Many months passed. Durtal continued his alternation of wanton and pious
ideas. Without power to resist, he saw himself slipping. "All this is
far from clear," he cried, one day, in a rage, when, less apathetic than
usual, he forced himself to take stock. "Now, Monsieur l'Abbé, what does
this mean? Whenever my sensual obsessions are weaker, so also are my
religious impressions."
"That means," said the priest, "that your adversary is holding out to
you the most treacherous of his baits. He seeks to persuade you that you
will never attain to anything unless you will give yourself up to the
most repugnant excesses. He tries to convince you that satiety and
disgust of these acts alone will bring you back to God; he incites you
to commit them that they may, so to speak, bring about your deliverance;
he leads you into sin under pretext of delivering you from it. Have a
little energy, despise these sophistries and resist him."
He went to see the Abbé Gévresin every week. He liked the patient
discretion of the old priest, who let him talk when he was in a
confidential humour, listened to him carefully, manifested no surprise
at his frequent temptations and his falls. Only the abbé always returned
to his first advice, insisted on regular prayer, and that Durtal should
each day, if possible, visit a church. He also now said, "The hour is
important for the success of these practices. If you wish that the
chapels should be favourable to you, get up in time to be present at
daybreak at the first mass, the servants' mass, and also be very often
in the sanctuaries at nightfall."
The priest had evidently formed a plan; Durtal did not yet wholly
understand it, but he was bound to admit that this discipline of
temporizing, this constant call to thought always directed to God, by
his daily visits to the churches, acted upon him at last, and little by
little softened his soul. One fact proved it: that he who for so long a
time had been unable to meditate in the morning, now prayed as soon as
he awoke. Even in the afternoon he found himself on some days seized
with the need of speaking humbly with God, with an irresistible desire
to ask His pardon and implore His help.
It seemed then that the Lord knocked at his door with gentle touches,
wishing so to recall his attention, and draw him to Him; but when,
softened and troubled, Durtal would enter into himself to seek God, he
wandered vaguely, not knowing what he said, and thinking of other things
while speaking to Him.
He complained of these wanderings and distractions to the priest, who
answered,--
"You are on the threshold of the probationary life; you cannot yet
experience the sweet and familiar friendship of prayer. Do not sadden
yourself because you cannot close behind you the gate of your senses.
Watch and wait; pray badly if you can do nothing else, but pray all the
same.
"Be very sure too that every one has experienced the troubles which
distress you; above all, believe that we do not walk blindfold, that
Mysticism is an absolutely exact science. It can foretell the greater
part of the phenomena which occur in that soul which the Lord intends
for a perfect life; it follows also spiritual operations with the same
clearness as physiology observes the different states of the body. For
ages and ages it has disclosed the progress of grace and its effects,
now impetuous and now slow; it has even pointed out the modifications of
material organs which are transformed when the soul entirely loses
itself in God.
"Saint Denys the Areopagite, Saint Bonaventure, Hugh and Richard of
Saint Victor, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Bernard, Ruysbröck, Angela of
Foligno, the two Eckharts, Tauler, Suso, Denys the Carthusian, Saint
Hildegarde, Saint Catherine of Genoa, Saint Catherine of Siena, Saint
Magdalen of Pazzi, Saint Gertrude, and others have set forth in a
masterly way the principles and theories of Mysticism, and it has found
at last an admirable psychologist to sum up its rules and their
exceptions; a Saint who has verified in her own person the supernatural
phases she has described--a woman whose lucidity was more than
human--Saint Teresa. You have read her life, and her 'Castles of the
Soul'!"
Durtal nodded assent.
"Then you have your information; you ought to know that before reaching
the shores of Blessedness, before arriving at the fifth dwelling of the
interior castle, at that prayer of union wherein the soul is awakened in
regard to God, and completely asleep to all things of earth and to
herself, she must pass through lamentable states of dryness, and the
most painful strainings. Take heart therefore; say to yourself that this
dryness should be a source of humility, and not a cause of disquietude;
do, in fact, as Saint Teresa would have you: carry your cross, and not
drag it after you."
"That magnificent and terrible Saint frightens me," sighed Durtal. "I
have read her works, and, do you know, she gives me the idea of a
stainless lily, but a metallic lily, forged of wrought iron; you will
admit that those who suffer have scant consolations to expect from her."
"Yes; in the sense that she does not think of the creature except in the
way of Mysticism. She supposes the fields already ploughed, the soul
already freed from its more vehement temptations, and sheltered from
crises; her starting-point is as yet too high and too distant for you,
for, in fact, she is addressing nuns, women of the cloister, beings who
live apart from the world, and who are consequently already advanced on
those ascetic ways wherein God is leading them.
"But make an effort in the spirit to free yourself from this mud, cast
away for a few moments the memory of your imperfections and your
troubles, and follow her. See then how experienced she is in the domain
of the supernatural, how, in spite of her repetitions and tediousness,
she explains wisely and clearly the mechanism of the soul unfolding when
God touches it. In subjects where words fail and phrases crumble away,
she succeeds in making herself understood, in showing, making felt,
almost making visible, the inconceivable sight of God buried in the
soul, and taking His pleasure there.
"And she goes still further into the mystery, even to the end; bounds
with a final spring to the very gates of heaven, but then she faints on
adoration, and being unable to express herself further, she soars,
describing circles like a frightened bird, wandering beyond herself, in
cries of love."
"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbé, I recognize that Saint Teresa has explored deeper
than any other the unknown regions of the soul; she is in some measure
its geographer, has drawn the map of its poles, marked the latitudes of
contemplation, the interior lands of the human sky. Other Saints have
explored them before her, but they have not left us so methodical nor so
exact a topography.
"But in spite of this I prefer those mystical writers who have less
self-analysis, and discuss less, who always do throughout their works
what Saint Teresa did at the end of hers--that is, who are all on fire
from the first page to the last, and are consumed and lost at the feet
of Christ. Ruysbröck is among these. The little volume which Hello has
translated is a very furnace; and, again, to quote a woman, take Saint
Angela of Foligno, not so much in the book of her visions which may not
be always effectual, as in the wonderful life which she dictated to
Brother Armand, her confessor. She too explains, and much earlier than
Saint Teresa, the principles and effects of Mysticism; but if she is
less profound, less clever in defining shades, on the other hand she is
wonderfully effusive and tender. She caresses the soul; she is a
Bacchante of divine love, a Mænad of purity. Christ loves her, holds
long conversations with her; the words she has retained surpass all
literature, and are manifestly the most beautiful ever written. This is
no longer the rough Christ, the Spanish Christ who begins by trampling
on His creature to make him more supple; He is the merciful Christ of
the Gospels, the gentle Christ of Saint Francis, and I like the Christ
of the Franciscans better than the Christ of the Carmelites."
"What will you say, then," said the abbé, with a smile, "of St. John of
the Cross? You compared Saint Teresa just now to a flower in wrought
iron; he too is such, but he is the lily of tortures, the royal flower
which the executioners were wont of old time to stamp on the heraldic
flesh of convicts. Like red-hot iron, he is at the same time burning and
sombre. As you turn over the pages, Saint Teresa now and then bends over
and sorrows and compassionates us; he remains impenetrable, buried in
his internal abyss, occupied, above all things, in describing the
sufferings of the soul which, after having crucified its desires, passes
through the 'Night obscure,' that is to say, through the renunciation of
all which comes from the sensible and the created.
"He wills that we should extinguish our imagination--so lethargize it
that it can no longer form images--imprison our senses, annihilate our
faculties. He wills that he who desires to unite himself to God should
place himself under an exhausted receiver, and make a vacuum within, so
that, if he choose, the Pilgrim should descend therein, and purify
himself, tearing out the remains of sins, extirpating the last relics of
vice.
"Then the sufferings which the soul endures overpass the bounds of the
possible, it lies lost in utter darkness, falls under discouragement and
fatigue, believes itself for ever abandoned by Him to whom it cries, who
now hides Himself and answers not again, happy still when in that agony,
the pangs of the flesh are not added, and that abominable spirit which
Isaias calls the spirit of confusion, and which is none other than the
disease of scrupulousness pushed to its extreme.
"Saint John makes you shudder when he cries out that this night of the
soul is bitter and terrible, and that the being who suffers it is
plunged alive into hell. But when the old man is purged out, when he is
scraped at every seam, raked over every face, light springs out, and God
appears. Then the soul casts itself like a child into His arms, and the
incomprehensible fusion takes place.
"You see Saint John penetrates more deeply than others into the depths
of mystical initiation. He also, like Saint Teresa and Ruysbröck, treats
of the spiritual marriage, of the influx of grace, and its gifts; but he
first dared to describe minutely the dolorous phases which till then had
been but hinted at with trembling.
"Then if he is an admirable theologian, he is also a rigorous and
clear-sighted saint. He has not those weaknesses which are natural to a
woman; he does not lose himself in digressions, nor return continually
on his own steps; he walks straight forward, but you often see him at
the end of the road, blood-stained and terrible, with dry eyes."
"But, but," said Durtal, "surely not all souls whom Christ will lead in
the ways of mysticism are tried thus?"
"Yes, almost always, more or less."
"I will confess that I thought the spiritual life was less arid and less
complex. I imagined that by leading a pure life, praying one's best, and
communicating, one would attain without much trouble, not indeed to
taste the infinite joys reserved for the saints, but at last to possess
the Lord, and live, at least, near Him, at rest.
"And I should be quite content with this middle class joy. The price
paid in advance for the exaltation described by Saint John disconcerts
me."
The abbé smiled, but made no answer.
"But do you know that if it be so," replied Durtal, "we are very far
from the Catholicism that is taught us? It is so practical, so benign,
so gentle, in comparison with Mysticism."
"It is made for lukewarm souls--that is to say, for almost all the pious
souls which are about us; it lives in a moderate atmosphere, without too
great suffering or too much joy; it only can be assimilated by the
masses, and the priests are right to present it thus, since otherwise
the faithful would cease to understand it, or would take flight in
alarm."
"But if God judge that a moderate religion is amply sufficient--for the
masses believe that he demands the most painful efforts on the part of
those whom he deigns to initiate into the supremely adorable mysteries
of His Person--it is necessary and just that he should mortify them
before allowing them to taste the essential intoxication of union with
Him."
"In fact, the end of Mysticism is to render visible, sensible, almost
palpable, the God who remains silent and hidden from all."
"And to throw us into His deep, into the silent abyss of joy! But in
order to speak correctly, we must forget the ordinary use of expressions
which have been degraded. In order to describe this mysterious love, we
are obliged to draw our comparisons from human acts, and to inflict on
the Lord the shame of our words. We have to employ such terms as
'union,' 'marriage,' 'wedding feast'; but it is impossible to speak of
the inexpressible, and with the baseness of our language declare the
ineffable immersion of the soul in God."
"The fact is," murmured Durtal ... "but to return to Saint Teresa...."
"She too," interrupted the abbé, "has treated of this 'Night obscure'
which terrifies you; but she only speaks of it in a few lines. She calls
it the soul's agony--a sadness so bitter that she strove in vain to
depict it."
"No doubt, but I prefer her to Saint John of the Cross, for she is not
so discouraging as that inflexible saint. Admit that he belongs too much
to the land of those large Christs who bleed in caverns."
"Of what nationality then was Saint Teresa?"
"Yes, I know she was a Spaniard, but so complex, so strange, that race
seems obliterated in her, less clearly defined.
"It is clear she was an admirable psychologist, but also how strange is
in her the mixture of an ardent mystic and a cool woman of business.
For, in fact, she has a double nature; she is a contemplative outside
the world, and at the same time a statesman, a female Colbert of the
cloister. In fact, never was woman so consummate a skilled artisan and
so powerful an organizer. When we consider that, in spite of incredible
difficulties, she founded thirty-two nunneries, that she put them all
under obedience to a rule which is a model of wisdom, a rule which
foresees and rectifies the most ignored mistakes of the heart, it is
astonishing to hear her treated by strong-minded people as an hysterical
madwoman."
"One of the distinctive marks of the mystics," answered the abbé, with a
smile, "is just their absolute balance, their entire common sense."
These conversations cheered Durtal; they planted on him seeds of
reflection which sprang up when he was alone; they encouraged him to
trust to the advice of this priest, and follow his counsels. He found
himself all the better for this conduct, in that his visits to the
churches, his prayers and readings occupied his objectless life, and he
was no longer wearied.
"I have at least gained peaceable evenings and quiet nights," he said to
himself.
He knew the soothing help of a pious evening.
He visited St. Sulpice at those times when, under the dull gleam of the
lamps, the pillars opened out and threw long panels of darkness on the
ground. The chapels which remained open were in shade, and in the nave
before the high altar a single cluster of lamps, above in the darkness,
shone out like a luminous bunch of red roses.
In the stillness no sounds were heard but the dull thud of a door, the
creaking of a chair, the short paces of a woman, the hurried stride of a
man.
Durtal was almost isolated in the obscure chapel which he had chosen; he
kept himself there so far from all, so far from the city whose full
pulse was beating only two paces from him. He knelt down and remained
still, he prepared to speak, and had nothing to say, felt himself
carried away by an impulse, but no words came. He ended by falling into
a vague languor, experiencing that indolent ease, that dim sense of
comfort, which the body feels in a medicated bath.
He fell a-dreaming of the lot of the women who were round about him here
and there, in chairs. Ah! those poor little black shawls, those
miserable pleated caps, those wretched tippets, those doleful seed
rosaries they fingered in the shade.
Some in mourning, sobbed still inconsolable; others, overwhelmed, bent
their backs and hung their heads on one side; others prayed, their
shoulders shaking, their head in their hands.
The task of the day was over; those wearied of their life came to ask
for mercy. Everywhere misfortune was kneeling, for the rich, the
healthy, the happy hardly pray; all around in the church were women,
widowed or old, without love, women deserted, women whose home was a
torture, praying that existence might become more merciful, that the
dissoluteness of their husbands might cease, the vices of their sons
amend, the health of those they loved grow stronger.
A lamentable perfume went up like incense to Our Lady from a very sheaf
of woes.
Few men came to this hidden meeting-place of trouble; still fewer young
people, for these have not yet suffered enough; there were only a few
old men, and a few sick who dragged themselves along by the backs of the
chairs, and a little hunchback, whom Durtal saw coming there every
evening, an outcast who could only be loved by Her who does not even see
the body.
A burning pity seized on Durtal at the sight of those unhappy ones who
came to beg from Heaven a little of the love refused them by men; and
he who could not pray on his own account ended by joining himself to
their pleadings, and praying for them.
So indifferent in the afternoon, the churches were truly persuasive,
truly sweet, in the evening; they seemed to bestir themselves at
nightfall, and to compassionate in their solitude the sufferings of
those sick creatures whose complaints they heard.
And their first mass in the morning, the mass of working women and
servant maids was no less touching; there were there no bigots nor
curious persons, but poor women who came to seek in communion strength
to live their hours of onerous tasks and servile needs. They knew as
they left the church that they were the living custodians of a God, of
Him who was ever while on earth the Poor Man, who took pleasure only in
souls who had scarce where to lay their head; they knew themselves His
chosen, and did not doubt that when He entrusted to them under the form
of bread the memorial of His suffering, He demanded of them in exchange
that they should live in sorrow and humility. And what harm then could
do to them the cares of a day spent in the salutary shame of base
occupations?
"I now understand," thought Durtal, "why the abbé made such a point of
my seeing the churches early or late; those are, in fact, the only times
in which the soul expands."
But he was too idle to be often present at early mass; he was content to
take his relaxation after dinner in the chapels. He came out with a
feeling of peace, even if he had prayed badly or not prayed at all. On
other evenings, on the contrary, he felt tired of solitude, tired of
silence, tired of darkness, and then he abandoned St. Sulpice and went
to Notre Dame des Victoires.
In this well-lighted sanctuary there was no longer that depression, that
despair of poor wretches who dragged themselves to the nearest church
and sat down in the shade. The pilgrims to Notre Dame des Victoires
brought a surer confidence, and that faith softened their sorrows, whose
bitterness was dissipated in the explosions of hope, the stammering
adoration, which spouted up all around. There were two currents in that
refuge, that of people who asked for favours, and that of those who,
having gained them, were profuse in thankfulness and in acts of
gratitude. Therefore, that church had its especial physiognomy, more
joyous than sad, less melancholy, more ardent under all circumstances
than that of other churches.
It had, moreover, the peculiarity of being much frequented by men, but
less by hypocrites, who will not look you in the face, or with upturned
eyes, than by men of all classes whose features were not degraded by
false piety. There alone were to be seen clear expressions and clean
faces; there, above all, was not that horrible grimace of the working
man of the Catholic clubs--that hideous creature in a blouse, whose
breath belies the ill-defined unction of his features.
In that church, covered with _ex votos_, plastered even above the arches
with inscriptions on marble celebrating the joy for prayers granted and
benefits received, before that altar of Our Lady where hundreds of
tapers pierced the air blue with incense with the gilded blades of their
lances, there were public prayers every evening at eight. A priest in
the pulpit said the rosary, sometimes the Litany of Our Lady was sung to
a singular air, a sort of musical cento, but it was impossible to say
whence it was constructed, very rhythmical, and continually changing its
tone, now fast, now slow, bringing with it, for a moment, a vague
recollection of seventeenth-century airs, then turning sharply at a
tangent, to a barrel-organ tune, a modern, almost vulgar, melody.
Yet, after all, there was something taking in this singular confusion of
sounds after the "Kyrie eleison" and the opening invocations. The Virgin
came upon the scene to a dance measure like a ballet girl; but when
certain of her attributes were paraded, and certain of her symbolical
names declared, the music became singularly respectful; it became lower,
halting and solemn, thrice repeating, on the same motive, some of her
attributes, the "Refugium Peccatorum" among others; then it went on
again, and began her graces again with a skip.
When by chance there was no sermon, the Benediction took place
immediately afterwards.
Then with raspings of the choir, a bass with a cold, and two boys who
snivelled began their liturgical chants: "Inviolata," that languishing
and plaintive Sequence, with its clear and drawling tune so weak, so
frail, that it would seem as if it should only be sung by voices in a
hospital; then the "Parce Domine," that antiphon so suppliant and so
sad; lastly, that scrap, detached from the "Panga Lingua," the "Tantum
ergo," humble and thoughtful, attentive and slow.
When the organ sounded out the first chords, and that plain chant melody
began, the choir had only to cross their arms and hold their tongues. As
tapers which are lighted by threads of fulminate attached one to the
other, the faithful caught fire, and, accompanied by the organs, struck
up for themselves the humble and glorious strains. They were then
kneeling on the chairs, prostrate on the pavement, and when, after the
exchange of antiphons and responses, after the "oremus," the priest
ascended to the altar, his shoulders and hands enfolded in the white
silk scarf, to take the monstrance, then, at the shrill and hurried
sounds of the bells, a wind passed which at once bent every head like
the mowing of grass.
In these groups of souls on fire there was a fulness of devotion, a
complete and absolute silence, till the bells again rang out, and
invited human life which had been interrupted to wrap itself in a great
sign of the Cross and resume its course.
The "Laudate" was not ended when Durtal left the church, before the
crowd began to move.
"Verily," he said, as he entered his lodgings, "the fervour of that
congregation, who do not come as in other churches from the districts,
but are pilgrims from everywhere and one knows not where, is out of tune
with the blackguardism of this foolish age."
Then at Notre Dame at least one hears curious singing, and he bethought
him of those strange litanies which he had heard nowhere else, and yet
he had experienced all kinds, in churches. At St. Sulpice, for example,
it was recited to two tunes. When the choir sang it was set to a plain
chant melody, bellowed by the gong of a bass to which the sharp fife of
the boys made answer; but during Rosary month, on every day except
Thursday the task of singing it was entrusted to young ladies; then in
the evening round a wheezy old harmonium, a troup of young and old
geese, made Our Lady run round on her litanies as on hobby horses to the
music of a fair.
In other churches, at St. Thomas Aquinas, for example, where they were
also dropped out by women, the litanies were sprinkled with powder and
perfumed by bergamot and ambergris. They were, in fact, adapted to a
minuet tune, and therefore did not disagree with the operatic
architecture of the church, where they presented a Virgin walking with
mincing steps, pinching her petticoat with two fingers, bending in
beautiful curtseys, and recovering herself with a fine bow. This has
evidently nothing to do with church music, but it was none the less
disagreeable to hear. It would have made the whole performance complete
if the harpsichord had been substituted for the organ.
Far more interesting than this lay quavering was the plain chant, given
more or less badly, as it was moreover given, but yet given, when there
was no special ceremony at Notre Dame.
It was not arranged there as at St. Sulpice and the other churches where
the "Tantum ergo" is almost always dressed up in foolish flourishes,
tunes for military ceremonials or public dinners.
The Church has not allowed the actual text of Saint Thomas Aquinas to be
altered, but she has let any and every choirmaster suppress the plain
chant in which it has been wrapped from its birth, which has penetrated
to its marrow, has clung to each of its phrases, and become with it one
body and one soul.
It was monstrous, and it must really be that these curés have lost, not
the sense of art, for that they never had, but the most elementary sense
of the liturgy, to accept such heresies, and tolerate such outrages in
their churches.
These thoughts enraged Durtal, but he returned little by little to Notre
Dame des Victoires and grew calmer. It was well he should examine it
under all aspects, but it remained none the less mysterious nor the less
unique in Paris.
At La Salette, at Lourdes, there have been apparitions. "Whether these
have been authentic or controverted matters little," he thought. "For
even supposing Our Lady were not there at the moment her coming was
announced, she was attracted there, and dwells there now, retained there
by the tide of prayer and the emanations cast up by the faith of
crowds. Miracles have happened there; it is therefore not astonishing
that pious crowds flock thither. But here at Notre Dame des Victoires
has been no apparition; no Mélanie, no Bernadette, have seen and
described the luminous appearance of a 'beautiful Lady.' There are no
piscinas, no medical staff, no public cures, no mountain top, no grotto,
nothing. One fine day in 1836 the curé of the parish, the Abbé Dufriche
Des Genettes, declared that while he was celebrating mass Our Lady
manifested to him her desire that the sanctuary should be specially
consecrated to her, and that alone was enough. The church, then a
desert, has never since been empty, and thousands of _ex votos_ declare
the graces which since that day the Madonna has accorded to the
visitors."
"Yes, but in fact," concluded Durtal, "all these suppliants are not
specially extraordinary souls, for indeed the most part of them are like
me, they come in their own interests, for themselves and not for Her."
And he remembered the answer of the Abbé Gévresin, to whom he had
already made the observation.
"You must be singularly far advanced on the road to perfection if you go
there for Her only."
Suddenly, after so many hours spent in the chapels, there was a
reaction; the flesh extinguished under the cinders of prayers took fire,
and the conflagration, springing up from below, became terrible.
Florence seemed present, to Durtal's imagination, at his lodgings, in
the churches, in the street, everywhere, and he was constantly on the
watch against her recurrent attractions.
The weather was mixed up with it all; the heaven broke up, a stormy
summer raged, shattering the nerves, enfeebling the will, letting the
awakened troop of vices loose in their gloomy moisture. Durtal blenched
before the dread of long evenings and the abominable melancholy of days
that never ended. At eight o'clock in the evening the sun had not set,
and at three in the morning it seemed to wake again; the week was only
one uninterrupted day, and life was never arrested.
Oppressed by the ignominy of this angry sunshine and these blue skies,
disgusted at bathing in Niles of sweat, and feeling Niagaras run from
his hat, he did not stir from home, and then, in his solitude, foul
thoughts assailed him.
It was an obsession by thought, by vision, in all ways, and the haunting
was all the more terrible that it was so special, that it never turned
aside, but concentrated itself always on the same point, the face and
figure of Florence.
Durtal resisted, then in distraction, took to flight, tried to tire
himself out by long walks, and to divert his mind by excursions, but the
ignoble desire followed him in his course, sat before him in the Café,
came between his eyes and the newspaper he strove to read, becoming ever
more definite. He ended, after hours of struggle, by giving way and
going to see this woman; he left her overwhelmed, half dead with disgust
and shame, almost in tears.
Nor did he thus find any solace in his struggle, but the contrary; far
from escaping it, the hateful charm took more violent and tenacious
possession of him. Then Durtal thought of and accepted a strange
compromise, to visit another woman he knew, and in her society to break
this nervous state, to put an end to this possession, this weariness and
remorse; and in doing so he strove to persuade himself that in thus
acting he would be more pardonable, less sinful.
The clearest result of this attempt was to bring back the memory of
Florence, and her vicious charm.
He continued therefore his intimacy with her, and then he had, during a
few days, such a revolt from his slavery, that he extricated himself
from the sewer, and stood on firm ground.
He succeeded in recovering and pulling himself together, and he loathed
himself. During this crisis he had somewhat neglected the Abbé Gévresin,
to whom he dared not avow his foulness, but since certain indications
warned him of new attacks, he took fright, and went to see him.
He explained his crises in veiled words, and he felt so unnerved, so
sad, that tears stood in his eyes.
"Well, are you now certain that you have that repentance which you
assure me you have not experienced up to this time?"
"Yes, but what is the good of it, if one is so weak, that in spite of
all efforts one is certain to be overthrown at the first assault?"
"That is another question. Come, I see that at present you are in fact
in a state of fatigue requiring help."
"Comfort yourself therefore; go in peace and sin less, the greater part
of your temptations will be remitted you; you can, if you choose, bear
the remainder, only take care, if you fall henceforward, you will be
without excuse, and I do not answer for it, that instead of mending,
your condition will not be aggravated."
And as Durtal, stupefied, stammered out: "You believe--"
"I believe," said the priest, "in the mystical substitution of which I
spoke to you; you will moreover experience it in yourself; the saints
will enter into the lists to help you; they will take the overplus of
the assaults which you cannot conquer; without even knowing your name,
from their secluded province, nunneries of Carmelites and Poor Clares
will pray for you, on receiving a letter from me."
And in fact, from that very day the most acute attacks ceased. Did he
owe that cessation, that truce, to the intercession of the cloistered
Orders, or to a change in the weather, which then took place, to the
less heat of the sun, which gave way to floods of rain? He could not
tell, but one thing was certain, his temptations were less frequent, and
he could bear them with impunity.
This idea of convents in their compassion dragging him out of the mud in
which he had stuck, and by their charity bringing him to the bank,
excited him. He chose to go to the Avenue de Saxe, to pray in the home
of the sisters of those who suffered for him.
This time there were no lights, no crowds, as on the morning when he had
been present at a Procession, no odour of wax or incense, no sweeping by
of robes of scarlet and cope of gold, all was deserted and dark.
He was there alone, in the sombre and dank chapel, smelling like
stagnant water, and without saying rosaries mechanically, or repeating
prayers by rote, he fell into a reverie, endeavouring to look somewhat
clearly into his life, and take stock of himself. And while he thus
pulled himself together, far-off voices came behind the grating, drew
nearer and nearer, passed by the black sieve of the veil, and dropped
round the altar, whose form rose dimly in the shadow.
These voices of the Carmelites aided Durtal to probe his despair deeply.
Seated in a chair, he said to himself: "When any one is as incapable as
I am when I speak to Him, it is almost shameful to dare to pray, for
indeed, if I think of Him, it is that I may ask for a little happiness;
and that is foolish. In the immediate shipwreck of human reason, wishing
to explain the terrible enigma of the meaning of life, one only idea
comes to the surface, in the midst of the wreckage of thoughts which
sink, the idea of an expiation felt rather than understood, the idea
that the sole end assigned to life is sorrow.
"Every one has a sum of physical and moral suffering to pay, and whoever
does not settle it here below, defrays it after death; happiness is only
lent, and must be repaid; its very phantoms are like duties paid in
advance on a future succession of sorrows.
"Who knows in that case whether anæsthetics which suppress corporal pain
do not bring into debt those who use them? Who knows whether chloroform
is not a means of revolt, and if the shrinking of the creature from
suffering is not seditious, a rebellion against the will of Heaven? If
this be so, the arrears of torture, the balance of distress, the
warrants of pain avoided must accumulate terrible interest above, and
justify the war cry of Saint Teresa, 'Lord, let me always suffer, or
die;' this explains why, in their trials, the saints rejoice, and pray
the Lord not to spare them, for they know that the purifying amount of
ills must be paid in order to be free from debt after death.
"To be just, human nature would be too ignoble without pain, for it
alone can raise the soul while purifying it, but all that is nothing
less than consoling," he added. "What an accompaniment to these sad
thoughts are the wailing voices of these nuns; it is truly frightful."
He ended by fleeing, and taking refuge, to shake off his depression, in
the neighbouring convent at the bottom of the alley de Saxe, in a
suburban lane, full of little cottages with gardens in front, where
serpentine paths of pebbles wound round tufts of pot-herbs.
This was the convent of the Poor Clares of the Ave Maria, an Order
still more strict than that of the Carmelites, poorer, less fashionable,
more humble.
This cloister was entered by a little door, partly ajar; you ascended to
the second storey without meeting anyone, and found a little chapel,
through whose windows trees were visible, rocking to the chirping of
riotous sparrows.
This too was a place of burial, but no longer, as though opposite a tomb
at the bottom of a dark cavern, but rather a cemetery where birds sang
in the sun among the branches, you might have thought yourself in the
country, twenty miles from Paris.
The decoration of this bright chapel tried, however, to be gloomy; it
was like those wine shops whose walls are made to look like those of
caves, with false stones painted in the imitation plaster. Only the
height of the nave manifested the childishness of the imposture, and
declared the vulgarity of the deception.
At the end was an altar above a smooth waxed floor, and on either side
of it a grating with a black veil. According to the rule of Saint
Francis, all the ornaments, the crucifix, the candlesticks, the
tabernacle, were of wood, no object was to be seen in metal, no flower,
the only luxury in the chapel consisted of two modern stained windows,
one of which represented Saint Francis, the other Saint Clare.
Durtal thought the sanctuary airy and delightful, but he only stayed
there a few minutes, for there was not here, as at the Carmelites, an
absolute solitude, a sombre peace; here there were always two or three
Poor Clares trotting about the chapel, who looked at him while they were
arranging the chairs, and seemed surprised at his presence.
They were annoying to him, and he feared he was the same to them, so
much so that he went away; but this short stay was enough to efface, or
at least to lessen the funereal impression of the neighbouring convent.
Durtal returned home, at once much appeased and much disquieted--much
appeased in regard to his temptations, much disquieted about what he
should do next.
He felt rising in him, and increasing ever more and more, the desire to
have done with these strifes and fears, but he grew pale when he thought
of reversing his life, once for all.
But if he still had hesitation and fear, he had no longer the firm
intention of resisting; he now accepted in principle the idea of a
change of existence, only he tried to retard the day, and put off the
hour; he tried to gain time.
Then like people who grow angry at having to wait, on other days he
wished to put off the inevitable moment no longer, and cried within
himself that this must end; anything rather than remain as he was.
Then as this desire did not seem heard, he grew discouraged, would no
longer think of anything, regretted the time past, and deplored that he
felt himself carried along by such a current.
And when he was rather more cheerful, he tried again to examine himself.
"In fact I do not at all know how I stand," he thought; "this flux and
reflux of different wishes alarms me, but how have I come to this point,
and what is the matter with me?" What he felt, since he became more
lucid, was so intangible, so indefinite, and yet so continuous that he
was obliged to give up understanding it. Indeed every time he tried to
examine his soul, a curtain of mist arose, and hid from him the unseen
and silent approach of he knew not what. The only impression which he
carried with him as he rose, was that it was less that he advanced
towards the unknown, but that this unknown invaded him, penetrated him,
and little by little took possession of him.
When he spoke to the abbé of this state, at once cowardly and resigned,
imploring and fearful, the priest only smiled.
"Busy yourself in prayer, and bow down your back," he said one day.
"But I am tired of bending my back, and of trampling always on the same
spot," cried Durtal. "I have had enough of feeling myself taken by the
shoulders and led I know not where, it is really time that in one way or
another this situation came to an end."
"Plainly." And standing up, and looking him in the face, the abbé said,
impressively,
"This advance towards God which you find so obscure and so slow is, on
the contrary, so luminous and so rapid that it astonishes me, only as
you yourself do not move, you do not take account of the swiftness with
which you are borne along.
"Before long you will be ripe, and then without need to shake the tree
you will fall off of yourself. The question we have now to answer is
into what receptacle we must put you, when at last you fall away from
your life."