“THE MASTER CHRISTIAN”--IF CHRIST CAME TO ROME!
There had been a considerable pause in the writings of Miss Corelli, for
reasons which have already been discussed, when, in August, 1900, “The
Master Christian” appeared.
Miss Corelli commenced “The Master Christian” at Brighton on All Saints’
Day, 1897, in the hope that she would get through it before the terrible
illness she had been suffering from for seven years reached an acute
stage. The novelist, however, was almost dying on Christmas Eve of the
same year, and on December 29th the surgeons took her in hand. She was
dangerously ill during January, February, and March, 1898. In April and
May Miss Corelli was just beginning to recover when the shock occasioned
by her stepbrother’s death on June 2d produced a relapse, and she very
nearly died from grief and weakness combined. She was ill all the rest
of the year, and, a long period of convalescence following, she did not
resume “The Master Christian” till the spring of 1899.
“The Master Christian” is Marie Corelli’s longest work, containing, as
it does, over six hundred and thirty-four closely printed pages. While
occupied upon it, the novelist had also to fulfil a long-standing
engagement with Messrs. Hutchinson & Co. “Boy” and “The Master
Christian” were, therefore, claiming her attention practically at the
same time.
The writing of the two books under the circumstances was a stupendous
undertaking. The effort required was so great that she often had to lay
down her pen and lean back in her chair almost fainting from nervous
exhaustion caused by the severity of the work and its effect upon her in
her still weak condition.
It is a painfully interesting proceeding to read “The Master Christian”
and then a large number of the reviews of the book which appeared. The
conclusion is forced upon one that many of the critics had not taken the
trouble to perform the obvious duty of reading a book that was to be
“slated,” but had merely glanced at a page here, and quoted a passage,
without the context, there. Either this was what happened or there was
misconception of the book through ignorance or deliberate
misrepresentation. It is really astounding to realize the manner in
which Miss Corelli has been “criticised,” and one notable incident of
many within our experience will serve to indicate what is a too
frequent sin.
It was at the dinner of a well-known literary club, and ladies had been
invited. One lady sat beside a gentleman who, years ago, was editor of a
great daily newspaper, whose name is familiar to all as a notable and
experienced journalist and critic, and who has arrived at an age when
discretion, if not fairness, should be practiced. The lady was a friend
of Marie Corelli’s, and upon the works of the novelist, who was also at
the dinner, the conversation turned. The critic expressed the utmost
contempt for her books, and used language so bitterly sarcastic and so
grossly unfair that the lady gently asked: “Have you really ever read
any of her works?” The question was natural. The answer was astonishing:
it was the bald admission, “No.” Surely comment is unnecessary.
A somewhat similar incident may be quoted in connection with “Boy.” Sir
Francis (then Mr.) Burnand, as the “Baron de Bookworms,” in _Punch_,
said that he considered “Boy” “a work of genius.” Several critics took
his article up, and declared that he had never done anything better in
the way of _satire_. Miss Corelli thereupon wrote to Burnand and asked
him if he had really _meant_ his apparently generous praise.
He wrote back:
“I said it; I wrote it; I meant it, every word of it. ‘Press
cuttings’ be blowed!
“Yours, F. C. BURNAND.”
One writer in the _Sunday Sun_ observed that as Burnand had fallen so
low as to praise a work of Marie Corelli’s, he had “no other remedy but
to take a bag of stones and break Mr. Punch’s windows!” He added that
“he had not read ‘Boy’ and _didn’t intend to_.” Again, comment would be
superfluous. The facts speak for themselves and show our contention to
be correct, _i.e._, that condemnatory criticisms of Marie Corelli’s
books are written at times by those who do not even read them.
One of the critics who does read what he comments upon in the way of
books, but who, though a deep thinker, is sometimes trivial,
superficial, and even frivolous in his treatment of a subject, is Mr. W.
T. Stead. He is as amazing to others as others very often are to him. He
must, we think, have been smiling pretty broadly when he wrote: “If any
one wants to know what ‘The Master Christian’ is like, _without reading
its six hundred and thirty pages_, he will not have much difficulty if
he takes Sheldon’s ‘In His Steps,’ Zola’s ‘Rome,’ and any of Marie
Corelli’s previous novels in equal proportion.” A strange suggestion,
that! “In His Steps,” Zola’s “Rome,” and an equal proportion of, say,
_either_ “Vendetta” or “The Sorrows of Satan!” Reading the book itself
seems to be so much more simple--and just.
Again, Mr. Stead referred to “The Master Christian” and to Mrs. Humphrey
Ward’s “Robert Elsmere,” and speaking of their great success, he wrote:
“The phenomenal sale of such works is perhaps much more worthy of
consideration than anything that is to be found within the covers of the
books themselves.” Now the matter for consideration raised in “The
Master Christian” is whether Christians, and more especially the Pope of
Rome and the priests of the Romish Church, obey the commands and attempt
to fulfil the behests of Jesus Christ. We should have thought Mr. Stead
would have regarded that question, at any rate, as more important than
the mere numerical sale of a book. Mr. Stead also said that as a book
the chief fault of “The Master Christian” was its lack of sympathy. Yet
the whole teaching of the work is a Divine charity. “If any man hear my
words and believe not, I judge him not; for I came not to judge the
world, but to save the world.” The chief figure in the book is Manuel,
Christ once more in the world in the form of a child, and if his
utterances show a “lack of sympathy,”--with lies and superstitious
idolatry,--yet he speaks largely from the words of Christ and the
Apostles. Well may it be doubted, with the author, whether, if Christ
came once more to earth, He would be welcome.
It is said again that “The Master Christian” is a bitter attack upon the
Roman Catholic Faith. It is nothing of the kind. After Manuel, the
child-Christ, the chief character is that of Cardinal Bonpré, who is
devoted to the Church of Rome but who also believes in Christ, and the
two things, unhappily, are not always akin. If the man-made portion of
the Roman Catholic dogma has hidden the teachings of Christ on which
that Church was founded, that is the fault and the misfortune of the
Church of Rome, and not of Marie Corelli, who is bold enough to speak
the truth about the matter. That faith in God which is her standby is
what she would wish to see in the ministry of the Roman Catholic Church,
instead of, as she fears, a mere degenerate, priest-built, superstitious
reliance upon symbolic shams.
Marie Corelli’s personal views may be taken to be those to which one of
her characters, Aubrey Leigh, gives expression: “I never denied the
beauty, romance, or mysticism of the Roman Catholic Faith. If it were
purified from the accumulated superstition of ages, and freed from
intolerance and bigotry, it would perhaps be the grandest form of
Christianity in the world. But the rats are in the house, and the rooms
want cleaning.” She attacks neither the Roman Catholic Faith nor even
the Church. She makes a terrible onslaught upon the rats.
“The Master Christian” is both a novel and a sermon. The story of the
book is intensely interesting, in “plot” clever and original. It is one
of the refreshing features of Miss Corelli’s books that the plots always
are original. She does not go to the British Museum or to the
productions of Continental novelists to find her themes. Wherever, in
“The Master Christian,” the mission of the book can best be emphasized,
even though what critics call the “art of the story”--as to which we
should like something in the nature of a clear definition--gives way to
it, she pursues the mission. After all, we have an idea that if
literature possesses merit, it is rather because it is followed as a
means of influencing men’s minds than as an attempt to write a story,
the lines of which fall together as harmoniously as do the notes of a
perfect string band. Such a book if produced
[Illustration: "HALL’S CROFT” WHERE MARIE CORELLI WROTE HALF OF “THE
MASTER CHRISTIAN"]
would, we fancy, be so harmonious that it would have no influence to
raise men and women to think.
With “The Master Christian” the reader has to think all the time. It is
a sermon of great power, and the text of it is supplied, as it should
be, by the fair preacher. It will be remembered that in the year 1900
the late Dr. St. George Mivart, a priest of the Church of Rome, was
inhibited by His Eminence Cardinal Vaughan, on account of certain
scientific works which were displeasing to the Church. Shortly
afterwards Dr. Mivart died and the Romish Church even denied him
religious rites of burial. In an “In Memoriam” note appended to her
“Open letter to Cardinal Vaughan” on this subject, Marie Corelli wrote:
“In the name of the all-loving and merciful Christ, whose teachings we,
as Christians, profess to follow, it is necessary to enter a strong
protest against this barbarous act in a civilized age, and to set it
down beside the blind stupidity which arraigned glorious Galileo, and
the fiendish cruelty which supported Torquemada. For the words of the
Divine Master are a command to Churches as well as to individuals: ‘If
ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive
you your trespasses!’”
We wonder if that saying of Christ’s was remembered when the ban of
excommunication was pronounced by the Greek Church against Count Leo
Tolstoy! We wonder if that saying of Christ’s is remembered at Rome when
any ban of excommunication is passed, when religious rites of burial are
denied to any man! And if the reply be that the words do not apply
because the Pope and his priests commit no trespasses, we can only
wonder what Christ would say if He came to Rome; and, further, we
believe that He would say much that the child-Christ Manuel utters in
“The Master Christian.”
The text of the book is that charity and forgiveness--the carrying out
of Christ’s commands in the spirit of the Saviour--should guide mankind
to-day, that they apply to-day as they did in the days of Christ’s
sojourn on earth, and that the conditions of the world to-day are such
as render it possible for Christians to walk in His steps. In the “open
letter” to Cardinal Vaughan, already referred to, we find in some of the
passages a true insight into the spirit of and the aims with which “The
Master Christian” was written.
“My Lord Cardinal,” she says, “there are certain of us in the world
who, overwhelmed by the desperate difficulties of life and the
confusion arising from numerous doctrines, forms, and ceremonies
instituted by divers Churches and Sects, are fain to fall back from
the general hurly-burly, and turn for help and refuge to the
original Founder of the Christian Faith. He, with that grand
simplicity which expresses Divinity, expounded ‘the Way, the Truth,
and the Life,’ in words of such plain and uninvolved meaning, that
the poorest and least educated of us all cannot but understand Him.
Gracious, tender, and always patient and pardoning, was every
utterance of the God amongst us; and among all His wise and
consoling sayings, none are, perhaps, more widely tolerant than
this: ‘If any man hear My words and believe not, I judge him not;
for I came not to judge the world, but to save the world.’ My Lord
Cardinal, there are many at this time of day who have so gained in
a reasonable conception of faith, that when they hear the words of
Christ delivered to them simply as first uttered, they are willing
to believe, but hearing the edicts of the Church contrasted with
those words, they ‘believe not.’ The teachings of Christ--Christ
only--are so true that they cannot be denied; so beautiful that
they command our reverence; and the Creed of Christ, if honestly
followed, would make a fair and happy world for us all.”
And again,
“We are somewhat bewildered when we discover, by reference to the
Gospel, that the Church commands us frequently to do precisely what
the founder of our Faith commanded us _not_ to do. And what, we may
ask, is the Will of this great Father which is in Heaven? Is it to
swear to what our own conscience and reason declare to be false? Is
it to look in the face of Science, the great Heaven-sent Teacher
of our time, and say, ‘You who have taught me, mere pigmy man, to
press the lightning into my service, to take the weight and
measurement of stars, to send my trifling messages of weal or woe
on the eternal currents of electric force--You, who daily unfold
for me the mysteries of God’s glorious creation--You who teach me
that the soul of man, immortal and progressive, is capable of
infinite enlightenment and increasing power--You, who expound the
majesty, the beneficence, the care, the love, the supporting
influence of the Creator, and bring me to my knees in devout
adoration--am I to say to You who teach me all this that You are a
Lie? Am I rather to believe that a statue made by hands, and set in
a grotto at Lourdes or elsewhere, is a worthier object for my
prayer and my praise? Am I doing God’s will by believing that my
base coin, paid for sundry masses in churches, will sway the
Creator of the Universe to give peace to the departed spirits of my
dead?’”
Marie Corelli, by the words of Manuel, as we think it is recognized,
gives a truer interpretation of the Divine Will. Even the title page
contains a quotation from St. Luke that is a protest against many of the
practices of the Romish and other Churches: “Why call ye Me, Lord, Lord,
and do not the things which I say?”
* * * * *
The story of “The Master Christian” opens in Rouen, where a Roman
Catholic prelate, Cardinal Felix Bonpré, is seen in the Cathedral of
Notre Dame. This Cardinal is a pious and true man who has for many
years contented himself with the administration of his diocese and the
performance of good work. His Rouen visit is a portion of a tour of
several months taken for purposes of health, and with the object of
judging for himself how the great world, of which he has seen little, is
faring, “whether on the downward road to destruction and death, or up to
the high ascents of progress and life.” The farther he travels the more
depressed he becomes by the results of his observations. Within Rouen
Cathedral Cardinal Bonpré hears singularly soothing music, though whence
it comes he is unable to perceive. He is impressed with a peculiar sense
of some divine declaration of God’s absolute omniscience, and a question
seems to be whispered in his ears:
“When the Son of Man cometh, think ye He shall find faith on earth?”
With his growing experience of the confusion and trouble of the world,
the Cardinal is forced to the conclusion that there is an increasing
lack of faith in God and a Hereafter; and of the reason for it he
thinks: “We have failed to follow the Master’s teaching in its true
perfection. We have planted in ourselves a seed of corruption, and we
have permitted--nay, some of us have encouraged--its poisonous growth
till it now threatens to contaminate the whole field of labor.”
Cast down by these reflections, the good Cardinal proceeds to the Hotel
Poitiers, a modest hostelry preferred by him to the Palace of the
Archbishop of Rouen, another “Prince of the Church,” a term which
Cardinal Bonpré--like Miss Corelli--finds particularly detestable,
especially when used in connection with a Christian Church wherein she
thinks distinctive ranks are a mistake and even Anti-Christian.
At the inn a striking picture is drawn by the novelist of the evil
effect upon the children of France brought about by the removal of
religious instruction from the schools. The two charmingly precocious
children of Jean and Madame Patoux are quite old in agnostic views and
doubts. There also Bonpré has his first serious religious argument with
the Archbishop of Rouen, whom he astonishes by declaring that the Church
herself is responsible for the increase of ungodliness.
“If our Divine faith were lived Divinely there would be no room for
heresy or atheism. The Church itself supplies the loophole for
apostasy.... In the leading points of creed I am very steadfastly
convinced;--namely, that Christ was Divine, and that the following
of His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask
me whether I think that we (the Church of Rome) do truly follow
that Gospel, I must own that I have doubts upon the matter.”
We are informed here, also, through Cardinal Bonpré, of what Marie
Corelli means by Paulism. Ministers of religion, he declares, should
literally obey all Christ’s commands:
“The Church is a system,--but whether it is as much founded on the
teaching of our Lord, who was Divine, as on the teaching of St.
Paul, who was not divine, is a question to me of much
perplexity.... I do not decry St. Paul. He was a gifted and clever
man, but he was a Man--he was not God-in-Man. Christ’s doctrine
leaves no place for differing sects; St. Paul’s method of applying
that doctrine serves as authority for the establishment of any and
every quarrelsome sect ever known.... I do not think we fit the
Church system to the needs of modern civilization ... we only offer
vague hopes and dubious promises to those who thirst for the living
waters of salvation and immortality.”
Cardinal Bonpré that night has a vision of the end of the world, and in
his agony at the spectacle he cries: “Have patience yet, Thou outraged
and blasphemed Creator! Break once again Thy silence as of old, and
speak to us! Pity us once again, ere Thou slay us utterly! Come to us
even as Thou camest in Judea, and surely we will receive Thee and obey
Thee, and reject Thy love no more.” And a divine voice replies: “Thy
prayer is heard, and once again the silence shall be broken.
Nevertheless, remember that the light shineth in Darkness, and the
Darkness comprehendeth it not.” At this juncture a plaintive cry falls
on his ears, and he goes out into the night to discover the cause. He
proceeds to the Cathedral, and there, in the deeply hollowed portal,
discovers the slight shrinking figure of a child--
“A boy’s desolate little figure,--with uplifted hands clasped
appealingly and laid against the shut cathedral door, and face
hidden and pressed hard upon those hands, as though in mute and
inconsolable despair....
‘My poor child, what troubles you? Why are you here all alone, and
weeping at this late hour? Have you no home?--no parents?’
“Slowly the boy turned round, still resting his small delicate
hands against the oaken door of the Cathedral, and with the tears
yet wet upon his cheeks, smiled. What a sad face he had!--worn and
weary, yet beautiful!--what eyes, heavy with the dews of sorrow,
yet tender even in pain! Startled by the mingled purity and grief
on so young a countenance, the Cardinal retreated for a moment in
amaze,--then, approaching more closely, he repeated his former
question with increased interest and tenderness--
‘Why are you weeping here alone?’
‘Because I am left alone to weep!’ said the boy, answering in a
soft voice of vibrating and musical melancholy. ‘For me, the world
is empty!... I should have rested here within,--but it is closed
against me!’
‘The doors are always locked at night, my child,’ returned the
Cardinal, ‘but I can give you shelter. Will you come with me?’
‘Will I come with you? Nay, but I see you are a Cardinal of the
Church, and it is I should ask ‘will you receive me?’ You do not
know who I am--nor where I came from, and I, alas! may not tell
you! I am alone; all--all alone,--for no one knows me in the
world;--I am quite poor and friendless, and have nothing wherewith
to pay you for your kindly shelter--I can only bless you!’”
Thus the second coming of Christ, according to Marie Corelli.
Manuel is then taken entirely under the protection of Cardinal Bonpré,
and the two become inseparable. At all times the lad talks with
wonderful eloquence and power--as Marie Corelli thinks Christ would talk
if He were a child amongst us, and as He did talk when astonishing the
learned doctors of law in Jerusalem. Before he and the Cardinal leave
the Hotel Poitiers a miracle is performed. In Rouen there is a lad,
Fabien Doucet, who has a bent spine and a useless leg. The unbelieving
Patoux youngsters bring little Fabien to the Cardinal, and ask him to
cure the lad. Beside the Cardinal stands Manuel. The incident is
introduced by Marie Corelli in order to emphasize her own belief in the
power of prayer--prayer that is sincere, the expression of faith that
is true. The story of the miracle is very beautiful, especially for the
spirit in which the good Cardinal performs the duty that the children
ask of him. He addresses Fabien:
“My poor child, I want you to understand quite clearly how sorry I
am for you, and how willingly I would do anything in the world to
make you a strong, well, and happy boy. But you must not fancy that
I can cure you. I told your little friends yesterday that I was not
a saint, such as you read about in story-books,--and that I could
not work miracles, because I am not worthy to be so filled with the
Divine Spirit as to heal with a touch like the better servants of
our Blessed Lord. Nevertheless I firmly believe that if God saw
that it was good for you to be strong and well, He would find ways
to make you so. Sometimes sickness and sorrow are sent to us for
our advantage,--sometimes even death comes to us for our larger
benefit, though we may not understand how it is so till afterwards.
But in heaven everything will be made clear; and even our griefs
will be turned into joys,--do you understand?”
“Yes,” murmured Fabien gravely, but two large tears welled up in
his plaintive eyes as the faint glimmer of hope he had encouraged
as to the possibility of his being miraculously cured by the touch
of a saintly Cardinal, expired in the lonely darkness of his little
afflicted soul.
“That is well,” continued the Cardinal kindly--“And now, since it
is so difficult for you to kneel, you shall stay where you are in
my arms,--so!--” and he set him on his knee in a position of even
greater comfort than before. “You shall simply shut your eyes, and
clasp your little hands together, as I put them here,”--and as he
spoke he crossed the child’s hands on his silver crucifix--“And I
will ask our Lord to come and make you well,--for of myself I can
do nothing.”
At these words Henri and Babette glanced at each other
questioningly, and then, as if simultaneously moved by some
inexplicable emotion, dropped on their knees,--their mother, too
stout and unwieldy to do this with either noiselessness or
satisfaction to herself, was contented to bend her head as low as
she could get it. Manuel remained standing. Leaning against the
Cardinal’s chair, his eyes fixed on the crippled Fabien, he had the
aspect of a young angel of compassion, whose sole immortal desire
was to lift the burden of sorrow and pain from the lives of
suffering humanity. And after a minute or two passed in silent
meditation, the Cardinal laid his hands tenderly on Fabien’s fair
curly head and prayed aloud.
“Oh merciful Christ! Most pitying and gentle Redeemer!--to Whom in
the days of Thy sacred life on earth, the sick and suffering and
lame and blind were brought, and never sent away unhealed or
uncomforted; consider, we beseech Thee, the sufferings of this Thy
little child, deprived of all the joys which Thou hast made so
sweet for those who are strong and straight in their youth, and who
have no ailment to depress their courage or to quench the ardor of
their aspiring souls. Look compassionately upon him, oh gentle King
and Master of all such children!--and even as Thou wert a child
Thyself, be pleased to heal him of his sad infirmity. For, if Thou
wilt, Thou canst make this bent body straight and these withered
muscles strong,--from death itself Thou canst ordain life, and
nothing is impossible to Thee! But above all things, gracious
Saviour, we do pray Thee so to lift and strengthen this child’s
soul, that if it is destined he should still be called upon to
bear his present pain and trouble, grant to him such perfection in
his inward spirit that he may prove worthy to be counted among Thy
angels in the bright Hereafter. To Thy care, and to Thy comfort,
and to Thy healing, great Master, we commend him, trusting him
entirely to Thy mercy, with perfect resignation to Thy Divine Will.
For the sake and memory of Thy most holy childhood, mercifully help
and bless this child! Amen!”
As Fabien Doucet hobbles away at the conclusion of this prayer, the
Cardinal, speaking from his heart, declares that if the giving of his
own life could make the lad strong he would willingly sacrifice it. Then
Manuel moves from his place near the Cardinal’s chair, approaches the
little cripple, and, putting his arms round him, kisses him on the
forehead.
“Good-bye, dear little brother!” he said, smiling--“Do not be sad!
Have patience! In all the universe, among all the millions and
millions of worlds, there is never a pure and unselfish prayer that
the great good God does not answer! Be sure of that! Take courage,
dear little brother! You will soon be well!”
Sweet assurance, truly, for the afflicted one. Shortly afterwards the
Cardinal and Manuel depart from Rouen. They have not been long gone when
there comes the startling announcement from Fabien Doucet’s mother that
the boy is cured, and, to prove it, little Fabien, the former cripple,
speeds gaily to the home of the Patoux family, strong and well.
Unconscious of the remarkable cure that has awed and amazed the
townsfolk of Rouen, the Cardinal, accompanied by Manuel, proceeds to
Paris and to the residence of his niece, Angela Sovrani, an artist
famous throughout Europe. In Paris many interesting persons are brought
together, mainly in Angela Sovrani’s studio. One remarkable character is
the Abbé Vergniaud, a brilliant preacher, witty, eloquent, and
sarcastic, but an atheist for all that. In his conversations with Angela
he endeavors to justify his position, but the girl insists upon the
depressing and wretched nature of his soulless creed. Vergniaud frankly
admits his unbelief to Cardinal Bonpré. He also makes a confession and a
declaration. In his early days, twenty-five years before, he had
betrayed and deserted a woman, long since dead. Her son, however, has
grown to manhood with the determination to avenge the mother’s wrong,
and the Abbé goes in daily fear of assassination at his hands. Yet the
Abbé Vergniaud shows that he is far from being a wholly evil man. He
declares his determination to retrieve the past so far as he can and to
clear his son’s soul from the thirst for vengeance that is consuming it.
On one occasion Vergniaud declares that Paris is hopelessly pagan, that
Christ is there made the subject of public caricature, that His reign is
over--in Paris at least.
“If these things be true,” Cardinal Bonpré indignantly cries, “then
shame upon you and upon all the clergy of this unhappy city to
stand by and let such disgrace to yourselves, and blasphemy to our
Master, exist without protest.”
The Abbé is inclined to resent the rebuke, but only for a moment. The
next, abashed, he admits its justice, and craves pardon. The incident is
the turning point in Vergniaud’s life. He shortly afterwards writes to
the Cardinal that he is moved to say things that he has never said
before, and that it is possible he may astonish and perchance scandalize
Paris.
“What inspires me I do not know,--perhaps your well-deserved
reproach of the other day,--perhaps the beautiful smile of the
angel that dwells in Donna Sovrani’s eyes,--perhaps the chance
meeting with your Rouen foundling on the stairs as I was flying
away from your just wrath.”
He concludes by requesting the Cardinal to come two days later to hear
him preach at Notre Dame de Lorette.
In his letter to the Cardinal, the Abbé Vergniaud mentions that Manuel
has given him a rose, and the mention of this to the child-Christ gives
us a charming fancy as to the floral beauties of Heaven.
“Flowers,” said the Cardinal, commenting on the gift, “are like
visible messages from God. Messages written in all the brightest
and loveliest colors! I never gather one without finding out that
it has something to say to me.”
“There is a legend,” said Manuel, “that tells how a poor girl who
has lost every human creature she loved on earth, had a rose-tree
she was fond of, and every day she found upon it just one bloom.
And though she longed to gather the flower for herself she would
not do so, but always placed it before the picture of the Christ.
And God saw her do this, as He sees everything. At last, quite
suddenly, she died, and when she found herself in heaven, there
were such crowds and crowds of angels about her that she was
bewildered, and could not find her way. All at once she saw a
pathway edged with roses before her, and one of the angels said,
‘there are all the roses you gave to our Lord on earth, and He has
made them into a pathway for you which will lead you straight to
those you love!’ And so with great joy she followed the windings of
the path, seeing her roses blossoming all the way, and she found
all those whom she had loved and lost on earth waiting to welcome
her at the end!”
Here is another sweet thought which Marie Corelli gives us in the words
of Manuel:
“You know now,” he tells Angela Sovrani, “because your wise men
are beginning to prove it, that you can in very truth send a
message to heaven. Heaven is composed of millions of worlds. ‘In My
Father’s house are many mansions!’ And from all worlds to all
worlds, and from mansion to mansion, the messages flash! And there
are those who receive them, with such directness as can admit of no
error! And your wise men might have known this long ago if they had
believed their Master’s word, ‘Whatsoever is whispered in secret
shall be proclaimed on the housetops.’ But you will all find out
soon that it is true, and that everything you say, and that every
prayer you utter, God hears.”
“My mother is in Heaven,” said Angela wistfully, “I wish I could
send her a message!”
“Your very wish has reached her now!” said Manuel. “How is it
possible that you, in the spirit, could wish to communicate with
one so beloved and she not know it? Love would be no use then, and
there would be a grave flaw in God’s perfect creation.”
“Then you think we never lose those we love? And that they see us
and hear us always?”
“They must do so,” said Manuel, “otherwise there would be cruelty
in creating the grace of love at all. But God Himself is Love.
Those who love truly can never be parted--death has no power over
their souls. If one is on earth and one in heaven, what does it
matter? If they were in separate countries of the world they could
hear news of each other from time to time,--and so they can when
apparent death has divided them.”
“How?” asked Angela with quick interest.
“Your wise men must tell you,” said Manuel, with a grave little
smile, “I know no more than what Christ has said,--and He told us
plainly that not even a sparrow shall fall to the ground without
our Father’s knowledge. ‘Fear not,’ He said, ‘Ye are more than
many sparrows.’ So, as there is nothing which is useless, and
nothing which is wasted, it is very certain that love, which is the
greatest of all things, cannot lose what it loves!”
It is worthy of note that, on account of “The Master Christian,” in
spite of the teachings in it such as we have quoted, the author has been
labeled an “atheist.”