; but it is a profound mystery of

His providence that He should have created woman. Stay with us,

Smaragdus, my child; for it is certainly God who has led you hither.”

After having been received in this fashion into the family of the holy

man Onophrius, Euphrosine donned the monastic habit.

In her cell she praised the Lord, and rejoiced in her pious fraud upon

this consideration, that her father and her lover would not fail to make

search for her in all the convents for women in order to apprehend her

by order of the Emperor, but that they would never succeed in finding

her in this refuge where Jesus Christ Himself had lovingly hidden her.

For three years she led the most edifying life in her cell, and the

virtues of the youthful Smaragdus perfumed the monastery. For this cause

the abbot Onophrius entrusted her with the duties of guest-master or

porter, counting upon the prudence of the young monk as to the reception

of strangers, and above all the exclusion of any women who might attempt

to enter the monastery. For, said the holy man, woman is impure, and the

mere mark of her footsteps is an infectious pollution.

Now Smaragdus had been guest-master for five years, when a stranger

knocked at the door of the monastery. It was a man who was still young;

his habiliments were magnificent, and he retained a remnant of pride;

but he was pale and emaciated, and his eyes were inflamed with a

restless melancholy.

“Brother guest-master,” said this man, “conduct me into the presence of

the holy abbot Onophrius, that he may assoil me, for I am a prey to a

mortal ill.”

Smaragdus, having begged the stranger to seat himself upon a stool,

informed him that Onophrius, having reached his hundred and fourteenth

year, had, in view of his approaching end, gone to visit the caves of

the Holy Anchorites, Amon and Orcisus.

At this news the visitor sank down upon the stool and hid his head in

his hands.

“I can no longer hope for healing, then,” he murmured.

And raising his head again, he added—

“It is the love of a woman that has reduced me to this miserable state.”

Not till then did Euphrosine recognize Count Longinus. She feared that

he likewise might recognize her. But she soon reassured herself, and was

seized with pity to see him looking so cast down and discomfited.

After a long silence, Count Longinus exclaimed—

“I would fain become a monk to escape from my despair.”

Then he told the story of his love, and how his betrothed, Euphrosine,

had suddenly disappeared; how for eight years he had sought her and

failed to find her, and how he was consumed and wasted with love and

grief.

She answered him with a gentleness that was heavenly.

“My lord, this Euphrosine, whose love you so bitterly deplore, was not

worthy of so much love. Her beauty was not so precious, except in the

ideal you yourself have formed of it; in truth, it is vile and

contemptible. It was perishable, and what remains of it is not worth a

regret. You believe yourself unable to live without Euphrosine, and yet,

if you should happen to meet her, you might even fail to recognize her.”

Count Longinus answered not a word, but this speech, or possibly the

voice in which it was pronounced, made a happy impression on his soul.

He departed in a more tranquil mood, and promised to return.

And indeed he did return, and being desirous of embracing the monastic

life, he asked the holy abbot Onophrius for a cell, and made a gift to

the monastery of all his possessions, which were immense. This was a

source of great satisfaction to Euphrosine. But some time after this her

heart was overwhelmed with a still greater joy.

It was in this way. A beggar, bending beneath the weight of his satchel

and having only sordid rags to cover his nakedness, came to ask a morsel

of bread from the charitable monks. In him Euphrosine recognized

Romulus, her father; but pretending not to know who he was, she made him

sit down, washed his feet, and set food before him.

“Child of God,” said the beggar, “I was not always a penniless wanderer

such as now you see me. Once I possessed great wealth and a very

beautiful daughter, who was also very prudent and very learned. She

unravelled the enigmas propounded in the public competitions, and on one

occasion even received from the magistrates the papyrus crown. I lost

her—I lost all my possessions. I am consumed with regret for my daughter

and my wealth. I had above all things a bush full of birds which, by a

marvellous contrivance, sang as though naturally. And now I have not

even a mantle to cover me. Nevertheless, I should be comforted if before

I die I might see once again my well-beloved daughter.”

As he concluded these words Euphrosine threw herself at his feet, and

said through her tears—

“My father, I am Euphrosine, your daughter, who one night fled from your

house. And the dog did not bark. Your pardon, my father. For I have not

accomplished these things except by the permission of our Lord Jesus

Christ.”

And after she had recounted to the old man the manner of her flight,

disguised as a workman, to that very house where she had since passed

eight peaceful years in hiding, she showed him a mark she had upon her

neck. And by this sign Romulus recognized his daughter. He embraced her

tenderly and bathed her in his tears, marvelling at the mysterious

workings of the Lord.

And for this reason he resolved to become a monk and to take up his

abode in the monastery of the holy abbot Onophrius. With his own hands

he built himself a cell of reeds next to that of Count Longinus. They

chanted the psalms and cultivated the ground. During the hours of rest

they conversed upon the vanity of earthly affections and the riches of

this world. But Romulus never disclosed anything to anybody concerning

his wonderful recognition of his daughter Euphrosine, thinking it much

for the best that Count Longinus and the abbot Onophrius should learn

the details of her adventures in Paradise, when they would have attained

a full understanding of the ways of God. Longinus never knew that his

betrothed was close beside him. All three lived for several years longer

in the practice of all the virtues, and by the special favour of

Providence they all three fell asleep in the Lord almost at the same

time. Count Longinus passed away first. Romulus died two months later,

and St. Euphrosine, after she had closed his eyes, was during the same

week called to heaven by Jesus Christ with the words: “Come, my dove.”

St. Onophrius followed them to the tomb, to which he descended full of

merits in the hundred and thirty-second year of his age, on the holy day

of Easter, in the year 395 after the incarnation of the Son of God. May

the Archangel St. Michael make intercession for us! Here end the acts of

St. Euphrosine. _Amen._

Such is the narrative of George the Deacon, written in the Laura on

Mount Athos at a period which may vary from the seventh to the

fourteenth century of the Christian era. As to this I waver, since it is

a matter of great uncertainty. This narrative is now for the first time

published; I have the best of reasons for being sure on this point. I

should be glad to have equally good reasons for thinking that it

deserved to be put forth. I have translated with a fidelity which has

doubtless been only too perceptible since it has infected my own style

with a Byzantine stiffness the inconvenience of which seems to myself

almost intolerable. George the Deacon told his tale with less

gracefulness than Herodotus, or Plutarch even. So that one may perceive

by his example that periods of decadence are sometimes less impregnated

with charm and daintiness than is the common opinion nowadays. This

demonstration is perhaps the principal merit my work can claim. That

work will be criticized vigorously, and no doubt questions may be put to

me to which I may find it difficult to reply. The text which I have

followed is not in the hand of George the Deacon. I do not know if it is

complete. I foresee that lacunæ and interpellations will be pointed out.

Monsieur Schlumberger will hold in suspicion various formularies

employed in the course of the narrative, and Monsieur Alfred Rambaud

will question the episode of the old man Porou. I reply beforehand that,

having but a single text, I could do no other than follow it. It is in

very bad condition and hardly legible. But one is bound to declare that

all the masterpieces of classical antiquity in which we take such

delight have come down to us in the same condition. I have excellent

reasons for believing that in transcribing the text of my Deacon I have

made tremendous blunders, and that my translation teems with

misconceptions. Possibly even it is nothing but a misconception from

beginning to end. If this should not appear so patently as one might

fear, it is because invariably the most unintelligible text has some

sort of meaning to him who translates it. Were this not the case,

erudition would cease to have any reason for continued existence. I have

compared the narrative of George the Deacon with the passages in Rufinus

and St. Jerome relating to St. Euphrosine. I am bound to say that it

does not altogether agree with them. It is doubtless for this reason

that my publisher has inserted this learned work in a light collection

of tales.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

SCHOLASTICA

TO MAURICE SPRONCK

SCHOLASTICA

At the time of which we speak, which was the fourth century of the

Christian era, the youthful Injuriosus, only son of a senator of

Auvergne (so the municipal officers were called), sought in marriage a

young girl named Scholastica, who, like himself, was the only child of a

senator. His suit was favourably received. And the marriage ceremony

having been celebrated, he conducted her to his house, and led her into

the bridal chamber. Whereupon, with a mournful countenance, she turned

herself to the wall and wept bitterly.

“What is the cause of your distress? Tell me, I beg of you.”

Then, as she maintained silence, he added—

“I entreat you by our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, to show me

plainly the reason for your lamentations.”

Then she turned towards him and said—

“If I were to weep every day of life that remains to me, I should not

shed tears enough to express the profound grief with which my heart is

filled. This feeble body I had determined to preserve in all purity, and

to present my virginity as an offering to Jesus Christ. Alas, and woe is

me! that I am in such a fashion forsaken as to be unable to fulfil what

I had resolved upon! Oh, day which never should have dawned upon me!

Behold me severed from the heavenly spouse who had promised me paradise

for a marriage portion, and become the bride of a mortal man, whilst

that head which should have been crowned with the roses of immortality,

is decked, or rather disfigured, with roses which already begin to

wither. Alas! that body which upon the margin of the fourfold stream of

the Lamb should have been endued with the garment of purity, bears

instead the vile burden of the nuptial veil. Ah! why was not the first

day of my life even also the last? Happy had I been had I entered the

gates of death ere a single drop of milk had passed my lips! Oh, that

the kisses of my gentle nurses had been bestowed upon my bier! When you

hold out your hands towards me, I recall the hands which for the

salvation of the world were pierced with nails.”

And as she finished these words she wept bitterly.

The young man answered her persuasively—

“Scholastica, our parents are of the rich and noble amongst the dwellers

in Auvergne, nor have yours more than a single daughter nor mine than an

only son. They wished for our union as a means of continuing their

families, lest after their death a stranger should enter into possession

of their belongings.”

But Scholastica replied—

“This world is nothing, and riches are nothing, and this life itself is

nothing. Is that life which is nothing but a waiting upon death? They

alone live who, in unending blessedness, bathe in the Light, and know

the joy of angels in the possession of God.”

At this moment Injuriosus, touched by grace, exclaimed—

“Ah, sweet and simple words, the light of life eternal glances upon my

eyes! Scholastica, if you wish to hold fast to that you have resolved, I

also at your side will lead a virgin life.”

More than half reassured, and already smiling through her tears, she

said—

“Injuriosus, for a man to grant to a woman a boon such as this is a

difficult matter. But if you should procure that we keep ourselves

unspotted from the world, a part of the marriage portion which my spouse

and Lord Jesus Christ has promised to me will I give unto you.”

Then, fortified by the sign of the cross, he said—

“I shall do that which you desire.”

And clasping one another’s hands, they fell asleep.

And from that time forward, sharing the same nuptial couch, they passed

their days in unexampled chastity. After ten years of trial Scholastica

died.

According to the customs of the day, her body was borne into the

basilica, in gala dress, and with uncovered face, to the chant of

psalms, and followed by the whole populace.

Kneeling down beside her, in a loud voice Injuriosus uttered these

words—

“I give Thee hearty thanks, Lord Jesus, that Thou hast bestowed upon me

strength to preserve Thy treasure uninjured.”

Upon these words, she that was dead rose up upon her funeral couch and

smiled, and murmured softly—

“My friend, why do you declare that which no man has asked of you?”

Whereupon she resumed her everlasting rest.

Injuriosus soon followed her to the tomb. They buried him not far from

her in the basilica of Saint Allire. The first night after he was laid

there a miraculous rose tree sprang from the grave of the virgin bride

and enwrapped both tombs in its flower-besprent embraces. So that on the

morrow the folk beheld them bound fast one to the other by chains of

roses. Recognizing by this sign the sanctity of the blessed Injuriosus

and the blessed Scholastica, the priests of Auvergne held up these

shrines to the veneration of the faithful. But in this province, which

had been evangelized by Saints Allire and Nepotian, pagans still dwelt.

One of these, by name Sylvanus, still held sacred the springs dedicated

to the nymphs, hung votive pictures upon the branches of an ancient oak,

and cherished by his fireside little images in clay representing the sun

and the goddesses of fruitfulness. Half hidden amid the foliage, the

garden god watched over his orchard. Sylvanus passed his declining years

in the writing of verse. He composed eclogues and elegies in a style a

little stiff perhaps, but not wanting in skill, and into these poems,

whenever he could manage to do so, he introduced verses from the bards

of old. With the general populace he too visited the spot where the

Christian spouses were laid, and the good man marvelled at the rose tree

which decked the two tombs. And as, after his fashion, he was pious, he

recognized therein a heavenly sign. But he attributed the prodigy to his

own gods, and doubted nothing that the rose tree flourished by the will

of Eros.

Said he: “Now that she is nothing but a vain shadow, the tristful

Scholastica regrets the hours when love was timely and the pleasures she

renounced. These roses, which come forth from her body and express her

thoughts, say to us who still survive: Love while ye may. This prodigy

indeed instructs us to taste the joys of life while it is yet time.”

Thus reflected this simple pagan. Upon this subject he composed an elegy

which by the greatest of chances I unearthed in the public library at

Tarascon, on the binding of a Bible of the eleventh century, catalogued

Michel Chasles Collection F _n_ 7439, 17^9 _bis._ The precious leaf

which had so far escaped the notice of the learned, contains not fewer

than eighty-four lines in a fairly legible Merovingian script probably

dating from the seventh century. The text begins with these words—

>Nunc piget; et quaeris, quod non aut ista volontas

Tunc fuit....[1]

and finishes in this fashion—

Stringamus maesti carminis obsequio.[2]

I shall not fail to publish the complete text so soon as I have finished

deciphering it. And I do not doubt that Monsieur Leopold Delisle himself

will undertake to present this invaluable document to the Academy of

Inscriptions.

-----

Footnote 1:

Now regret rankles, and thou cravest that

Thou didst reject....

Footnote 2:

Weave we the tribute of a mournful song.

-----

------------------------------------------------------------------------

OUR LADY’S JUGGLER

TO GASTON PARIS

OUR LADY’S JUGGLER

In the days of King Louis there was a poor juggler in France, a native

of Compiègne, Barnaby by name, who went about from town to town

performing feats of skill and strength.

On fair days he would unfold an old worn-out carpet in the public

square, and when by means of a jovial address, which he had learned of a

very ancient juggler, and which he never varied in the least, he had

drawn together the children and loafers, he assumed extraordinary

attitudes, and balanced a tin plate on the tip of his nose. At first the

crowd would feign indifference.

But when, supporting himself on his hands face downwards, he threw into

the air six copper balls, which glittered in the sunshine, and caught

them again with his feet; or when throwing himself backwards until his

heels and the nape of the neck met, giving his body the form of a

perfect wheel, he would juggle in this posture with a dozen knives, a

murmur of admiration would escape the spectators, and pieces of money

rain down upon the carpet.

Nevertheless, like the majority of those who live by their wits, Barnaby

of Compiègne had a great struggle to make a living.

Earning his bread in the sweat of his brow, he bore rather more than his

share of the penalties consequent upon the misdoings of our father Adam.

Again, he was unable to work as constantly as he would have been willing

to do. The warmth of the sun and the broad daylight were as necessary to

enable him to display his brilliant parts as to the trees if flower and

fruit should be expected of them. In winter time he was nothing more

than a tree stripped of its leaves, and as it were dead. The frozen

ground was hard to the juggler, and, like the grasshopper of which Marie

de France tells us, the inclement season caused him to suffer both cold

and hunger. But as he was simple-natured he bore his ills patiently.

He had never meditated on the origin of wealth, nor upon the inequality

of human conditions. He believed firmly that if this life should prove

hard, the life to come could not fail to redress the balance, and this

hope upheld him. He did not resemble those thievish and miscreant Merry

Andrews who sell their souls to the devil. He never blasphemed God’s

name; he lived uprightly, and although he had no wife of his own, he did

not covet his neighbour’s, since woman is ever the enemy of the strong

man, as it appears by the history of Samson recorded in the Scriptures.

In truth, his was not a nature much disposed to carnal delights, and it

was a greater deprivation to him to forsake the tankard than the Hebe

who bore it. For whilst not wanting in sobriety, he was fond of a drink

when the weather waxed hot. He was a worthy man who feared God, and was

very devoted to the Blessed Virgin.

Never did he fail on entering a church to fall upon his knees before the

image of the Mother of God, and offer up this prayer to her:

“Blessed Lady, keep watch over my life until it shall please God that I

die, and when I am dead, ensure to me the possession of the joys of

paradise.”

II

Now on a certain evening after a dreary wet day, as Barnaby pursued his

road, sad and bent, carrying under his arm his balls and knives wrapped

up in his old carpet, on the watch for some barn where, though he might

not sup, he might sleep, he perceived on the road, going in the same

direction as himself, a monk, whom he saluted courteously. And as they

walked at the same rate they fell into conversation with one another.

“Fellow traveller,” said the monk, “how comes it about that you are

clothed all in green? Is it perhaps in order to take the part of a

jester in some mystery play?”

“Not at all, good father,” replied Barnaby. “Such as you see me, I am

called Barnaby, and for my calling I am a juggler. There would be no

pleasanter calling in the world if it would always provide one with

daily bread.”

“Friend Barnaby,” returned the monk, “be careful what you say. There is

no calling more pleasant than the monastic life. Those who lead it are

occupied with the praises of God, the Blessed Virgin, and the saints;

and, indeed, the religious life is one ceaseless hymn to the Lord.”

Barnaby replied—

“Good father, I own that I spoke like an ignorant man. Your calling

cannot be in any respect compared to mine, and although there may be

some merit in dancing with a penny balanced on a stick on the tip of

one’s nose, it is not a merit which comes within hail of your own.

Gladly would I, like you, good father, sing my office day by day, and

especially the office of the most Holy Virgin, to whom I have vowed a

singular devotion. In order to embrace the monastic life I would

willingly abandon the art by which from Soissons to Beauvais I am well

known in upwards of six hundred towns and villages.”

The monk was touched by the juggler’s simplicity, and as he was not

lacking in discernment, he at once recognized in Barnaby one of those

men of whom it is said in the Scriptures: Peace on earth to men of good

will. And for this reason he replied—

“Friend Barnaby, come with me, and I will have you admitted into the

monastery of which I am Prior. He who guided St. Mary of Egypt in the

desert set me upon your path to lead you into the way of salvation.”

It was in this manner, then, that Barnaby became a monk. In the

monastery into which he was received the religious vied with one another

in the worship of the Blessed Virgin, and in her honour each employed

all the knowledge and all the skill which God had given him.

The prior on his part wrote books dealing according to the rules of

scholarship with the virtues of the Mother of God.

Brother Maurice, with a deft hand copied out these treatises upon sheets

of vellum.

Brother Alexander adorned the leaves with delicate miniature paintings.

Here were displayed the Queen of Heaven seated upon Solomon’s throne,

and while four lions were on guard at her feet, around the nimbus which

encircled her head hovered seven doves, which are the seven gifts of the

Holy Spirit, the gifts, namely, of Fear, Piety, Knowledge, Strength,

Counsel, Understanding, and Wisdom. For her companions she had six

virgins with hair of gold, namely, Humility, Prudence, Seclusion,

Submission, Virginity, and Obedience.

At her feet were two little naked figures, perfectly white, in an

attitude of supplication. These were souls imploring her all-powerful

intercession for their soul’s health, and we may be sure not imploring

in vain.

Upon another page facing this, Brother Alexander represented Eve, so

that the Fall and the Redemption could be perceived at one and the same

time—Eve the Wife abased, and Mary the Virgin exalted.

Furthermore, to the marvel of the beholder, this book contained

presentments of the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the Lily, the

Moon, the Sun, and the Garden Enclosed of which the Song of Songs tells

us, the Gate of Heaven and the City of God, and all these things were

symbols of the Blessed Virgin.

Brother Marbode was likewise one of the most loving children of Mary.

He spent all his days carving images in stone, so that his beard, his

eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes continually

swollen and weeping; but his strength and cheerfulness were not

diminished, although he was now well gone in years, and it was clear

that the Queen of Paradise still cherished her servant in his old age.

Marbode represented her seated upon a throne, her brow encircled with an

orb-shaped nimbus set with pearls. And he took care that the folds of

her dress should cover the feet of her, concerning whom the prophet

declared: My beloved is as a garden enclosed.

Sometimes, too, he depicted her in the semblance of a child full of

grace, and appearing to say, “Thou art my God, even from my mother’s

womb.”

In the priory, moreover, were poets who composed hymns in Latin, both in

prose and verse, in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and amongst the

company was even a brother from Picardy who sang the miracles of Our

Lady in rhymed verse and in the vulgar tongue.

III

Being a witness of this emulation in praise and the glorious harvest of

their labours, Barnaby mourned his own ignorance and simplicity.

“Alas!” he sighed, as he took his solitary walk in the little

shelterless garden of the monastery, “wretched wight that I am, to be

unable, like my brothers, worthily to praise the Holy Mother of God, to

whom I have vowed my whole heart’s affection. Alas! alas! I am but a

rough man and unskilled in the arts, and I can render you in service,

blessed Lady, neither edifying sermons, nor treatises set out in order

according to rule, nor ingenious paintings, nor statues truthfully

sculptured, nor verses whose march is measured to the beat of feet. No

gift have I, alas!”

After this fashion he groaned and gave himself up to sorrow. But one

evening, when the monks were spending their hour of liberty in

conversation, he heard one of them tell the tale of a religious man who

could repeat nothing other than the Ave Maria. This poor man was

despised for his ignorance; but after his death there issued forth from

his mouth five roses in honour of the five letters of the name Mary

(Marie), and thus his sanctity was made manifest.

Whilst he listened to this narrative Barnaby marvelled yet once again at

the loving kindness of the Virgin; but the lesson of that blessed death

did not avail to console him, for his heart overflowed with zeal, and he

longed to advance the glory of his Lady, who is in heaven.

How to compass this he sought but could find no way, and day by day he

became the more cast down, when one morning he awakened filled full with

joy, hastened to the chapel, and remained there alone for more than an

hour. After dinner he returned to the chapel once more.

And, starting from that moment, he repaired daily to the chapel at such

hours as it was deserted, and spent within it a good part of the time

which the other monks devoted to the liberal and mechanical arts. His

sadness vanished, nor did he any longer groan.

A demeanour so strange awakened the curiosity of the monks.

These began to ask one another for what purpose Brother Barnaby could be

indulging so persistently in retreat.

The prior, whose duty it is to let nothing escape him in the behaviour

of his children in religion, resolved to keep a watch over Barnaby

during his withdrawals to the chapel. One day, then, when he was shut up

there after his custom, the prior, accompanied by two of the older

monks, went to discover through the chinks in the door what was going on

within the chapel.

They saw Barnaby before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, head downwards,

with his feet in the air, and he was juggling with six balls of copper

and a dozen knives. In honour of the Holy Mother of God he was

performing those feats, which aforetime had won him most renown. Not

recognizing that the simple fellow was thus placing at the service of

the Blessed Virgin his knowledge and skill, the two old monks exclaimed

against the sacrilege.

The prior was aware how stainless was Barnaby’s soul, but he concluded

that he had been seized with madness. They were all three preparing to

lead him swiftly from the chapel, when they saw the Blessed Virgin

descend the steps of the altar and advance to wipe away with a fold of

her azure robe the sweat which was dropping from her juggler’s forehead.

Then the prior, falling upon his face upon the pavement, uttered these

words—

“Blessed are the simple-hearted, for they shall see God.”

“Amen!” responded the old brethren, and kissed the ground.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MASS OF SHADOWS

TO MONSIEUR JEAN FRANÇOIS BLADÉ,

OF AGEN,

THE “PIOUS CHRONICLER” WHO HAS COLLECTED THE

POPULAR TALES OF GASCONY

THE MASS OF SHADOWS

This tale the sacristan of the church of St. Eulalie at Neuville

d’Aumont told me, as we sat under the arbour of the White Horse, one

fine summer evening, drinking a bottle of old wine to the health of the

dead man, now very much at his ease, whom that very morning he had borne

to the grave with full honours, beneath a pall powdered with smart

silver tears.

“My poor father, who is dead” (it is the sacristan who is speaking),

“was in his lifetime a gravedigger. He was of an agreeable disposition,

the result, no doubt, of the calling he followed, for it has often been

pointed out that people who work in cemeteries are of a jovial turn.

Death has no terrors for them: they never give it a thought. I, for

instance, Monsieur, enter a cemetery at night as little perturbed as

though it were the arbour of the White Horse. And if by chance I meet

with a ghost, I don’t disturb myself in the least about it, for I

reflect that he may just as likely have business of his own to attend to

as I. I know the habits of the dead, and I know their character. Indeed,

so far as that goes, I know things of which the priests themselves are

ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen you would be astounded.

But a still tongue makes a wise head, and my father, who, all the same,

delighted in spinning a yarn, did not disclose a twentieth part of what

he knew. To make up for this he often repeated the same stories, and to

my knowledge he told the story of Catherine Fontaine at least a hundred

times.

“Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he well remembered having seen

when he was a mere child. I should not be surprised if there were still,

perhaps, three old fellows in the district who could remember having

heard folks speak of her, for she was very well known and of excellent

reputation, although poor enough. She lived at the corner of the Rue aux

Nonnes, in the turret which is still to be seen there, and which formed

part of an old half-ruined mansion looking on to the garden of the

Ursuline nuns. On that turret can still be traced certain figures and

half-obliterated inscriptions. The late Curé of St. Eulalie, Monsieur

Levasseur, asserted that there are the words in Latin, _Love is stronger

than death_, ‘which is to be understood,’ so he would add, ‘of divine

love.’

“Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment. She was a

lacemaker. You know, of course, that the lace made in our part of the

world was formerly held in high esteem. No one knew anything of her

relatives or friends. It was reported that when she was eighteen years

of age she had loved the young Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry, and been

secretly affianced to him. But decent folk didn’t believe a word of it,

and said it was nothing but a tale which had been concocted because

Catherine Fontaine’s demeanour was that of a lady rather than of a

working woman, and because, moreover, she possessed beneath her white

locks the remains of great beauty. Her expression was sorrowful, and on

one finger she wore one of those rings fashioned by the goldsmith into

the semblance of two tiny hands clasped together. In former days folks

were accustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal ceremony. I am

sure you know the sort of thing I mean.

“Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a great deal of time

in the churches, and every morning, whatever might be the weather, she

went to assist at the six o’clock Mass at St. Eulalie.

“Now one December night, whilst she was abed in her little chamber, she

was awakened by the sound of bells, and nothing doubting that they were

ringing for the first Mass, the pious woman dressed herself and came

downstairs and out into the street. The night was so obscure that not

even the walls of the houses were visible, and not a ray of light shone

from the murky sky. And such was the silence amid this black darkness,

that there was not even the sound of a distant dog barking, and a

feeling of aloofness from every living creature was perceptible. But

Catherine Fontaine knew well every single stone she stepped on, and as

she could have found her way to the church with her eyes shut, she

reached without difficulty the corner of the Rue aux Nonnes and the Rue

de la Paroisse, where the timbered house stands with the tree of Jesse

carved on one of its massive beams. When she reached this spot she

perceived that the church doors were open, and that a great light was

streaming out from the wax tapers. She resumed her journey, and when she

had passed through the porch she found herself in the midst of a vast

congregation which entirely filled the church. But she did not recognize

any of the worshippers, and was surprised to observe that all these

people were dressed in velvets and brocades, with feathers in their

hats, and that they wore swords in the fashion of days gone by. Here

were gentlemen who carried tall canes with gold knobs, and ladies with

lace caps fastened with coronet-shaped combs. Chevaliers of the Order of

St. Louis extended their hands to these ladies, who concealed behind

their fans painted faces, of which only the powdered brow and the patch

at the corner of the eye were visible! And all of them proceeded to take

up their places without the slightest sound, and as they moved neither

the sound of their footsteps on the pavement nor the rustle of their

garments could be heard. The lower places were filled with a crowd of

young artisans in brown jackets, dimity breeches, and blue stockings,

with their arms round the waists of very pretty blushing girls who

lowered their eyes. Near the holy water stoups peasant women, in scarlet

petticoats and laced bodices, sat upon the ground as immovable as

domestic animals, whilst young lads, standing up behind them, stared out

from wide-open eyes and twirled their hats round and round on their

fingers, and all these silent countenances seemed centred irremovably on

one and the same thought, at once sweet and sorrowful. On her knees, in

her accustomed place, Catherine Fontaine saw the priest advance towards

the altar, preceded by two servers. She recognized neither priest nor

clerks. The Mass began. It was a silent Mass, during which neither the

sound of the moving lips nor the tinkle of the bell, vainly swung to and

fro, was audible. Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the

observation and the influence also of her mysterious neighbour, and

when, scarcely turning her head, she stole a glance at him, she

recognized the young Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry who had once loved her,

and who had been dead for five-and-forty years. She recognized him by a

small mark which he had over the left ear, and, above all, by the shadow

which his long black eyelashes cast upon his cheeks. He was dressed in

his hunting clothes, scarlet with gold lace, the very clothes he wore

that day when he met her in St. Leonard’s Wood, begged her for a drink,

and stole a kiss. He had preserved his youth and his good looks. When he

smiled he still displayed magnificent teeth. Catherine said to him in an

undertone—

“‘Monseigneur, you who were my friend, and to whom in days gone by I

gave all that a girl holds most dear, may God keep you in His grace! O,

that he would at length inspire me with regret for the sin I committed

in yielding to you; for it is a fact that, though my hair is white and I

approach my end, I have not yet repented of having loved you. But, dear

dead friend and noble seigneur, tell me, who are these folk, habited

after the antique fashion, who are here assisting at this silent Mass?’

“The Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry replied in a voice feebler than a breath,

but none the less crystal clear—

“‘Catherine, these men and women are souls from purgatory who have

grieved God by sinning as we ourselves sinned through love of the

creature, but who are not on that account cast off by God, inasmuch as

their sin, like ours, was not deliberate.

“‘Whilst, separated from those they loved upon earth, they are purified

in the cleansing fires of purgatory, they suffer the pangs of absence,

which is for them the most cruel of tortures. They are so unhappy that

an angel from heaven takes pity upon their love-torment. By the

permission of the Most High, for one hour in the night, he reunites each

year lover to loved in their parish church, where they are permitted to

assist at the Mass of Shadows, hand clasped in hand. These are the

facts. If it has been granted to me to see thee here before thy death,

Catherine, it is a boon which has been bestowed by God’s special

permission.’

“And Catherine Fontaine answered him—

“‘I would die gladly enough, dear, dead lord, if I might recover the

beauty that was mine when I gave you to drink in the forest.’

“Whilst they conversed thus under their breath, a very old canon was

taking the collection and proffering to the worshippers a great copper

dish, wherein they let fall, each in his turn, ancient coins which have

long since ceased to pass current: écus of six livres, florins, ducats

and ducatoons, jacobuses and rose-nobles, and the pieces fell silently

into the dish. When at length it was placed before the Chevalier, he

dropped into it a louis which made no more sound than had the other

pieces of gold and silver.

“Then the old canon stopped before Catherine Fontaine, who fumbled in

her pocket without being able to find a farthing. Then, being unwilling

to allow the dish to pass without an offering from herself, she slipped

from her finger the ring which the Chevalier had given her the day

before his death, and cast it into the copper bowl. As the golden ring

fell, a sound like the heavy clang of a bell rang out, and on the stroke

of this reverberation the Chevalier, the canon, the celebrant, the

servers, the ladies and their cavaliers, the whole assembly vanished

utterly; the candles guttered out, and Catherine Fontaine was left alone

in the darkness.”

* * * * *

Having concluded his narrative after this fashion, the sacristan drank a

long draught of wine, remained pensive a moment, and then resumed his

talk in these words:—

“I have told you this tale exactly as my father has told it to me over

and over again, and I believe that it is authentic, because it agrees in

all respects with what I have myself observed of the manners and customs

peculiar to those who have passed away. I have associated a good deal

with the dead ever since my childhood, and I know that they are

accustomed to return to what they have loved.

“It is on this account that the miserly dead wander at night in the

neighbourhood of the treasures they concealed during their lifetime.

They keep a strict watch over their gold; but the trouble they give

themselves, far from being of service to them, turns to their

disadvantage; and it is not at all a rare thing to come upon money

buried in the ground on digging in a place haunted by a ghost. In the

same way deceased husbands come by night to harass their wives who have

made a second matrimonial venture, and I could easily name several who

have kept a better watch over their wives since death than ever they did

while living.

“That sort of thing is blameworthy, for in all fairness the dead have no

business to stir up jealousies. Still I do but tell you what I have

observed myself. It is a matter to take into account if one marries a

widow. Besides, the tale I have told you is vouched for in the manner

following:

“The morning after that extraordinary night Catherine Fontaine was

discovered dead in her chamber. And the beadle attached to St. Eulalie

found in the copper bowl used for the collection a gold ring with two

clasped hands. Besides, I’m not the kind of man to make jokes. Suppose

we order another bottle of wine?...”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

LESLIE WOOD

TO THE COMTESSE DE MARTEL-JANVILLE

LESLIE WOOD

There was music and private theatricals at Madame N——'s reception in the

Boulevard Malesherbes.

Whilst on the outskirts of a display of bare shoulders the younger men

at the doorway were suffocating in the stifling, scented air, we older

guests, not without grumbling, were keeping ourselves cool in a little

_salon_ from which we could see nothing, and to which the voice of

Mademoiselle Réjane only penetrated like the slightly metallic sound of

a dragon-fly’s flight. From time to time we could hear the laughter and

applause burst forth in the sweltering room, and we were disposed to

extend a mild tolerance to the entertainment we did not share. We were

exchanging fairly amusing trivialities, when one of the company, a

genial deputy, Monsieur B——, remarked—

“Did you know that Wood was here?”

At this statement each in turn exclaimed—

“Wood? Leslie Wood? It’s impossible. It is ten years since he was seen

in Paris. Nobody knows what’s become of him.”

“The story goes that he has established a black republic on the shores

of the Victoria Nyanza.”

“What a tale! You know, of course, that he is fabulously wealthy, and

that he is a past master in achieving the impossible. Well, he is living

in Ceylon, in a fairy palace, in the midst of enchanted gardens, where

the bayadères never cease dancing night and day.”

“How can any one believe such balderdash? The truth is, that Leslie Wood

has gone off with a Bible and a carbine to convert the Zulus.”

Monsieur B—— interrupted in an undertone—

“There he is; there, do you see?”

And he drew our attention by a slight movement of the head and eyes to a

man leaning against the doorway, dominating by his lofty stature the

heads of the crowd huddled in front of him. He seemed engrossed in the

performance.

That athletic carriage, the ruddy face with the white whiskers, the

penetrating eyes and calm gaze, they could belong to no one else but

Leslie Wood.

Recalling the inimitable letters which for ten years he contributed to

the _World_, I said to Monsieur B——

“That man is the foremost journalist of our time.”

“You may possibly be right,” replied B——. “At any rate, I am ready to

assert that for twenty years past no one has known Europe as thoroughly

as Leslie Wood.”

Baron Moïse, who was following our talk, shook his head.

“You don’t know the real Wood. I know him myself, though. He was before

all things a financier. He had a better grasp of the money market than

any one I know. What are you laughing at, Princess?”

Lolling expansively on the sofa, and in gloomy depression at being

unable to smoke a cigarette, the Princess Zévorine had smiled.

“You neither of you understand Mr. Wood—neither of you,” she said. “He

was always a mystic and a lover, never anything else.”

“I can’t agree to that,” replied Baron Moïse. “But I should be very glad

to know where this devil of a fellow has been spending the best ten

years of his life.”

“And at what period do you place those best ten years of life?”

“Between the fiftieth and sixtieth years; a man’s position is made by

then, and he has nothing to do but enjoy his existence.”

“Baron, you can question Wood himself. He is coming towards us.”

The applause, this time rising to a furious pitch like the fall of a

heavy body or the banging of doors, announced the close of the

performance. The black-coated contingent leaving the doorways clear

overflowed into the smaller _salon_, and as the company made their way

in couples in the direction of the buffet, Leslie Wood approached us.

He shook hands with undemonstrative cordiality.

“An apparition! an apparition!” exclaimed Baron Moïse.

“Oh!” rejoined Wood, “one can’t reappear from any very remote quarter.

The world is small.”

“Do you know what the Princess is saying about you, my dear Wood? She

declares that you are nothing but a mystic. Now is that true?”

“Well it depends on what you mean by mystic.”

“The word is self-explanatory. A mystic is one who is preoccupied with

the concerns of the next world. Now you are too well acquainted with the

affairs of this world to trouble yourself about the next.”

At these words Wood slightly contracted his eyebrows.

“You are quite in the wrong, Moïse. The affairs of the other world are

of far, far greater importance than those of the world we live in,

Moïse.”

“What a man he is, this good Wood of ours!” exclaimed the Baron, with a

sneer. “He is positively witty!”

The Princess replied very seriously—

“Mr. Wood, tell me that you are not witty. I thoroughly detest witty

men.”

Upon this she rose, and said—

“Mr. Wood, will you take me to the buffet?”

An hour later, when Monsieur G—— was holding both men and women

spell-bound with his songs, I came across Leslie Wood and the Princess

Zévorine again, alone in front of the deserted buffet.

The Princess was speaking with almost vehement enthusiasm of Count

Tolstoi, whose friend she was. She described this great man who had

descended to the lowliest life, donning the dress, and with it the

spirit, of the moujik, and using the hands which had indited literary

masterpieces in the manufacture of shoes for the poor.

To my great surprise, Wood was expressing approbation of a kind of life

so completely opposed to common sense. In his slightly panting voice, to

which the beginnings of asthma had given a singular sweetness, he said—

“Yes, Tolstoi is right. The whole of philosophy is contained in that

phrase: ‘May the will of God be done!’ He has realized that all the woes

of humanity are the outcome of the exercise of human will as distinct

from the will divine. My only fear is that he may impair so noble a

doctrine by fantastic and extravagant additions.”

“Oh!” returned the Princess in a subdued voice, and hesitating a little,

“the Count’s teaching is only extravagant upon one point; that is, in

inculcating the extension of the rights and duties of husbands to an

extremely advanced period of their lives, and imposing on the saints of

these latter days the fruitful old age of the patriarchs.”

Wood, himself elderly, replied with a restrained exaltation—

“And that again is excellent, very saintly even. Physical and natural

love is becoming to all God’s creatures, and so long as it does not

involve either dissension or restlessness, it maintains that divine

simplicity, that saintly fleshliness without which there is no

salvation. Asceticism is nothing but pride and rebellion. We must always

bear in mind the example of that holy man Boaz, and let us remember that

the Bible calls love the bread of old age.”

Then, all of a sudden, transported, illuminated, transfigured, ecstatic,

and invoking with eyes and arms and his whole soul some invisible

presence, he murmured—

“Annie! Annie! Annie, my best beloved, it is true, is it not, that our

Lord desires his saints, whilst they are men and women, to love one

another humbly, even as the beasts of the field?”

Upon this he fell exhausted into an arm-chair. A terrific inhalation

shook his broad chest, and in this condition his appearance was fuller

of vitality than ever, like those machines that appear more formidable

when they are out of gear. The Princess Zévorine, without any show of

astonishment, wiped his forehead with her handkerchief and gave him a

glass of water, which he drank.

For my part I was dumfounded. In this clairvoyant I was unable to

recognize the man who in his study, littered with blue-books, had so

many times conversed with me with the utmost clear-headedness upon

Oriental affairs, the Treaty of Frankfort, and critical situations on

the money market. As I allowed the Princess to observe my uneasiness,

she said, with a shrug of the shoulders—

“It is easy to see you are French! You look upon every one as a madman

who does not think exactly what you think yourself. You need not be

uneasy; our friend Mr. Wood is level-headed enough, perfectly

level-headed. Let us go and listen to G——.”

When I had conducted the Princess to the principal _salon_, I prepared

to leave. In the ante-chamber I found Wood putting on his overcoat. He

did not appear to feel any ill effects from his attack.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “I think we are neighbours. I suppose you are

still living on the Quai Malaquais, and I have taken up my quarters in a

hotel in the Rue des Saints Pères. In dry weather like this it is a

pleasure to go on foot. If you are willing we will stroll along together

and chat.”

I agreed readily. On the doorstep he offered me a cigar, and held out a

pocket electric torch for me to light it by.

“I find it very convenient,” he said, and proceeded to explain the

principle of it very lucidly.

I recognized the Wood of old times again. We moved on perhaps a hundred

paces along the street chatting on indifferent subjects. Then suddenly

my companion put his hand quietly on my shoulder.

“My dear friend,” he began, “some of the things I said this evening

cannot have failed to surprise you. You would probably like me to

explain them.”

“I was intensely interested, my dear Wood, pray do.”

“I will do so willingly. I have the greatest admiration of your

character. We may not regard life from the same point of view. But you

are not one of those who repel an idea because it is new, and that is a

disposition sufficiently rare, in France especially.”

“I fancy, however, my dear Wood, that for liberty of thought——”

“Oh! no, you are not, like the English, a race of theologians. But

enough of that. I want to tell you in as few words as possible the

history of my convictions. When you knew me fifteen years ago I was the

correspondent of the London _World_. With us journalism is a more

lucrative profession, and is held in higher esteem than with you. My

appointment was a good one, and I fancy I reaped the greatest possible

advantages from it. I am familiar with business transactions, and I

carried through some very profitable ones, and in a few years I achieved

two very desirable things: influence and fortune. You are aware that I

am a practical man.

“I have never worked without a goal in view. And, above all things, I

aimed at attaining the supreme goal of life. Fairly exhaustive

theological studies undertaken in my youth had convinced me that that

goal lay outside the sphere of this terrestrial life. But I was yet in

doubt as to the practical means of attaining it. As a result, I suffered

cruelly. Uncertainty is absolutely insupportable to a man of my

temperament.

“In this state of mind I turned my attention seriously to the psychical

researches of Sir William Crookes, one of the most distinguished members

of our Royal Society. I knew him personally, and needed no assurance

that he was both a man of learning and a gentleman. He was at that time

giving his attention to the case of a young woman endowed with psychic

powers of an altogether uncommon nature, and, like Saul of old, he was

fortunate enough to evoke the presence of an indisputable disembodied

spirit.

“A charming woman, who had passed through the experience of earthly life

and was now living the life beyond the tomb, lent herself to the

experiments of the eminent spiritualist, and submitted to every test he

could exact from her within the limits of decorum. I considered that

investigations such as this, bearing on the point at which terrestrial

existence borders on extra-terrestrial existence, would lead me, if I

followed them step by step, to the discovery of that which it is above

all necessary to know, that is to say, the true aim of life. But it was

not long before I was disappointed in my hopes. The researches of my

respected friend, although conducted with a precision which left nothing

to be desired, did not result in a theological and moral conviction

sufficiently unequivocal.

“Moreover, Sir William was suddenly deprived of the co-operation of the

incomparable dead lady who had so graciously attended several of his

spiritualistic séances.

“Discouraged by the incredulity of the public, and irritated by the

sallies of his colleagues, he ceased to give any information relative to

his psychic experiences. I communicated my discomfiture to the Reverend

Mr. B——, with whom I had been on friendly terms from the time of his

return from South Africa, where he had laboured as an evangelist in a

devoted and systematic fashion truly worthy of old England.

“Mr. B—— is, of all men, the one who has at all times exercised the most

powerful and decisive influence over me.”

“He is very intellectual, then?” I asked.

“His knowledge of doctrine is profound,” replied Wood. “But better than

all else he has a strong character, and you are aware, my dear fellow,

that it is by force of character that men are swayed. My mischances

occasioned no surprise to him; he attributed them to my lack of method,

and, above all, to the pitiable moral infirmity I had shown on this

occasion.

“‘Scientific experiments,’ he declared, ‘can never lead to discoveries

in any other domain than that of science. How is it you did not

understand this? Leslie Wood, you have been strangely heedless and

frivolous. The Apostle Paul has told us that the Spirit searcheth all

things. If we would discover spiritual truths we must set our feet on

the spiritual path.’

“These words produced a profound impression on me.

“‘How then,’ I asked, ‘shall I enter on the spiritual path?’

“‘Poverty and simplicity must be your guides!’ Mr. B—— replied. ‘Sell

your goods and give the purchase money to the poor. You are renowned.

Conceal yourself. Pray, and devote yourself to works of charity. Put on

a spirit of simplicity and a pure soul and you will attain truth.’

“I resolved to follow out these precepts to the letter. I sent in my

resignation as correspondent to the _World_. I realized my investments,

which were in great part in commercial enterprises, and, fearing to

repeat the sin of Ananias and Sapphira, I conducted this delicate

operation in such a way as not to risk the loss of a penny of the

capital which was no longer my own. Baron Moïse, who kept an eye on my

negotiations, conceived an almost religious reverence for my financial

genius. By direction of Mr. B——, I handed over to the treasurer of the

_Evangelical Society_ the sums I had realized, and when I expressed to

that eminent theologian my delight at being poor—

“‘Have a care,’ said he, ‘that in your poverty you do not indulge in

exaltation at your prowess. It will serve you but ill to strip yourself

outwardly if within your own breast you cherish a golden idol. Be

humble!’”

Leslie Wood had reached this point in his narrative when we arrived at

the Pont Royal. The Seine, upon whose surface the lights threw

flickering reflections, flowed beneath the arches with a dull moan.

“I shall have to cut my story short,” Wood began once more. “Each

episode of my new life would occupy a whole night to recount. Mr. B——,

to whom I was as obedient as a child, sent me to the Basutos,

commissioned to fight against the slave trade. There I lived under a

tent alone with that hardy bedfellow whose name is danger, and through

fever and drought became aware of the presence of God.

“At the end of five years Mr. B—— recalled me to England. On the steamer

I met a young girl. What a haunting face she had! She was a vision a

thousand times more radiant than the phantom presence which appeared to

Sir William Crookes!

“She was the orphan daughter of a colonel in the Indian army and she was

poor. She had no particular beauty of features. Her pale complexion and

emaciated face indicated suffering; but her eyes expressed all that one

can imagine of heaven; her body seemed to glow gently with an inward

light. How I loved her! At sight of her I fathomed the hidden meaning of

all creation! That simple young girl with one glance revealed to me the

secret of the harmony of the spheres!

“Ah! she was simple, very simple, my monitress, my well-loved lady,

sweet Annie Fraser! In her translucent soul I could read the sympathy

she felt for me. One night, one serene night, when we were alone

together on the deck of the ship in the presence of the seraphic company

of the stars, which throbbed in chorus in the sky, I took her hand and

said—

“‘Annie Fraser, I love you. I believe that it would be good for us both

for you to become my wife, but I am debarred from planning my own future

in order that God may dispose of it as He sees fit. May it be His will

to unite us! I have surrendered my own will into the hands of Mr. B——.

When we reach England we will go together in search of him; will you,

Annie Fraser? And if he gives his sanction we will marry.’

“She gave her consent. For the remainder of the voyage we read the Bible

together.

“Immediately on our arrival in London I accompanied my fellow passenger

to Mr. B——’s, and told him what the love of this young girl meant to me,

and with what clear insight it inspired me.

“Mr. B—— gazed for a long time on her with kindliness.

“‘You may marry,’ he said at length. ‘The Apostle Paul has declared that

the husband is sanctified by the wife, and the wife by the husband. But

let your union resemble those held in honour amongst Christians in the

primitive Church! Let it remain purely spiritual, and see that the

angel’s sword lies between you in your bed. Go, now, and remain humble

and secluded, and let not the world hear your name.’

“I married Annie Fraser, and I need scarcely tell you that we complied

rigidly with the condition imposed on us by Mr. B——. For four years I

delighted in that brotherly and sisterly union.

“By grace of simple little Annie Fraser I advanced in the knowledge of

God. There was nothing now that could cause us suffering.

“Annie was ill, and her strength declined, and we repeated joyfully in

union, ‘May the will of God be done on earth as it is in heaven!’

“After four years of this life together, there came a day, a Christmas

day, when Mr. B—— summoned me to him.

“‘Leslie Wood,’ he said, ‘I have put you to the proof for your soul’s

sake. But it would be to fall into papistical error to believe that the

union of His creatures after the flesh is displeasing to God. Twice He

blessed both animals and mankind in pairs, in the earthly Paradise, and

in the ark of Noah. Go, and live henceforth with your wife, Annie

Fraser, as a husband with his wife.’

“When I arrived home, Annie, my well-loved Annie, was dead....

“I own my weakness. It was with my lips and not with my heart that I

pronounced the words, ‘O God, Thy will be done!’ and thinking upon Mr.

B——’s tardy removal of the restrictions upon our love, I felt my mouth

full of bitterness, and as it were ashes in my heart.

“So it was with a forlorn soul that I knelt down at the foot of the bed

where, beneath a cross of roses, silent and white and with the faint

violets of death on her cheeks, my Annie slept her last sleep.

“O thou of little faith! thou didst bid her adieu and remain a whole

week plunged in barren sorrow that approached despair. How much rather

shouldst thou, on the contrary, have rejoiced, both in body and soul!...

“On the night of the eighth day, as I was weeping, my forehead bowed

upon the cold and empty bed, I had a sudden conviction that the beloved

was near me in my chamber.

“Nor was I deceived. When I raised my head I saw Annie, smiling and

radiant, holding out her arms to me. But how find words for what remains

to tell? How express the ineffable? And is it permissible to reveal such

mysteries of love?

“Clearly when Mr. B—— said to me, ‘Live with Annie as a husband with his

wife!’ he knew that love is stronger than death.

“Learn, then, my friend, that from that hour of forgiveness and joy my

Annie has returned nightly to my side distilling celestial odours.”

He spoke with appalling exaltation.

We had slackened our pace. He stopped in front of a hotel of Moorish

exterior.

“This is where I live,” he said. “Do you see that window on the second

floor with the light in it? She is waiting for me.”

He left me abruptly.

Eight days later I learned from the newspapers of the sudden death of

Leslie Wood, former correspondent of the _World_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

GESTAS

TO CHARLES MAURRAS

GESTAS

“‘Gestas,’ dixt li Signor, ‘entrez en Paradis.’”

“Gestas, dans nos anciens mystères, c’est le nom du larron crucifié à la

droite de Jésus-Christ” (Augustin Thierry, _la Rédemption de

Larmor_).[3]

-----

Footnote 3:

“‘Gestas,’ said the Lord, ‘enter into Paradise.’”

-----

“Gestas, in our ancient mystery plays, was the name of the thief who

was crucified on the right hand of Jesus Christ” (Augustin Thierry,

_The Redemption of Larmor_).

Folks say that we have amongst us at this very day a sad rogue named

Gestas, who writes the sweetest songs in the world. It was written on

his flat-featured face that he would be a sinner after the flesh, and

towards evening evil exultation shines in his green eyes. He is no

longer young. The protuberances on his skull have taken on the lustre of

copper; the long hair falling about his neck has taken a greenish tinge.

Nevertheless he is ingenuous, and has kept fast hold on the naive faith

of his childhood. When he is not in hospital he occupies a little room

in some squalid hotel between the Panthéon and the Jardin des Plantes.

There, in the old impoverished quarter, every stone is familiar with his

tread, the gloomy byways are tolerant of him, and one of these narrow

lanes is entirely after his own heart; for, lined though it is with dram

shops and boosing kens, it boasts on the corner of one of the houses an

image of the Virgin in a blue niche behind bars. Of an evening he

progresses from café to café, and at station after station, with pious

orderliness, he takes his beer or his spirits: the exacting duties of

the devotee of debauchery call for method and regularity. The night is

far gone when, without knowing how, he once more reaches his den, and by

a daily miracle discovers the sacking bed, upon which he falls fully

dressed. There with clenched fists he sleeps the sleep of the vagabond

and the child. But that sleep is brief.

As soon as dawn casts its pale radiance upon the window, and between the

curtains darts its luminous shafts into the attic, Gestas opens his

eyes, rises, shakes himself like an ownerless dog awakened by a kick,

hurries down the long, spiral staircase, and once more sets his eyes

delightedly on the street, the kind street which is so indulgent to the

vices of the lowly and the poor. His eyelids wink at the clear light of

the early morning; the nostrils, which recall Silenus, inhale the clean

air. Vigorous and upright, one leg stiffened by rheumatism of long

standing, he goes on his way leaning on his dog-wood stick, the ferrule

of which he has worn out with twenty years of wandering. But in his

nocturnal adventures he has never lost either his pipe or his stick. And

at the beginning of the day his appearance is that of a man perfectly

simple and perfectly happy. Which is what he actually is. His greatest

joy in life, which he buys at the sacrifice of sleep, is to go from bar

to bar in the morning drinking white wine with the workmen. It is an

innocent sort of tippling: the transparent wine, in the pale light of

early morning, amongst the white blouses of the masons; there you have a

symphony in whites which enchants this soul, of which vice has not yet

subdued the candour.

Now one spring morning when he had sauntered in this fashion from his

lodging as far as _The Little Moor_, Gestas had the satisfaction of

seeing the door, over which appeared a Saracen’s head in cast iron, gay

with paint, thrown open as he came up, and so he reached the tin counter

in the company of friends with whom he had no acquaintance: a gang of

workmen from La Creuse, who clinked their glasses, talked of their own

part of the country, and indulged in boasting after the manner of the

twelve peers of Charlemagne. They drank a glass and cracked a crust;

when one of them thought of a good thing he laughed very loudly at it,

and so that his comrades might understand it the better gave them a good

thump or two on the back with his fist. The older men, however,

dispatched their potations slowly and silently. When these had all

departed to their work, Gestas, the last left, quitted _The Little Moor_

and made his way to _The Juicy Quince_, with the lance-headed railings

of which he was familiar. Here, again, in excellent company, he had a

drink, and even offered a glass to two mistrustful but mild guardians of

the peace. After this he visited a third bar, the ancient wrought-iron

sign of which represents two little men staggering under an enormous

bunch of grapes, and there he was served by the lovely Madame Trubert,

famous all the quarter through for her prudence, her strength, and her

jollity. Then as he neared the fortifications he had yet another drink

at the distillery where, in the shadow, the gleaming copper taps of the

barrels attract the eye; and still another at the general shop where the

green shutters were still fast closed between the two boxes of laurels;

after which he returned to the most populous districts and ordered

_vermouth_ and a sort of mixture of dregs in various cafés. Eight

o’clock struck. He walked very erect, with a steady, rigid, solemn gait;

he was astonished when women, running to buy provisions, with bare head

and their hair twisted in a knot low on the neck, ran against him with

their heavy baskets, or when he came into collision with some small girl

grasping an enormous loaf in her arms. Still, at times, if he crossed

the road the milkman’s cart, with its clinking, rattling tin cans, would

pull up so close to him that he could feel the horse’s warm breath on

his cheek. But he continued his way unhasting and careless of the

imprecations of the rustic milk-vendor. His gait, secure of support from

his dog-wood stick, was calm and haughty. But internally the old man was

staggering. Nothing was left of his early morning gaiety. The lark,

whose joyous trills had thrilled through him with his earliest sips of

the pale-hued wine, had sped away at a single flight, and now his soul

was a murky rookery, where crows croaked hoarsely upon inky trees. He

was mortally sad. A great disgust of himself welled up in his heart. The

voice of his repentance, his shame, cried out in him: “Hog, hog! What a

hog you are!” And he marvelled at that clear, angry voice, that superb

angel’s voice, which spoke mysteriously within himself, repeating: “Hog!

hog! What a hog you are!” A yearning desire for innocence and purity

woke in him. He wept; great tears fell down on his goat-like beard. He

wept over himself. Obedient to the words of his Master, who said, “Weep

for yourselves and for your children, O daughters of Jerusalem,” he shed

the bitter dew from his downcast eyes upon the body he had delivered up

to the seven deadly sins, and upon the obscene fancies born of his

drunkenness. The faith of his childhood revived in him, and spread out

fresh vigorous tendrils. From his lips pathetic prayers flowed forth. He

said under his breath: “O God, grant me to become once more even as the

little child which once was I!” At the moment he offered up this simple

petition he realized that he was standing under a church porch.

It was an old church, once white and comely beneath its lacework of

stone, which time and the hand of man had marred. Now it had become as

black as the Shulamite, and its beauty could only appeal to the hearts

of poets; it was a church “little and poor and old,” like the mother of

François Villon, who perchance in her day came to kneel in its

precincts, and saw on the walls, nowadays whitewashed, that painted

paradise, the harps of which she believed she could hear, and that

inferno where the damned suffered fiery torment, which caused the worthy

soul to be much afraid. Gestas entered into the House of God. He saw no

one within, not even any one to offer him holy water, not even a poor

woman like the mother of François Villon. Ranged in seemly order in the

nave, a congregation of chairs alone bore witness to the faith of the

parishioners, and seemed to sustain public worship.

In the cool, moist shade afforded by the vaulting Gestas turned to his

right towards the aisle where, close to the porch, before a statue of

the Virgin, a pyramidal frame of iron displayed its pointed teeth, on

which, however, not a single taper now burned. Then as he gazed on the

image, white, pink, and blue in colour, smiling from the midst of little

gold and silver hearts hung up as votive offerings, he bent his stiff

old legs, wept tears like St. Peter, and sobbed out tender, disconnected

words: “Holy Virgin, Mother, Mary, Mary, your child, your child,

Mother!” But very speedily he rose up again, took several rapid steps,

and stopped in front of a confessional. Framed of oak, darkened by the

passage of time, oiled as are the beams of an olive press, this

confessional had the irreproachable, homely, intimate appearance of an

old linen cupboard. On its panels religious symbols carved in shell-like

lozenges and rusticated work called up the memory of the townswomen of

the olden time, who had come hither to bow their caps with lofty

erections of lace and lave their housewifely souls in this type of the

cleansing piscina. Where they had set their knees Gestas set his, and

with lips close up to the wooden grating called in a hushed voice:

“Father! father!” As no one answered his call he knocked very gently

with his finger on the wicket.

“Father! father!”

He wiped his eyes so as to see better through the holes in the grating,

and thought he could make out through the dimness the white surplice of

a priest.

He repeated—

“Father! father! pray listen to me. I am in need of confession, I must

cleanse my soul; it is black and dirty; it disgusts me; it turns my

stomach. Quick, father, the bath of repentance, the bath of pardon, the

bath of Jesus. At the thought of my impurities my heart comes into my

mouth, and I am ready to spew with disgust at my uncleanness. The bath,

the bath of cleansing!”

Then he waited. Now fancying he perceived a hand, which made a sign to

him from the depths of the confessional, now failing to discover in the

alcove anything more than an empty seat, a long time passed. He remained

motionless, his knees glued to the wooden step, his gaze intent on the

wicket, whence he awaited the outpouring of pardon, peace, refreshment,

health, innocence, reconciliation with God and himself, heavenly joy,

submission to the divine love, the sovereign good. At intervals he

murmured tender supplications—

“Monsieur le curé, father, monsieur le curé! I thirst! give me to drink,

give me that which is yours to give, the water of innocence, a white

robe, and wings for my poor soul. Give me penitence and pardon!”

Receiving no reply, he knocked still harder at the grating, and said

aloud—

“Confession, I beg of you!”

At last he lost patience, and rising, showered heavy blows with his

dog-wood stick on the walls of the confessional, shouting—

“Ho, there, monsieur le curé! Ho, there, monsieur le vicaire!”

And in proportion as he raised his voice he knocked more loudly. The

blows fell furiously on the confessional, causing clouds of dust to

arise from it, and only evoking in reply to his violence the vibration

of its worm-eaten old planks.

The verger, who was sweeping out the sacristy, ran forward with his

sleeves turned up on hearing the noise. When he saw the man with the

stick he stopped short for a moment, and then advanced towards him with

the cautious reserve common to the officials who have grown white in the

service of this lowliest of police. Arrived within earshot he demanded—

“What is it you want?”

“I want to confess.”

“Folks don’t come to confess at an hour like this.”

“I want to confess.”

“Be off with you!”

“I want to see the curé.”

“For what purpose?”

“To make my confession.”

“The curé can’t be seen just now.”

“The senior vicaire, then.”

“Nor he either. Now off you go.”

“The second vicaire, the third vicaire, the fourth vicaire, the youngest

vicaire.”

“Be off with you.”

“Ah, then! would you let me die unshriven? It’s worse than it was in

'93, it seems!... Any little vicaire. How will it hurt you if I make my

confession to some little vicaire not any taller than my arm? Take word

to some priest that he must come to hear my confession. I’ll undertake

to disclose to him a batch of sins rarer, more extraordinary, more

interesting, you may take my word for it, than all those his chattering

women penitents can trot out before him. You can tell him that he is

wanted for a really fine confession.”

“Get away now!” $1“$2”$3.bn 145.png

Although he did not rejoice in the majestic stature of the verger of a

rich parish, this official staff-bearer was vigorous enough. He took our

poor Gestas by the shoulders and hurled him outside the doors.

Gestas, once in the street, had only one idea in his brain, which was to

get back into the church by one of the side doors, so as, if possible,

to steal a march on the verger from behind, and perhaps lay hands on

some underling vicaire who would consent to hear his confession.

Unhappily for the success of this man[oe]uvre, the church was surrounded

on all sides by old houses, and Gestas was soon hopelessly entangled,

without hope of delivery, in an inextricable maze of streets, lanes,

courts, and alleys.

Amongst them, however, he discovered a wine merchant’s, and there the

poor penitent tried to find consolation in absinthe. He managed to do

so. But a fresh fit of repentance soon overtook him. And it is this

which supports his friends in the hope that he will win salvation. He

has faith—simple, firm, childlike faith. It is works alone which he is

lacking in. Nevertheless there is no need to despair of him, since he

himself never despairs.

Without entering on the difficulties as to predestination—and they are

not inconsiderable—nor weighing the opinions expressed on this subject

by St. Augustine, Gottschalk, the Albigenses, the Wycliffites, the

Hussites, Luther, Calvin, Jansenius, and the great Arnaud, one may

venture to believe that Gestas is predestined to eternal felicity.

“Gestas,” said the Lord, “enter into Paradise.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE MANUSCRIPT OF A VILLAGE

DOCTOR

TO MARCEL SCHWOB

THE MANUSCRIPT OF A VILLAGE

DOCTOR

Doctor H——, who recently died at Servigny (Aisne), where he had

practised medicine for more than forty years, left behind him a journal

never intended for the public eye. I should not feel justified in

publishing the manuscript _in extenso_, nor even in printing fragments

of any considerable length, although, like Monsieur Taine, there is a

large number of persons nowadays of the opinion that it is above all

things desirable to print and circulate what was never planned for

publication. Whatever these worthy folk may say, the fact that a writer

is an amateur does not afford any guarantee that what he has to say will

be interesting. The memoirs of Doctor H—— would be wearisome from their

mere monotonously moral note. And yet the man who wrote them, in his

lowly environment, possessed an intellect quite out of the ordinary.

This village doctor was philosopher as well as physician. Perhaps the

closing pages of his journal might be perused without any exceptional

distaste. I venture to transcribe them here:—

_Extract from the Journal of the late Doctor H——,

Physician at Servigny (Aisne)._

“It is an axiom of philosophy that nothing in this world is either

altogether bad or altogether good. Pity, the tenderest, the most

natural, the most useful of the virtues, is not at all times in place

either with the soldier or the priest; both with priest and soldier

there are occasions when it must be held in restraint—when confronted by

the enemy, for instance. Officers do not make a practice of recommending

it on the eve of battle, and in some old book I have read that Monsieur

Nicole held it in distrust as the motive principle of concupiscence.

There is nothing of the priest about me, and still less of the soldier.

I am a doctor, and amongst the most insignificant of that profession, a

country doctor. I have practised my art for long years and in obscurity,

and I would assert that if pity alone can be a worthy stimulus to the

adoption of our profession, we must lay it aside finally when we

encounter those miseries which it has inspired us with the desire to

alleviate. A doctor whom pity accompanies to the bedside of his patients

will find his observation not sufficiently acute, his hands not

sufficiently steady. We go wherever compassion for the human race calls,

but we must leave pity behind us. Moreover, doctors for the most part

find it an easy task to attain the callousness which is so necessary to

them. That is a mental condition which cannot long elude them, and there

are moral reasons for this. Pity speedily becomes blunted when brought

into contact with suffering; there is less disposition to deplore those

misfortunes for which alleviation can be procured; finally, to the

physician an illness offers a succession of interesting phenomena.

“From the time when I began the practice of medicine I flung myself into

it with ardour. In the bodily ills disclosed to me I saw only

opportunities for the practical application of my art. When a complaint

developed without complications, I was able to see beauty in its

conformity to the normal type. Those phenomena of disease, which offered

apparent anomalies, awakened curiosity in my mind; so that I was

enamoured of disease. What am I saying? From the point of view I

espoused disease and health were possessed of indisputable personality.

As an enthusiastic observer of the human mechanism, I found as much to

admire in its more baleful affections as in its most healthy compliance

with law. Willingly should I have exclaimed with Pinel: ‘What a

magnificent cancer!’ That was a fine attitude of mind, and I was on my

way to become a philosopher-physician. I only needed to have a genius

for my art in order to enjoy completely, and enter into possession of,

the full beauty of the theory of disease classification. It is the

privilege of genius to unveil the splendour of things. Where the

ordinary man would see only a disgusting wound, the naturalist worthy of

the name stands enraptured before a battlefield on which the mysterious

forces of life struggle for supremacy, in an encounter more inexorable,

more terrifying than any that the strenuous abandon of Salvator Rosa

ever depicted. I only caught glimpses of that spectacle of which the

Magendies and Claude Bernards were familiar witnesses, and it was a

distinction for me to do so; but though resigned to the career of a

humble practitioner, I fortified myself, as a professional duty, in the

habit of confronting grievous situations unemotionally. I gave my

patients my energies and my intellect. I did not give them pity. God

forbid that I should place any gift, howsoever precious, above His gift

of pity! Pity is the widow’s mite; it is the incomparable offering of

the poor man, who with generosity outstripping that of all the wealthy

in this world of ours, gives with the gift of his tears a piece torn

from his heart. For that very reason it is that pity must be dissociated

from the carrying out of a professional duty, how noble soe’er that

profession may be.

“To enter upon more particular considerations, I would say that the folk

in whose midst I am living evoke in their misfortunes a sentiment which

is not pity. There is something of truth in the theory that a man cannot

inspire in another an emotion which he is incapable of experiencing

himself. Now the peasantry in our part of the country are not

tender-hearted. Harsh to others as to themselves, they drag out an

existence morose in its gravity. That gravity, too, is contagious, and

in their company sadness and dejection affect one’s mind. What is fine

about their moral outlook is that they preserve unscathed the nobler

features of humanity. As they are not accustomed to think with any

frequency or profundity, their thoughts assume naturally in certain

circumstances a solemn tone. I have heard some of them give utterance at

the point of death to brief, forcible speeches worthy of the patriarchs

of the Old Testament. They can call forth one’s admiration, but do not

awaken one’s sympathies. With them everything is quite simple, even

their illnesses. Their sufferings are not accentuated by their

imagination. They are not like those over-sensitive creatures who

construct from their ills a monster more harassing than the ills

themselves. They meet death so much as a matter of course that it is

impossible to be greatly disturbed. To sum up, I might say that they are

all so much alike that no shred of individuality vanishes as each one

passes away.

“For the reasons which I have just set down it follows that I practise

my profession of village doctor very peacefully. I never regret having

chosen it. I sometimes think I am a little above it; but if it is

vexatious to a man to feel himself above his position, the annoyance

would certainly be greater if he felt unequal to it. I am not rich, and

never shall be so long as I live. But of what use would money be to one

who leads a solitary village life? My little grey mare, Jenny, is as yet

only fifteen years old, and she still trots as easily as in the days of

her first youth, especially when we are going in the direction of the

stable. I do not, like my illustrious fellow-physicians in Paris,

possess a gallery of pictures for the entertainment of my visitors, but

I can show pear trees which the townsmen have nothing like. My orchard

is famous for twenty leagues round, and the owners of the neighbouring

châteaux come to beg cuttings from me.

“Now on a certain Monday—it will be a year ago this very day—as I was

busy in my garden inspecting my espaliers, a farm servant came to beg me

to call as soon as possible at Les Alies.

“I asked him whether Jean Blin, the farmer at Les Alies, had sustained a

fall the previous day as he came home in the evening. For in my part of

the country a sprain is a common Sunday occurrence, and it is not at all

rare for a man to break two or three ribs that day on leaving the

public-house. Jean Blin is not exactly a bad sort, but he likes drinking

in company, and more than once he has known what it is like to wait for

Monday’s dawn at the bottom of a miry ditch.

“The farm servant replied that there was nothing the matter with Jean

Blin, but that Éloi, Jean’s little son, was seized with fever.

“Without another thought for my espaliers, I went in search of my hat

and stick, and set out on foot for Les Alies, which is only twenty

minutes’ walk from my house. As I walked, my thoughts were on ahead with

Jean Blin’s little boy in the grip of a fever. His father was a peasant

much like every other peasant, with this peculiar difference, that the

Intelligence which created him forgot to provide him with a brain. This

great hulking Jean Blin has a head as thick as his fist. Divine wisdom

has only furnished that particular skull with what was strictly

indispensable, there’s no getting over that. His wife, the best-looking

woman in the place, is a noisy, bustling housewife, stolidly virtuous.

Well, well! To this worthy couple a child had been given, who was easily

the most delicate, the most spiritual little being that ever adorned

this old world of ours. Heredity is responsible for some of the

surprises in nature, and it has been well said that nobody knows what he

is about when he father’s a child. Heredity, according to our honoured

Nysten, is the biological phenomenon which is responsible for the fact

that, in addition to the normal type of the species, ancestors transmit

to their descendants certain peculiarities of organization and of

aptitude. I admit it. But what peculiarities are transmitted and what

are not, that is what is not very clear, even after a perusal of the

learned works of Doctor Lucas and Monsieur Ribot. My neighbour, the

notary, lent me last year a volume by Monsieur Émile Zola, and I observe

that that author takes credit for particular discernment in this

respect. ‘Here,’ he says, in substance, ‘is an ancestor afflicted with

neurosis; his descendants will show neuropathic tendencies, that is to

say, when they do not do so; amongst them will be found some foolish and

some intelligent individuals; one of them may even be a genius.’ He has

gone to the trouble of drawing up a genealogical chart to make his idea

more easily apprehended. Well and good! The discovery is not

particularly novel, and its expounder would unquestionably be

ill-advised to vaunt himself upon it; it is none the less true, however,

that it embraces practically all we know on the subject of heredity. And

this is how it came about that Éloi, Jean Blin’s little son, was an

embodied intellect. He had the creative imagination. Many a time, when

he was no higher than my walking-stick, I have come across him playing

truant with the village urchins. Whilst they were reaching after nests,

I have watched the little fellow constructing model mills and miniature

syphons with pipes of straw. Inventive and unsociable he turned to

nature. His schoolmaster despaired of ever making anything of so

inattentive a child; and, to tell the truth, at eight years old Éloi was

still ignorant of his letters. But at that age he learned to read and

write with astonishing rapidity, and in six months became the best

scholar in the village.

“He was the most affectionate and the most clinging child. I gave him a

few lessons in mathematics, and was astounded at the fertility that his

mind displayed at this early age. In fact—I own it without any fear of

being ridiculed, for in an old man cut off from civilization some

exaggeration is pardonable—I rejoiced to have detected in this little

peasant the premonitions of one of those enlightened spirits which at

long intervals shine forth in the midst of our purblind race, and,

impelled alike by the need of lavishing their affection and the desire

for knowledge, are bound to effect something useful or beautiful

wherever fate may assign them a place.

“My mind was occupied with musings of this kind as far as Les Alies.

Entering the low-ceiled room, I found little Éloi ensconced in the big

bed with cotton hangings, to which no doubt his parents had removed him

on account of the gravity of his condition. He was lethargic; his head,

though small and delicate, nevertheless made as great a dent in the

pillow as if it had been of enormous weight. I stole near. His forehead

was on fire; there was a disquieting redness about the conjunctive

membrane; the temperature of the body was altogether too high. His

mother and grandmother kept close to him, anxiously. Jean Blin, whose

uneasiness prevented him from working, not knowing what to do, and being

afraid to go away, stood with his hands in his pockets looking

inquiringly first at one and then at another. The child turned his drawn

face towards me, and scrutinizing me with an affectionate but

heartbreaking glance, said in reply to my questions that his forehead

and his eyes were both very painful, that he could hear noises which he

knew were imaginary, and that he knew perfectly well who I was, his dear

old friend.

“‘First he has shivering fits, and then he is feverishly hot,’ said his

mother.

“Jean Blin, after ruminating for several minutes, remarked—

“‘My belief is that what ails him is his inside.’

“Then he relapsed into silence.

“It had been only too easy for me to diagnose the symptoms of acute

meningitis. I prescribed revulsive applications to the feet, and leeches

behind the ears. I drew near to my little friend a second time, and

tried to say something cheerful to him, more cheerful, alas! than facts

warranted. But I was suddenly aware of an entirely new personal

experience. Although I was completely self-possessed I seemed to see the

sick child through a veil, and at such a distance that he appeared

quite, quite small. This upsetting of my ideas of space was speedily

followed by an analogous upheaval of my ideas of time. Although my visit

had not lasted above five minutes, I received the impression that I had

been in that low-ceiled room, in front of that bed with its white cotton

hangings, for a long time, for a very long time, and that months and

even years had rolled by whilst I was held motionless.

“By a mental effort which is perfectly natural to me, I there and then

put these singular impressions under analysis, and the cause of them

became quite clear to me. It was simple enough. Éloi was dear to me. At

the sight of him so unexpectedly and so seriously ill I could not ‘get

my bearings.’ It is the popular phrase, and it is appropriate. Moments

of anguish appear to us unnaturally long. That is why I received the

impression that the five or six minutes I had passed beside Éloi had

something interminable about them. As to the fancy that the child was at

a distance from me, that came from the idea that I was about to lose

him. This idea, impressed on me against my will, had from the first

moment assumed a character of absolute certainty.

“The following day Éloi was in a less alarming condition. The

improvement continued for several days. I had sent into the town to

procure ice, and this had had a good effect. But on the fifth day I

recognized that he was in violent delirium. He talked a great deal, and

amongst the disconnected words I heard him pouring out I could

distinguish these—