Books: The Master Christian

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"Groping after lost Christianity!" echoed the Cardinal, "Those words
are a terrible indictment, Mr. Leigh!"

"Yet in your own soul your Eminence admits it to be true," returned
Leigh quickly,--"I can see the admission in your eyes,--in the very
expression of your face! You feel in yourself that the true spirit
of Christ is lacking in all the churches of the present day,--that
the sheep are straying for lack of the shepherd, and that the wolf
is in the fold! You know it,--you feel it,--you see it!"

Cardinal Bonpre's head drooped.

"God help me and forgive me, I am afraid I do!" he said sorrowfully.
"I see the shadow of the storm before it draws nigh,--I feel the
terror of the earthquake before it shakes down the edifice! No, the
world is not with Christ to-day!--and unhappily it is a fact that
Christ's ministers in recent years have done more to sever Him from
Humanity than any other power could ever have succeeded in doing.
Not by action, but by inertia!--dumbness--lack of protest,--lack of
courage! Only a few stray souls stand out firm and fair in the
chaos,--only a few!"

"'I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot,--I would
thou wert cold or hot! So because thou art lukewarm and neither cold
nor hot I will spew thee out of my mouth!'" quoted Leigh, his eyes
flashing and his voice trembling with repressed earnestness, "That
is the trouble all through! Apathy,--dead, unproductive apathy and
laissez-faire!--Ah, I believe there are some of us living now who
are destined to see strange and terrible things in this new
century!"

"For myself," said the Cardinal slowly, "I think there is not much
time left us! I feel a premonition of Divine wrath threatening the
world, and when I study the aspect of the times and see the pride,
licentiousness, and wealth-worship of men, I cannot but think the
days are drawing near when our Master will demand of us account of
our service. It is just the same as in the case of the individual
wrong-doer, when it seems as if punishment were again and again
retarded, and mercy shown,--yet if all benefits, blessings and
warnings are unheeded, then at last the bolt falls suddenly and with
terrific effect. So with nations--so with churches--so with the
world!"

His voice grew feeble, and his eyes were clouded with pain.

"You are fatigued," said Leigh gently, "And I ought not to have
stayed so long. I will bid you farewell now. If I am in Rome when
you are there, I trust you will permit me to pay my respects to
you?"

"It will be a pleasure to see you, my son," answered the Cardinal,
pressing his hand and courteously preventing him from making the
formal genuflection, "And let me add that it will help me very much
to hear from you what progress you make in your intention of working
for Christ. For,--when you speak to the people as a teacher, it is
in His name, is it not?"

"In His name, and I pray in His spirit," said Leigh, "But not
through any church."

The Cardinal sighed, but said no more, and Leigh turned to Angela.

"Good-bye," he said, "I may come and see the picture in Rome?"

"You may indeed," and Angela gave him her hand in frank
friendliness, "I shall feel the necessity of your criticism and the
value of your opinion."

He looked at her intently for a moment.

"Be of good courage," he then said in a low tone, "'Work out your
own salvation', it is the only way! Fulfil the expression of your
whole heart and soul and mind, and never heed what opposing forces
may do to hinder you. You are so clear-brained, so spiritually
organised, that I cannot imagine your doing anything that shall not
create a power for good. You are sometimes inclined to be afraid of
the largeness of your own conceptions in the picture you are
dreaming of,--I can see that,--but do not fear! The higher
influences are with you and in you;--give yourself up to them with
absolute confidence! Good-bye--God bless you!" He stooped and kissed
her hand,--then left the room.

Angela looked after him, and a half sigh escaped her lips
unconsciously. The Cardinal watched her with rather a troubled look.
After a little silence he said,

"You must pardon me, my child, if I seemed over hasty in my judgment
of your work . . ."

"Dearest uncle, do not speak of it!" exclaimed Angela, "You were
pained and sorry to see such a 'servant of Christ' as the type I
chose,--you could not help expressing your feeling--it was
natural . . ."

"Yes, I was vexed,--I own it!--" went on Bonpre, "For I know many
priests, poor, patient, simple men, who do their best for our Lord
according to their measure and capability,--men who deserve all
honour, all love, all respect, for the integrity of their lives,--
still--I am aware that these are in the minority, and that men of
the kind your sketch depicts, compose alas!--the majority. There is
a frightful preponderance of evil influences in the world! Industry,
and commerce, and science have advanced, and yet a noble and upright
standard of conduct among men is sadly lacking. Men are seeking for
happiness in Materialism, and find nothing but satiety and misery,--
satiety and misery which become so insupportable that very often
suicide presents itself as the only way out of such a tangle of
wretchedness! Yes, child!--all this is true--and if you think you
have a lesson to give which will be useful in these dark days, no
one,--I least of all--should presume to hinder you from giving it.
Still, remember that the results of work are not with the worker to
determine--they rest with God."

"Truly I hope they do," said Angela fervently, "For then all bad
work will pass away and only the good and necessary remain."

"That always is the rule," said the Cardinal, "No criticism can kill
good work or vivify bad. So be happy, Angela mia! Paint your great
picture with courage and hope--I will neither judge nor condemn, and
if the world's verdict should be cruel, mine shall be kind!"

He smiled and stroked her soft hair, then taking her arm he leaned
upon it affectionately as they left the studio together.

X.

The next day, and the next after that, were passed by the Cardinal
in gratifying a certain eagerness shown by his young foundling,
Manuel, to see the churches and great public buildings of Paris. The
boy had a quiet, straightforward way of expressing his wishes and
opinions, and a certain marked individuality in his manner--in fact,
so simple and straight were his words, and so much to the point,
that they sometimes caused confusion to his hearers. Once or twice
he gave offence, as for example, on visiting a great church where
there were numerous jewelled relics and priceless treasures of old
lace and embroidery, when he said suddenly:

"There is a woman just outside the door, very ill and poor, with two
little starving children;--would it not be well to sell some of the
jewels here and give her the money?"

The custodian looked amazed, and the attendant priest who was
escorting Cardinal Bonpre through the building, frowned.

"The treasures of the Church are not to be sold," he said curtly.
"The beggar outside is no doubt a trained hypocrite."

"Christ would not say so," answered Manuel softly,--"He would not,
even if He knew her to be a hypocrite, retain anything of value for
Himself, if by giving it to her, He could ease her pain and poverty.
I cannot understand why the Church should keep jewels."

"That is because you are ignorant," said the priest roughly.

Manuel raised his grave blue eyes and fixed them steadily upon him.

"That may be," he said, "Yet I think it is nowhere written in the
Gospel that Christ cared for the world's wealth or the world's
possessions. When they are offered to Him did he not say, 'Get thee
behind me, Satan'! The only gem he prized was the 'pearl of great
price,'--the pure and perfect human soul."

"The Church is the manufactory of those pearls," said the priest,
with something between a grin and a sneer.

"Then the Church needs no other jewels" returned Manuel quietly,
with a little gesture of his hand, "These glittering baubles you
show, are out of place."

The priest glanced him over with angry contempt. Then he said to the
Cardinal,

"Your Eminence will have trouble with that boy," he said. "His
opinions are heretic."

The Cardinal smiled a little.

"You think so? Nay, there is something of truth in what he says,
notwithstanding his simplicity of utterance, which is not perhaps in
accordance with convention. I confess that I share his opinions
somewhat. Certainly I esteem myself happy that in my far-off diocese
there are none of the world's precious things, but only the unprized
prayers of the faithful."

The priest said nothing in reply,--but he was conscious of
discomfort and uneasiness, and hurried through the rest of his
duties with an ill-grace, annoyed, though he knew not why, by the
very presence of Manuel. The boy, however, paid no heed to his angry
glances, and noted everything in his own quiet meditative way,--a
way which was a singularly winning one, graced as it was by an
almost scholarly thoughtfulness united to the charm of youth. Once,
before a magnificent priest's garment of lace, he paused, and
touched the substance lightly.

"See," he said softly, looking wistfully up in the Cardinal's face,
"See all the leaves and rosebuds worked in, this by the needle,--and
think how many human eyes have strained at it, and grown dull and
blind over it! If one could only believe that the poor eyes were
comforted at all in the following of the difficult thread!--but no,-
-the sunshine must have lessened and the days grown darker and
darker, till death came and gently shut up the lids of the tired
orbs of earthy vision, and opened those of the soul to Light indeed!
This work speaks with a thousand tongues! I can hear them! Torture,-
-poverty,--pain,--pitilessness,--long hours,--scant reward,--tired
fingers,--weary hearts!--and a priest of Christ wears this to
perform Christ's service! Clad in a garment of human suffering, to
preach mercy! Is it not strange?"

"You think too deeply, my child," said the Cardinal, moved by the
tender pity in Manual's voice, "Nothing is accomplished without pain
in this world,--our dear Lord Himself suffered pain."

"True," said Manuel, "But His pain was endured that there might be
less of it for others! He asked His children in this world to love
one another for His sake--not to grind each other down! Not to make
unnecessary hardships for each other! But it seems as if He had
asked in vain!"

He was silent after this, and refrained from remark even when,
during their visit to Notre Dame, the treasury was unlocked for the
Cardinal's inspection, and the relics formerly contained in the now
disused "Sainte Chapelle," were shown,--including the fragments of
the "crown of thorns," and a nail from the "true cross." The
Cardinal was silent too. He had no remark to offer on these obvious
"imaginations" of the priesthood. Then they went up together to the
platform on the summit of the Cathedral, and looked at the great
bell known as the "Bourdon de Notre Dame";--and here they found a
little wizened old man sitting carelessly on the edge of a
balustrade, in a seemingly very dangerous position, who nodded and
smiled familiarly as they appeared. He acted as cicerone of the
summit of the North Tower, and was soon at their side explaining
volubly all that was of interest.

"Tired,--oh yes, one gets tired!" he admitted, in response to a
query from the Cardinal as to whether he did not find his duties
fatiguing at his age, "But after all, I like the griffins and
dragons and devils' faces up here, better than the griffins and
dragons and devils down there,--below on the Boulevards! I call this
Heaven, and down there in the streets, Hell. Yes, truly! It is
wholesome up here,--the sky seems very near, and the sculptured
beasts do no harm. But down in the streets one feels and smells the
dirt and danger directly. I sit here all by myself for hours
thinking, when no one comes to visit the tower,--for sometimes a
whole day passes and no one wishes to ascend. And there is a moral
in that, Monseigneur, if one has eyes to see it;--days pass, years,
in the world,--and no one wishes to ascend!--to Heaven, I mean!--to
go down to Hell is delightful, and everyone is ready for it! It is
at night that the platform here is most beautiful,--oh yes, at night
it is very fine, Monseigneur!--but it is only madmen and dreamers
who call me up in the night hours, yet when they do I never refuse
to go with them, for look you, I am a light sleeper and have no wife
to bid me keep my bed. Yes,--if the authorities knew that I took
anybody up to the tower at night they would probably dismiss me,"
and he chuckled like an old schoolboy with a sense of his own innate
mischief and disobedience, "But you see they do not know! And I
learn a great deal from the strange persons who come at night,--much
more than from the strange persons who come by day. Now, the last so
strange person that came here by night--you would not perhaps
believe it, Monseigneur, but it was a priest! Yes," and the old
fellow laughed, "a priest who had suddenly found out that the Church
was not following its Master! Yes, yes! . . . just fancy killing himself
for that!"

"Killing himself!" cried the Cardinal, "What do you mean?"

"You would like to hear the story?--ah, take care, mon ange!" he
cried, as he perceived Manuel standing lightly near the brink of the
platform, and stretching out his arms towards the city, "Thou art
not a bird to fly from that edge in the air! What dost thou see?"

"Paris!" replied the boy in strangely sorrowful accents, turning his
young, wistful face towards the Cardinal, his hair blown back in the
light wind, "All Paris!"

"Ah!--'tis a fine sight, all Paris!" said the old guide--"one of the
finest in the world, to judge by the outside of it. But the inside
is a very different matter; and if Paris is not a doomed city, then
there is no God, and I know nothing of the Bible. It has got all the
old sins in a new shape, and revels in them. And of the story of the
priest, if you would hear it;--ah!--that is well!" he said, as
Manuel left the giddy verge of the platform where he had been
standing, and drew near. "It is safer to be away from that edge, my
child! And for the poor priest, it happened in this way,--it was a
fair night, and the moon was high--I was dozing off in a chair in my
room below, when the bell rang quickly, yet softly. I got up with
pleasure, for I said to myself, 'here is an artist or a poet,--one
of those persons who are unlike anyone else'--just as I am myself
unlike anyone else--'and so we two shall have a pleasant evening.'
But when I opened the door there was no one but a priest, and poor-
looking even at that; and he was young and pale, and very uneasy in
his manner, and he said to me, 'Jean Lapui'--(that is my name)--'let
me pass up to the platform.' 'Willingly,' said I, 'if I may go with
you.' 'Nay, I would rather be alone,' he answered. 'That may not
be,' I told him, 'I am as pleased to see the moonbeams shining on
the beasts and devils as any man,--and I shall do you no harm by my
company.' Well, he agreed to have me then, and up we went the three
hundred and seventy-eight steps,--(it is a long way, Monseigneur;--
)and he mounted quickly, I slowly,--but always keeping my eye upon
him. At last we reached this platform, and the moonlight was
beautiful, and clear as day. Then my little priest sat down and
began to laugh. 'Ha, my Lapui!' he said, 'Is it not droll that this
should be all a lie! All this fine building, and all the other fine
buildings of the kind in Paris! Strange, my Lapui, is it not, that
this Cathedral should be raised to the worship of a God whom no one
obeys, or even thinks of obeying! All show, my good Lapui! All to
feed priests like me, and keep them going--but God has nothing to do
with it--nothing at all, I swear to you!'--'You may be right, mon
reverend,' I said, (for I saw he was not in a mood to be argued
with)--"Yet truly the Cathedral has not always been a place of
holiness. In seventeen ninety-three there was not much of our Lord
or the blessed Saints in it.' 'No, you are right, Lapui!' he cried,
'Down came the statue of the Virgin, and up went the statue of
Liberty! There was the crimson flare of the Torch of Truth!--and the
effigies of the ape Voltaire and the sensualist Rousseau, took the
places of St. Peter and St. Paul! Ha!--And they worshipped the
goddess of Reason--Reason, impersonated by Maillard the ballet-
dancer! True to the life, my Lapui!--that kind of worship has lasted
in Paris until now!--it goes on still--Reason,--man's idea of
Reason,--impersonated by a ballet dancer! Yes,--the shops are full
of that goddess and her portraits, Jean Lapui! And the jewellers can
hardly turn out sufficient baubles to adorn her shrine!' He laughed
again, and I took hold of him by the arm. 'See here, petit pere,' I
said, 'I fancy all is not well with you.' 'You are right,' he
answered, 'all is very ill!' 'Then will you not go home and to bed?'
I asked him. 'Presently--presently;' he said, 'if I may tell you
something first!' 'Do so by all means, reverend pere,' said I, and I
sat down near him. 'It is just this, Lapui,' and he drew out a
crucifix from his breast and looked at it very earnestly, 'I am a
priest, as you see; and this symbol represents my faith. My mother
told me that to be a priest and to serve God was the highest
happiness that could befall a man. I believed it,--and when I look
at the stars up there crowding around us in such vast circles,--when
I look at all this moonlight and the majesty of creation around me,
I believe it still! Up here, it seems there MAY be a God; down
there,' and he pointed towards the streets, 'I know there is a
devil! But I have discovered that it is no use telling the people
about God, because they do not believe in Him. They think I am
telling them a lie because it is my metier to tell lies. And also
because they think I have neither the sense nor the ability to do
anything else. They know they are telling lies themselves all day
and every day. Some of them pretend to believe, because they think
it best to be on the safe side even by feigning,--and they are the
worst hypocrites. It drives me mad, Lapui, to perform Mass for
liars! If it were only unbelievers! but liars!--liars! Liars who lie
on their death-beds, telling me with mock sighs of penitence that
they believe in God when they do not! I had a dream last night--you
shall tell me if I was mistaken in it,--it was a dream of this very
tower of Notre Dame. I was up here as I am now--and the moonlight
was around me as it is now--and I thought that just behind the wing
of that third angel's head carved yonder--do you see?' and he got up
and made me get up too, and turned me round with his hand on my
shoulder--'a white dove had made its resting-place. Is there a white
dove there, Lapui? If there is I shall be a happy man and all my
griefs will be at an end! Will you go and look--and tell me if there
is a white dove nestling there? Then I will say good-night to you
and go home.' God forgive me!--I thought to humor him in his fancy,
and so I left him to walk those five steps--only five at the utmost-
-and see if perhaps among the many doves that fly about the towers,
it might not be that a white one, as he said, should have chosen to
settle in the place he pointed out to me, 'for,' thought I, 'he will
be quiet then and satisfied.' And like a blind fool I went--and when
I came back the platform was empty!--Ah, Monseigneur!--he had said
good-night indeed, and gone home!"

"You mean that he flung himself from this parapet?" said Bonpre, in
a low, horrified tone.

"That was the way of it, Monseigneur," said Lapui commiseratingly,--
"His body was found next day crushed to bits on the pavement below;
but somehow no one troubled much about it, or thought he had thrown
himself from the tower of Notre Dame. It was said that he had been
murdered and thrown out of a window, but nobody knew how or when. Of
course I could have spoken, but then I should have got into trouble.
And I avoid trouble whenever I can. A very strange thing it is that
no one has ever been suspected of leaping from Notre Dame into the
next world since Victor Hugo's great story was written. 'It is
against the rules,' say the authorities, 'to mount the towers at
night.' True, but rules are not always kept. Victor Hugo's
'Quasimodo,' who never lived, is the only person the wiseacres
associate with such a deed. And I,--I could tell many a strange
story; only it is better to be silent! Life is hard living,--and
when a priest of the Church feels there is no God in this world, why
what is there left for him except to try and find out if there is in
the next?"

"Suicide is not the way to find Heaven," said the Cardinal gravely.

"Maybe not,--maybe not," and the old custodian turned to lead the
way down the steps of the tower, "But when the brain is gone all
through grief at losing God, it may chance that God sees the
conditions of things, and has mercy. Events happen in this world of
such a kind as to make anyone who is not a saint, doubt the sense as
well as the goodness of the Creator,--of course that is a wicked
thing to say, for we make our own evils, no doubt--"

"That is very certain," said the Cardinal, "The unhappy man you have
told me of should have trusted God to the end, whether those whom he
preached to, believed his message or not. Their conduct was not his
business,--his task was to declare, and not to judge."

"Now that is very well put!" and the old man paused on the stairway
and looked round approvingly. "Of course that is said as only a wise
man could say it, for after all, Christ Himself did not judge any
one in any case. He came to save us all, not to punish us."

"Then why does not everyone remember that, and try to save one
another rather than to condemn?" asked Manuel suddenly.

They had reached the bottom of the tower stairway, and old Jean
Lapui, shading his eyes from the glare of the daylight with one
wrinkled hand, looked at the boy with a smile of compassionate
interest.

"Why does not everyone remember? Why does not everyone do as He did?
Ah, that is a question! You are young, and you will find out many
answers to it before you are much older. One fact is sure,--that if
everybody did remember Him and lived exactly as He wished, we should
have a new Heaven and a new Earth; and I will tell you something
else," and the old fellow looked sly and mischievous, "No offence
meant--no offence!--but there would be no churches and no priests!
Believe me, I speak the truth! But this would be a great happiness;
and is not to be our portion yet! Good-day, Monseigneur!--A thousand
pardons for my wicked speech! Good-day!"

"Good-day!" responded the Cardinal gently, "Be careful of your night
visitors, my friend! Do not for the future leave them alone to
plunge into the Infinite without a warning!"

The old man smiled deprecatingly.

"Truly, Monseigneur, I am generally careful. I do not know when I
have spoken so freely to anyone as I have to you; for I am generally
in a bad humour with all Church dignitaries,--and of course I know
you for a Cardinal by your dress, while you might truly be a saint
from your manner;--so I should have held my tongue about the flight
into the air of the little priest. But you will say nothing, for you
are discreet; and even if you did, and I were asked about it, I
should know nothing. Oh, yes, I can tell lies as fast as anybody
else!--Yes, truly! I do not suppose anyone, not even an Archbishop
himself, could surpass me in lying!"

"And are you not ashamed to lie?" asked Bonpre, with an intense
vibration of pain in his voice as he put the question.

"Heaven bless you, no, Monseigneur!" replied Lapui cheerfully, "For
is not the whole world kept going by lies? Dear me, if we all told
the truth there would be an end of everything! I am a philosopher in
my way, Monseigneur,--and I assure you that a real serious truth
told in Paris without any gloss upon it, would be like an earthquake
in the city,--great houses would come down and numbers of people
would be killed by it! Good-day, Monseigneur!--Good-day."

And still smiling and chuckling, the custodian of the North tower
retired into his den there to await fresh visitors. The Cardinal
walked slowly to the corner of the street where his carriage awaited
him,--his head bent and his eyes downcast; Manuel stepped lightly
along beside him, glancing at his pale face from time to time with a
grave and tender compassion. When they were seated in the vehicle
and driving homewards the boy spoke gently--

"You grieve too much for others, dear friend! You are now distressed
because you have heard the story of one unhappy man who sought to
find God by self-destruction, and you are pained also lest another
man should lose God altogether by the deliberate telling of lies.
All such mistakes and follies of the world weigh heavily on your
heart, but they should not do so,--for did not Christ suffer all
this for you when He was crucified?"