Books: The Master Christian

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"In every house there are those rats--in every room there is dirt!"
said Gherardi, "Presuming that you speak in a moral sense. What of
your Houses of Parliament? What of the French Senate? What of the
Reichstag? What of the Russian Autocracy?--the American Republic? In
every quarter the rats squeal, and the dirt gathers! The Church of
Rome is purity itself compared to your temporal governments! My dear
sir," and approaching, he laid a kindly hand on Aubrey's arm, "I
would not be harsh with you for the world! I understand your nature
perfectly. It is full of enthusiasm and zeal for righteousness,--
your heart warms to the sorrows of the human race,--you would lift
up the whole world to God's footstool; you would console--you would
be a benefactor--you would elevate, purify, rejuvenate, inspire!
Yes! This is a grand mood--one which has fired many a would-be
reformer before you,--but you forget! It is not the Church against
which you should arm yourself--it is the human race! It is not one
or many religious systems with which you should set yourself to
contend--it is the blind brutishness of humanity!" As he spoke, his
tall form appeared to tower to an even greater height,--his eyes
flashed, and the intellectual pride and force of his character
became apparent in every feature of his face. "If humanity in the
mass asked us for Christ only; if men and women would deny
themselves the petty personal aim, the low vice, the crawling desire
to ingratiate themselves with Heaven, the Pharisaical affectation of
virtue--if they would themselves stand clear of 'vain repetition'
and obstinate egoism, and would of themselves live purely, the
Church would be pure! May I venture to suggest to you that men make
the Church, not the Church the men? We try to supply the spiritual
needs of the human being, such as his spiritual needs at present
are,--when he demands more we will give him more. At present his
needs are purely personal, and therefore low and tainted with
sensuality,--yet we drag him along through these emotions as near to
the blameless Christ as we can. When he is impersonal enough,
unselfish enough, loyal-hearted enough, to stand face to face with
the glorious manifestation of the Deity unaided, we can cast away
his props, such as superstitious observances, Saints and the like,
and leave him,--but then the Millennium will have come, and there
will be new heavens and a new earth!"

He spoke well, with force and fervour, and Aubrey Leigh was for a
moment impressed. After a slight pause however, he said,

"You admit the ignorance of human beings, and yet--you would keep
them ignorant?"

"Keep them ignorant!" Gherardi laughed lightly. "That is more than
any of us can do nowadays! Every liberty is afforded them to learn,-
-and if they still remain barbarous it is because they elect to be
so. But OUR duty is to look after the ignorant more than the
cultured! Quite true it is that the Pope lost a magnificent
opportunity in the Dreyfus affair,--if he had spoken in favour of
mercy and justice he would have won thousands of followers; being
silent he has lost thousands. But this should be a great
satisfaction to you, Mr. Leigh! For if the Holy Father had given an
example to the Catholic clergy to act in the true Christian spirit
towards Dreyfus, the Conversion of England might have been so
grafted on enthusiastic impulse as to be a much nearer possibility
than it is now!"

Aubrey was silent.

"Now, Mr. Leigh, I think you have gained sufficient insight into my
views to judge me with perhaps greater favour than you were inclined
to do at the beginning of our interview," continued Gherardi, "I
assure you that I shall watch your career with the greatest
interest! You have embarked in a most hopeless cause,--you will try
to help the helpless, and as soon as they are rescued out of
trouble, they will turn and rend you,--you will try to teach them
the inner mysteries of God's working, and they will say you are
possessed of a devil! You will endeavour to upset shams and
hypocrisies, and the men of your press will write you down and say
you are seeking advertisement and notoriety for yourself. Was there
ever a great thinker left unmartyred? Or a great writer that has not
been misunderstood and condemned? You wish to help and serve
humanity! Enthusiast! You would do far better to help and serve the
Church! For the Church rewards; humanity has cursed and killed every
great benefactor it ever had INCLUDING CHRIST!"

The terrible words beat on Aubrey's ears like the brazen clang of a
tocsin, for he knew they were true. But he held his ground.

"There are worse things than death," he said simply.

Gherardi smiled kindly.

"And there are worse things than life!" he said,

"Life holds a good many harmless enjoyments, which I am afraid you
are putting away from you in your prime, for the sake of a mere
chimera. But--after all, what does it matter! One must have a hobby!
Some men like horse-racing, others book-collecting,--others
pictures,--and so forth--you like the religious question! Well, no
doubt it affords you a great many opportunities of studying
character. I shall be very happy--" here he extended his hand
cordially, "to show you anything that may be of interest to you in
Rome, and to present you to any of our brethren that may assist you
in your researches. I can give you a letter to Rampolla--"

Aubrey declined the offered introduction with a decided negative
shake of his head.

"No," he said, "I know Cardinal Bonpre; that is enough!"

"But there is a great difference between Rampolla and Bonpre," said
Gherardi, with twinkling eyes, "Bonpre is scarcely ever in Rome. He
lives a life apart--and has for a long while been considered as a
kind of saint from the privacy and austerity of his life. But he has
heralded his arrival in the Eternal City triumphantly--by the
performance of a miracle! What do you say to this?--you who would do
away with things miraculous?"

"I say nothing till I hear," answered Aubrey, "I must know what the
nature of the so-called miracle is. I am a believer in soul-forces,
and in the exhalation of spiritual qualities affecting or
influencing others: but in this there is no miracle, it is simply
natural law."

"Well, you must interview the Cardinal yourself," said Gherardi
indulgently, "and tell me afterwards what you think about it, if
indeed you think anything. But you will not find him at home this
morning. He is summoned to the Vatican."

"On account of the miracle?--or the scandal affecting the Abbe
Vergniaud?" asked Aubrey.

"Both matters are under discussion, I believe," replied Gherardi
evasively, "But they are not in my province. Now, can I be of any
further service to you, Mr. Leigh?"

"No. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time," said Aubrey,
"But I think I understand your views--"

"I hope you do," interrupted Gherardi, "And that you will by and by
grasp the fact that my views are shared by almost everyone holding
any Church authority. But you must go about in Rome, and make
enquiries for yourself . . . now, let me see! Do you know the Princesse
D'Agramont?"

"No."

"Oh, you must know her,--she is a great friend of Donna Sovrani's,
and a witty and brilliant personage in herself. She is rather of
your way of thinking, and so is out of favour with the Church. But
that will not matter to you; and you will meet all the dissatisfied
and enthusiastic of the earth in her salons! I will tell her to send
you a card."

Aubrey said something by way of formal acknowledgment, and then took
his leave. He was singularly depressed, and his face, always quick
to show traces of thought, had somewhat lost its former expression
of eager animation. The wily Gherardi had for the time so influenced
his sensitive mind as to set it almost to the tune of the most
despairing of Tennyson's "Two Voices",

"A life of nothings, nothing worth,
From that first nothing ere his birth,
To that last nothing under earth."

What was the use of trying to expound a truth, if the majority
preferred a lie?

"Will one bright beam be less intense,
When thy peculiar difference
Is cancelled in the world of sense?"

And Gherardi noted the indefinable touch of fatigue that gave the
slight droop of the shoulders and air of languor to the otherwise
straight slim figure as it passed from his presence,--and smiled. He
had succeeded in putting a check on unselfish ardour, and had thrown
a doubt into the pure intention of enthusiastic toil. That was
enough for the present. And scarcely had Aubrey crossed the
threshold--scarcely had the echo of his departing footsteps died
away--when a heavy velvet curtain in the apartment was cautiously
thrust aside, and Monsignor Moretti stepped out of a recess behind
it, with a dignity and composure which would have been impossible to
any but an Italian priest convicted of playing the spy. Gherardi
faced him confidently.

"Well?" he said, with a more exhaustive enquiry expressed in his
look than in the simple ejaculation.

"Well!" echoed Moretti, as he slowly advanced into the centre of the
room, "You have not done as much as I expected you would. Your
arguments were clever, but not--to a man of his obstinacy,
convincing."

And sitting down, he turned his dark face and gleaming eyes full on
his confrere, who with a shrug of his massive shoulders expressed in
his attitude a disdainful relinquishment of the whole business.

"You have not," pursued Moretti deliberately, "grasped anything like
the extent of this man Leigh's determination and indifference to
results. Please mark that last clause,--indifference to results. He
is apparently alone in the world,--he seems to have nothing to lose,
and no one to care whether he succeeds or fails;--a most dangerous
form of independence! And in his persistence and eloquence he is
actually stopping--yes, I repeat it,--stopping and putting a serious
check on the advancement of the Roman Catholic party. And of course
any check just now means to us a serious financial loss both in
England and America,--a deficit in Vatican revenues which will very
gravely incommode certain necessary measures now under the
consideration of His Holiness. I expected you to grasp the man and
hold him,--not by intimidation but by flattery."

"You think he is to be caught by so common a bait?" said Gherardi,
"Bah! He would see through it at once!"

"Maybe!" replied Moretti, "But perhaps not if it were administered
in the way I mean. You seem to have forgotten the chief influence of
any that can be brought to bear upon the heart and mind of a man,--
and that is, Woman."

Gherardi laughed outright.

"Upon my word I think it would be difficult to find the woman suited
to this case!" he said. "But you who have a diplomacy deeper than
that of any Jew usurer may possibly have one already in view?"

"There is now in Rome," pursued Moretti, speaking with the same even
deliberation of accent, "a faithful daughter of the Church, whose
wealth we can to a certain extent command, and whose charm is
unquestionable,--the Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein--"

Gherardi started. Moretti eyed him coldly.

"You are not stricken surely by the childlike fascination with which
this princess of coquettes rules her court?" he enquired
sarcastically.

"I?" echoed Gherardi, shifting his position so that Moretti's gaze
could not fall so directly upon him. "I? You jest!"

"I think not!" said Moretti, "I think I know something about women--
their capabilities, their passions, their different grades of power.
Sylvie Hermenstein possesses a potent charm which few men can
resist, and I should not wonder if you yourself had been
occasionally conscious of it. She is one of those concerning whom
other women say 'they can see nothing in her'. Ah!" and Moretti
smiled darkly, "What a compliment that is from the majority of women
to one! This woman Sylvie is unique. Where is her beauty? You cannot
say--yet beauty is her very essence. She cannot boast perfection of
features,--she is frequently hidden away altogether in a room and
scarcely noticed. And so she reminds me of a certain flower known to
the Eastern nations, which is difficult to find, because so fragile
and small that it can scarcely be seen, but when it is found, and
the scent of it unwittingly inhaled, it drives men mad!"

Gherardi looked at him with a broadly wondering smile.

"You speak so eloquently," he said, "that one would almost fancy--"

"Fancy nothing!" retorted Moretti quickly, "Fancy and I are as far
apart as the poles, except in the putting together of words, in
which easy art I daresay I am as great an adept as Florian Varillo,
who can write verses on love or patriotism to order, without
experiencing a touch of either emotion. What a humbug by the way,
that fellow is!--" and Moretti broke off to consider this new point-
-"He rants of the honour of Italy, and would not let his finger ache
for her cause! And he professes to love the 'Sovrani' while all Rome
knows that Pon-Pon is his mistress!"

Gherardi wisely held his peace.

"The Comtesse Sylvie Hermenstein is the little magic flower you must
use;" resumed Moretti, emphasising his words with an authoritative
movement of his hand, "Use her to madden Aubrey Leigh. Bring them
together;--he will lose his head as surely as all men do when they
come under the influence of that soft deep-eyed creature, with the
full white breast of a dove, and the smile of an angel,--and
remember, it would be an excellent thing for the Church if he could
be persuaded to marry her,--there would be no more preaching then!--
for the thoughts of love would outweigh the theories of religion."

"You think it?" queried Gherardi dubiously.

"I know it!" replied Moretti rising, and preparing to take his
departure, "But,--play the game cautiously! Make no false move. For-
-understand me well, this man Leigh must be silenced, or we shall
lose England!"

And with these last words he turned abruptly on his heel and left
the apartment.

XXII.

Cardinal Felix Bonpre sat alone in the largest and loneliest room of
the large and lonely suite of rooms allotted to him in the Palazzo
Sovrani,--alone at a massive writing table near the window, his head
resting on one hand, and his whole figure expressive of the most
profound dejection. In front of him an ancient silver crucifix
gleamed in the flicker of the small wood fire which had been kindled
in the wide cavernous chimney--and a black-bound copy of the Gospels
lay open as if but lately consulted. The faded splendour of certain
gold embroidered hangings on the walls added to the solemn and
melancholy aspect of the apartment, and the figure of the venerable
prelate seen in such darkening gloom and solitude, was the crowning
completion of an expressive and pathetic picture of patient
desolation. So might a martyr of the Inquisition have looked while
the flames were getting ready to burn him for the love of the gentle
Saviour; and something of the temper of such a possible predecessor
was in the physically frail old man, who just now was concentrating
all the energies of his mind on the consideration of a difficult
question which is often asked by many hearts in secret, but is
seldom voiced to the public ear;--"Christ or the Church? Which must
I follow to be an honest man?"

Never had the good Cardinal been in such a strange predicament.
Living away from the great centres of thought and action, he had
followed a gentle and placid course of existence, almost unruffled,
save by the outside murmurs of a growing public discontent which had
reached him through the medium of current literature, and had given
him cause to think uneasily of possible disaster for the religious
world in the near future,--but he had never gone so far as to
imagine that the Head of the Church would, while being perfectly
conscious of existing threatening evils, deliberately turn his back
to appeals for help,--shut his ears to the cry of the "lost sheep of
the House of Israel", and even endeavour, with an impotence of
indignation which was as pitiable as useless, to shake a rod of
Twelfth-century menace over the advancement of the Twentieth!

"For the onward movement of Humanity is God's work," said the
Cardinal, "And what are we--what is even the Church--when it does
not move side by side in perfect and pure harmony with the order of
Divine Law?"

And he was bitterly troubled in spirit. He had spent the whole
morning at the Vatican, and the manner of his reception there had
been so curiously divided between flattery and reproach that he had
not known what to make of it. The Pope had been tetchy and
querulous,--precisely in such a humour as one naturally expects so
aged a man to be when contradicted on any matter, whether trivial or
important. For with such advanced years the faculties are often as
brittle as the bones, and the failing powers of the brain are often
brought to bear with more concentration on inconsiderable trifles
than on the large and important affairs of life. He had questioned
the Cardinal closely concerning the miraculous cure performed at
Rouen, and had become excessively angry when the honest prelate
earnestly disclaimed all knowledge of it. He had then confronted him
with Claude Cazeau, the secretary of the Archbishop of Rouen, and
Cazeau had given a clear and concise account of the whole matter,
stating that the child, Fabien Doucet, had been known in Rouen since
his babyhood as a helpless cripple, and that after Cardinal Bonpre
had prayed over him and laid hands on him, he had been miraculously
cured, and was now to be seen running about the city as strong and
straight as any other healthy child. And Bonpre listened patiently;-
-and to all that was said, merely reiterated that if the child WERE
so cured, then it was by the special intervention of God, as he
personally had done no more than pray for his restoration. But to
his infinite amazement and distress he saw plainly that the Holy
Father did not believe him. He saw that he was suspected of playing
a trick,--a trick, which if he had admitted, would have been
condoned, but which if he denied, would cause him to be looked upon
with distrust by all the Vatican party. He saw that even the man
Cazeau suspected him. And then,--when the public confession of the
Abbe Vergniaud came under discussion,--the Pope had gathered
together all the visible remains of physical force his attenuated
frame could muster, and had hurled himself impotently against the
wall of opposing fact with such frail fury as almost to suggest the
celebrated simile of "a reed shaken with the wind". In vain had the
Cardinal pleaded for Vergniaud's pardon; in vain had he urged that
after all, the sinner had branded himself as such in the sight of
all men; what further need to add the ban of the Church's
excommunication against one who was known to be within touch of
death? Would not Christ have said, "Go, and sin no more"? But this
simple quotation from the Gospels seemed to enrage the
representative of St. Peter more violently than before, and when
Bonpre left the Holy Presence he knew well enough that he was, for
no fault of his own, under the displeasure of the Vatican. How had
it all come about? Nothing could have been simpler than his life and
actions since he left his own Cathedral-town,--he had prayed for a
sick child,--he had sympathised with a sorry sinner,--that was all.
And such deeds as these were commanded by Christ. Yet--the Head of
the Church for these same things viewed him with wrath and
suspicion! Wearily he sat, turning over everything in his mind, and
longing, with a weakness which he fully admitted to his own
conscience, to leave Rome at once and return to his own home, there
to die among his roses at peace. But he saw it would never do to
leave Rome just yet. He was bound fast hand and foot. He was
"suspect"! In his querulous fit the Pope had ordered Claude Cazeau
to return to Rouen without delay, and there gather further evidence
respecting the Cardinal's stay at the Hotel Poitiers, and if
possible, to bring the little Fabien Doucet and his mother back to
Rome with him. Pending the arrival of fresh proof, Bonpre, though he
had received no actual command, knew he was expected to remain where
he was. Weary and sick at heart, the venerable prelate sighed as he
reviewed all the entangling perplexities, which had, so
unconsciously to himself, become woven like a web about his innocent
and harmless personality, and so absorbed was he in thought that he
did not hear the door of his room open, and so was sot aware that
his foundling Manuel had stood for some time silently watching him.
Such love and compassion as were expressed in the boy's deep blue
eyes could not however radiate long through any space without some
sympathetic response,--and moved by instinctive emotion, Cardinal
Felix looked up, and seeing his young companion smiled,--albeit the
smile was a somewhat sad one.

"Where have you been, my child?" he asked gently, "I have missed you
for some hours."

Manuel advanced a little, and stood between the pale afternoon light
reflected through the window, and the warmer glow of the wood fire.

"I have been to the strangest place in all the world!" he answered,
"The strangest,--and surely one of the most wicked!"

The Cardinal raised himself in his chair, and bent an anxious
wondering look upon the young speaker.

"One of the most wicked!" he echoed, "What place are you talking
of?"

"St. Peter's!" answered Manuel, with a thrill of passion in his
voice as he uttered the name, "St. Peter's,--the huge Theatre
misnamed a Church! Oh, dear friend!--do not look at me thus! Surely
you must feel that what I say is true? Surely you know that there is
nothing of the loving God in that vast Cruelty of a place, where
wealth and ostentation vie with intolerant officialism, bigotry and
superstition!--where even the marble columns have been stolen from
the temples of a sincerer Paganism, and still bear the names of Isis
and Jupiter wrought in the truthful stone;--where theft, rapine and
murder have helped to build the miscalled Christian fane! You cannot
in your heart of hearts feel it to be the abode of Christ; your
soul, bared to the sight of God, repudiates it as a Lie! Yes!"--For,
startled and carried away by the boy's fervour, Cardinal Felix had
risen, and now stood upright, making a feeble gesture with his
hands, as though seeking to keep back the crushing weight of some
too overwhelming conviction,--"Yes--you would silence me!--but you
cannot!--I read your heart! You love God . . . and I--I love Him too!
You would serve Him!--and I--I would obey Him! Ah, do not struggle
with yourself, dear and noble friend! If you were thrice crowned a
martyr and saint you could not see otherwise than clearly--you could
not but accept Truth when Truth is manifested to you,--you could not
swear falsely before God! Would the Christ not say now as He said so
many centuries ago--'My House is called the house of prayer, but ye
have made it a den of thieves!' Is it not truly a den of thieves?
What has the Man of Sorrows to do with all the evil splendour of St.
Peter's?--its bronzes, its marbles, its colossal statues of dead
gods, its glittering altars, its miserable dreary immensity, its
flaring gilding and insolent vulgarity of cost! Oh, what a
loneliness is that of Christ in this world! What a second Agony in
Gethsemane!"

The sweet voice broke--the fair head was turned away,--and Cardinal
Felix, overcome by such emotion as he found it impossible to
explain, suddenly sank on his knees, and stretched out his arms to
the young slight creature who spoke with such a passion and
intensity of yearning.

"Child!" he said, with tremulous appeal in his accents, "For God's
sake'--you who express your thoughts with such eloquence and fervent
pain!--tell me, WHO ARE YOU? My mind is caught and controlled by
your words,--you are too young to think as you do, or to speak as
you do,--yet some authority you seem to possess, which I submit to,
not knowing why; I am very old, and maybe growing foolish in my age-
-many troubles are gathering about me in these latter days,--do not
make them more than I can bear!"

His words were to himself incoherent, and yet it seemed as if Manuel
understood them. Suffering himself to be clasped for a moment by the
old man's trembling hands, he nevertheless gently persuaded and
assisted him to rise, and when he was once more seated, stood
quietly by his side, waiting till he should have recovered from his
sudden agitation.

"Dear friend, you are weary and troubled in spirit," he said
tenderly then, "And my words seem to you only terrible because they
are true! If they grieve you, it is because the grief in your heart
echoes mine! And if I do think and speak more seriously than I
should, it is for the reason that I have been so much alone in the
world,--left to myself, with my own thoughts of God, which are not
thoughts such as many care for. I would not add to your sorrows,--I
would rather lighten them if I could--but I feel and fear that I
shall be a burden upon you before long!"