WHAT HE BELIEVED.
It is not our business to gauge the Bishop of D---- from an orthodox
point of view. In the presence of such a soul we only feel inclined to
respect. The conscience of the just man must be believed on its word;
besides, certain natures granted, we admit the possibility of the
development of all the beauties of human virtue in a creed differing
from our own. What did he think of this dogma or that mystery? These
heart-secrets are only known to the tomb which souls enter in a state
of nudity. What we are certain of is, that he never solved difficulties
of faith by hypocrisy. It is impossible for the diamond to rot. He
believed as much as he possibly could, and would frequently exclaim, "I
believe in the Father." He also derived from his good deeds that amount
of satisfaction which suffices the conscience, and which whispers to
you, "You are with God."
What we think it our duty to note is that, beyond his faith, he had
an excess of love. It was through this, _quia multum amavit_, that
he was considered vulnerable by "serious men," "grave persons," and
"reasonable people," those favorite phrases of our melancholy world
in which selfishness is under the guidance of pedantry. What was this
excess of love. It was a serene benevolence, spreading over men, as we
have already indicated, and on occasion extending even to things. He
loved without disdain, and was indulgent to God's creation. Every man,
even the best, has in him an unreflecting harshness, which he reserves
for animals, but the Bishop of D---- had not this harshness, which is,
however, peculiar to many priests. He did not go so far as the Brahmin,
but seemed to have meditated on the words of Ecclesiastes--"Who knoweth
the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?" An ugly
appearance, a deformity of instinct, did not trouble him or render
him indignant; he was moved, almost softened, by them. It seemed as
if he thoughtfully sought, beyond apparent life, for the cause, the
explanation, or the excuse. He examined without anger, and with the
eye of a linguist deciphering a palimpsest, the amount of chaos which
still exists in nature. This reverie at times caused strange remarks to
escape from him. One morning he was in his garden and fancied himself
alone; but his sister was walking behind, though unseen by him. He
stopped and looked at something on the ground. It was a large black,
hairy, horrible spider. His sister heard him mutter, "Poor brute,
it is not thy fault." Why should we not repeat this almost divine
childishness of goodness? It may be puerile, but of such were the
puerilities of St. Francis d'Assisi and Marcus Aurelius. One day he
sprained himself because he did not wish to crush an ant.
Such was the way in which this just man lived: at times he fell asleep
in his garden, and then nothing could be more venerable. Monseigneur
Welcome had been formerly, if we may believe the stories about his
youth and even his manhood, a passionate, perhaps violent man. His
universal mansuetude was less a natural instinct than the result of a
grand conviction, which had filtered through life into his heart, and
slowly dropped into it thought by thought, for in a character, as in a
rock, there may be waterholes. Such hollows, however, are ineffaceable,
such formations indestructible. In 1815, as we think we have said, he
reached his seventy-fifth year, but did not seem sixty. He was not
tall, and had a tendency to stoutness, which he strove to combat by
long walks; he stood firmly, and was but very slightly built. But these
are details from which we will not attempt to draw any conclusion, for
Gregory XVI. at the age of eighty was erect and smiling, which did not
prevent him being a bad priest. Monseigneur Welcome had what people
call "a fine head," which was so amiable that its beauty was forgotten.
When he talked with that infantine gayety which was one of his graces
you felt at your ease by his side, and joy seemed to emanate from his
whole person. His fresh, ruddy complexion, and all his white teeth,
which he had preserved and displayed when he laughed, gave him that
open facile air which makes you say of an aged man, "He is a worthy
person." That, it will be remembered, was the effect he produced on
Napoleon. At the first glance, and when you saw him for the first time,
he was in reality only a worthy man, but if you remained some hours in
his company, and saw him in thought, he became gradually transfigured
and assumed something imposing; his wide and serious brow, already
august through the white hair, became also august through meditation;
majesty was evolved from the goodness; though the latter did not cease
to gleam, you felt the same sort of emotion as you would if you saw
a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings without ceasing to smile. An
inexpressible respect gradually penetrated you and ascended to your
head, and you felt that you had before you one of those powerful,
well-bred, and indulgent souls whose thoughts are so great that they
cannot but be gentle.
As we have seen, prayer, celebration of the Mass, almsgiving, consoling
the afflicted, tilling a patch of ground, frugality, hospitality,
self-denial, confidence, study, and labor, filled every day of his
life. _Filled_ is the exact word, and certainly the Bishop's day was
full of good thoughts, good words, and good actions. Still, it was
not complete. If cold or wet weather prevented him from spending an
hour or two in the garden before going to bed after the two females
had retired, it seemed as it were a species of rite of his to prepare
himself for sleep by meditation, in the presence of the grand spectacle
of the heavens by night. At times, even at an advanced hour of night,
if the women were not asleep, they heard him slowly pacing the walks.
He was then alone with himself, contemplative, peaceful, adoring,
comparing the serenity of his heart with that of ether, affected in
the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations, and the
invisible splendor of God, and opening his soul to thoughts which fall
from the unknown. At such moments, offering up his heart at the hour
when the nocturnal flowers offer up their perfumes, he could not have
said himself, possibly, what was passing in his mind; but he felt
something fly out of him and something descend into him.
He dreamed of the grandeur and presence of God; of future eternity,
that strange mystery; of past eternity, that even stranger mystery;
of all the infinities which buried themselves before his eyes in all
directions: and without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible,
he gazed at it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by Him. He
considered this magnificent concourse of atoms which reveals forces,
creates individualities in unity, proportions in space, innumerability
in the Infinite, and through light produces beauty. Such a concourse
incessantly takes place, and is dissolved again, and hence come life
and death.
He would sit down on a wood bench with his back against a rickety
trellis, and gaze at the stars through the stunted sickly profiles
of his fruit trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, and
so encumbered with sheds and out-houses, was dear to him, and was
sufficient for him. What more was wanting to this aged man, who
divided the leisure of his life, which knew so little leisure, between
gardening by day and contemplation by night? Was not this limited
enclosure with the sky for its roof sufficient for him to be able to
adore God by turns in His most delicious and most sublime works? Was
not this everything, in fact? and what could be desired beyond? A small
garden to walk about in, and immensity to dream in; at his feet, what
can be cultivated and gathered; over his head, what can be studied and
meditated; a few flowers on the earth, and all the stars in the heavens.