A CONTEST OF ART AND A LEAGUE OF FRIENDSHIP.--TWO CHARACTERS IN MUTUAL
IGNORANCE OF EACH OTHER, AND THE READER NO WISER THAN EITHER OF THEM.
THE Abbe was now particularly courteous to me. He made Gerald and myself
breakfast with him, and told us nothing was so amiable as friendship
among brothers. We agreed to the sentiment, and, like all philosophers,
did not agree a bit the better for acknowledging the same first
principles. Perhaps, notwithstanding his fine speeches, the Abbe was
the real cause of our continued want of cordiality. However, we did not
fight any more: we avoided each other, and at last became as civil and
as distant as those mathematical lines which appear to be taking all
possible pains to approach one another and never get a jot the nearer
for it. Oh! your civility is the prettiest invention possible for
dislike! Aubrey and I were inseparable, and we both gained by the
intercourse. I grew more gentle, and he more masculine; and, for my
part, the kindness of his temper so softened the satire of mine that I
learned at last to smile full as often as to sneer.
The Abbe had obtained a wonderful hold over Aubrey; he had made the poor
boy think so much of the next world, that he had lost all relish for
this. He lived in a perpetual fear of offence: he was like a chemist of
conscience, and weighed minutiae by scruples. To play, to ride, to run,
to laugh at a jest, or to banquet on a melon, were all sins to be atoned
for; and I have found (as a penance for eating twenty-three cherries
instead of eighteen) the penitent of fourteen standing, barefooted,
in the coldest nights of winter, upon the hearthstones, almost utterly
naked, and shivering like a leaf, beneath the mingled effect of frost
and devotion. At first I attempted to wrestle with this exceeding
holiness, but finding my admonitions received with great distaste and
some horror, I suffered my brother to be happy in his own way. I
only looked with a very evil and jealous eye upon the good Abbe, and
examined, while I encouraged them, the motives of his advances to
myself. What doubled my suspicions of the purity of the priest was
my perceiving that he appeared to hold out different inducements for
trusting him to each of us, according to his notions of our respective
characters. My brother Gerald he alternately awed and persuaded, by the
sole effect of superior intellect. With Aubrey he used the mechanism of
superstition. To me, he, on the one hand, never spoke of religion, nor,
on the other, ever used threats or persuasion, to induce me to follow
any plan suggested to my adoption; everything seemed to be left to my
reason and my ambition. He would converse with me for hours upon
the world and its affairs, speak of courts and kings, in an easy and
unpedantic strain; point out the advantage of intellect in acquiring
power and controlling one’s species; and, whenever I was disposed to be
sarcastic upon the human nature I had read of, he supported my sarcasm
by illustrations of the human nature he had seen. We were both, I think
(for myself I can answer), endeavouring to pierce the real nature of the
other; and perhaps the talent of diplomacy for which, years afterwards,
I obtained some applause, was first learnt in my skirmishing warfare
with the Abbe Montreuil.
At last, the evening before we quitted school for good arrived. Aubrey
had just left me for solitary prayers, and I was sitting alone by my
fire, when Montreuil entered gently. He sat himself down by me, and,
after giving me the salutation of the evening, sank into a silence which
I was the first to break.
“Pray, Abbe,” said I, “have one’s years anything to do with one’s age?”
The priest was accustomed to the peculiar tone of my sagacious remarks,
and answered dryly,--
“Mankind in general imagine that they have.”
“Faith, then,” said I, “mankind know very little about the matter.
To-day I am at school, and a boy; to-morrow I leave school; if I hasten
to town I am presented at court; and lo! I am a man; and this change
within half-a-dozen changes of the sun! therefore, most reverend father,
I humbly opine that age is measured by events, not years.”
“And are you not happy at the idea of passing the age of thraldom,
and seeing arrayed before you the numberless and dazzling pomps and
pleasures of the great world?” said Montreuil, abruptly, fixing his dark
and keen eye upon me.
“I have not yet fully made up my mind whether to be happy or not,” said
I, carelessly.
“It is a strange answer;” said the priest; “but” (after a pause) “you
are a strange youth: a character that resembles a riddle is at your age
uncommon, and, pardon me, unamiable. Age, naturally repulsive, requires
a mask; and in every wrinkle you may behold the ambush of a scheme: but
the heart of youth should be open as its countenance! However, I will
not weary you with homilies; let us change the topic. Tell me, Morton,
do you repent having turned your attention of late to those graver
and more systematic studies which can alone hereafter obtain you
distinction?”
“No, father,” said I, with a courtly bow, “for the change has gained me
your good opinion.”
A smile, of peculiar and undefinable expression, crossed the thin
lips of the priest; he rose, walked to the door, and saw that it was
carefully closed. I expected some important communication, but in vain;
pacing the small room to and fro, as if in a musing mood, the Abbe
remained silent, till, pausing opposite some fencing foils, which among
various matters (books, papers, quoits, etc.) were thrown idly in one
corner of the room, he said,--
“They tell me that you are the best fencer in the school--is it so?”
“I hope not, for fencing is an accomplishment in which Gerald is very
nearly my equal,” I replied.
“You run, ride, leap, too, better than any one else, according to the
votes of your comrades?”
“It is a noble reputation,” said I, “in which I believe I am only
excelled by our huntsman’s eldest son.”
“You are a strange youth,” repeated the priest; “no pursuit seems to
give you pleasure, and no success to gratify your vanity. Can you not
think of any triumph which would elate you?”
I was silent.
“Yes,” cried Montreuil, approaching me,--“yes,” cried he, “I read your
heart, and I respect it; these are petty competitions and worthless
honours. You require a nobler goal, and a more glorious reward. He who
feels in his soul that Fate has reserved for him a great and exalted
part in this world’s drama may reasonably look with indifference on
these paltry rehearsals of common characters.”
I raised my eye, and as it met that of the priest, I was irresistibly
struck with the proud and luminous expression which Montreuil’s look had
assumed. Perhaps something kindred to its nature was perceptible in my
own; for, after surveying me with an air of more approbation than he
had ever honoured me with before, he grasped my arm firmly, and said,
“Morton, you know me not; for many years I have not known you: that time
is past. No sooner did your talents develop themselves than I was the
first to do homage to their power: let us henceforth be more to each
other than we have been; let us not be pupil and teacher; let us be
friends. Do not think that I invite you to an unequal exchange of good
offices: you may be the heir to wealth and a distinguished name; I may
seem to you but an unknown and undignified priest; but the authority of
the Almighty can raise up, from the sheepfold and the cotter’s shed,
a power, which, as the organ of His own, can trample upon sceptres and
dictate to the supremacy of kings. And _I_--_I_”--the priest abruptly
paused, checked the warmth of his manner, as if he thought it about to
encroach on indiscretion, and, sinking into a calmer tone, continued,
“yes, I, Morton, insignificant as I appear to you, can, in _every_ path
through this intricate labyrinth of life, be more useful to your desires
than you can ever be to mine. I offer to you in my friendship a fervour
of zeal and energy of power which in none of your equals, in age and
station, you can hope to find. Do you accept my offer?”
“Can you doubt,” said I, with eagerness, “that I would avail myself of
the services of any man, however displeasing to me, and worthless in
himself? How, then, can I avoid embracing the friendship of one so
extraordinary in knowledge and intellect as yourself? I do embrace it,
and with rapture.”
The priest pressed my hand. “But,” continued he, fixing his eyes
upon mine, “all alliances have their conditions: I require implicit
confidence; and for some years, till time gives you experience, regard
for your interests induces me also to require obedience. Name any wish
you may form for worldly advancement, opulence, honour, the smile of
kings, the gifts of states, and--I--I will pledge myself to carry that
wish into effect. Never had eastern prince so faithful a servant among
the Dives and Genii as Morton Devereux shall find in me: but question
me not of the sources of my power; be satisfied when their channel wafts
you the success you covet. And, more, when I in my turn (and this shall
be but rarely) request a favour of you, ask me not for what end nor
hesitate to adopt the means I shall propose. You seem startled; are you
content at this understanding between us, or will you retract the bond?”
“My father,” said I, “there is enough to startle me in your proposal;
it greatly resembles that made by the Old Man of the Mountains to his
vassals, and it would not exactly suit my inclinations to be called upon
some morning to act the part of a private executioner.”
The priest smiled. “My young friend,” said he, “those days have passed;
neither religion nor friendship requires of her votaries sacrifices of
blood. But make yourself easy; whenever I ask of you what offends your
conscience, even in a punctilio, refuse my request. With this exception,
what say you?”
“That I think I will agree to the bond: but, father, I am an irresolute
person; I must have time to consider.”
“Be it so. To-morrow, having surrendered my charge to your uncle, I
depart for France.”
“For France!” said I; “and how? Surely the war will prevent your
passage.”
The priest smiled. Nothing ever displeased me more than that priest’s
smile. “The ecclesiastics,” said he, “are the ambassadors of Heaven, and
have nothing to do with the wars of earth. I shall find no difficulty in
crossing the Channel. I shall not return for several months, perhaps not
till the expiration of a year: I leave you, till then, to decide upon
the terms I have proposed to you. Meanwhile, gratify my vanity by
employing my power; name some commission in France which you wish me to
execute.”
“I can think of none,--yet, stay;” and I felt some curiosity to try the
power of which he boasted,--“I have read that kings are blest with a
most accommodating memory, and perfectly forget their favourites when
they can be no longer useful. You will see, perhaps, if my father’s name
has become a Gothic and unknown sound at the court of the Great King.
I confess myself curious to learn this, though I can have no personal
interest in it.”
“Enough, the commission shall be done. And now, my child, Heaven bless
you! and send you many such friends as the humble priest, who, whatever
be his failings, has, at least, the merit of wishing to serve those whom
he loves.”
So saying, the priest closed the door. Sinking into a revery, as his
footsteps died upon my ear, I muttered to myself: “Well, well, my sage
ecclesiastic, the game is not over yet; let us see if, at sixteen, we
cannot shuffle cards, and play tricks with the gamester of thirty. Yet
he may be in earnest, and faith I believe he is; but I must look well
before I leap, or consign my actions into such spiritual keeping.
However, if the worst come to the worst, if I do make this compact, and
am deceived,--if, above all, I am ever seduced, or led blindfold into
one of those snares which priestcraft sometimes lays to the cost of
honour,--why, I shall have a sword, which I shall never be at a loss
to use, and it can find its way through a priest’s gown as well as a
soldier’s corselet.”
Confess that a youth who could think so promptly of his sword was well
fitted to wear one!