Books: The Master Christian

M >> Marie Corelli >> The Master Christian

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Angela's violet eyes glowed.

"He was not allowed to remain President," she said.

"No, he was not. He died. Certainly! And I know you think he would
not have died if he had done his best to clear the character of an
innocent man. To women of your type, it always seems as if God--the
Large Person up above--stepped in exactly at the right moment. It
would really appear as if it were so at times. But such things are
mere coincidences."

"I do not believe in coincidences," said Angela decisively, "I do
not believe in 'chance' or 'luck', or what you call 'fortuitous'
haphazard arrangements of any sort. I think everything is planned by
law from the beginning; even to the particular direction in which a
grain of dust floats through space. It is all mathematical and
exact. And the moving Spirit--the Divine Centre of things, whom I
call God,--cannot dislodge or alter one particle of the majestic
system without involving the whole in complete catastrophe. It is
our mistake to 'chance' things--at least, so I think. And if I
exclaim against you and say,--"Why do you remain in the Church?' it
is because I cannot understand a man of conscience and intellect
outwardly professing one thing while inwardly he means another.
Because God will take him in the end at his own interior valuation,
not at his outward seeming."

"Uncomfortable, if true," said the Abbe, still smiling. "When one
has been at infinite pains all one's life to present a charmingly
virtuous and noble aspect to the world, it would be indeed
distressing if at the last moment one were obliged to lift the
mask . . ."

"Sometimes one is not given the chance to lift it," interposed
Angela, "It is torn off ruthlessly by a force greater than one's
own. 'Call no man happy till his death,' you know."

"Yes, I know," and the Abbe settled himself in his chair more
comfortably;--he loved an argument with "the Sovrani", and was wont
to declare that she was the only woman in the world who had ever
made him wish to be a good man,--"But that maxim can be taken in two
ways. It may mean that no man is happy till his death,--which I most
potently believe,--or it may mean that a man is only JUDGED after
his death, in which case it cannot be said to affect his happiness,
as he is past caring whether people think ill or well of him.
Besides, after death it must needs be all right, as every man is so
particularly fortunate in his epitaph!"

Angela smiled a little.

"That is witty of you," she said, "but the fact of every man having
a kindly-worded epitaph only proves goodness of heart and feeling in
his relatives and friends--"

"Or gratitude for a fortune left to them in his will," declared the
Abbe gaily, "or a sense of relief that the dear creature has gone
and will never come back. Either motive, would, I know, inspire me
to write most pathetic verses! Now you bend your charming brows at
me,--mea culpa! I have said something outrageous?"

"Not from the point of view at which YOU take life," said Angela
quietly, "but I was just then thinking of a cousin of mine,--a very
beautiful woman; her husband treated her with every possible sort of
what I should term civil cruelty,--polite torture--refined agony. If
he had struck her or shot her dead it would have been far kinder.
But his conduct was worse than murder. He finally deserted her, and
left her penniless to fight her own way through the world. Then he
died suddenly, and she forgot all his faults, spoke of him as though
he had been a model of goodness, and lives now for his memory, ever
mourning his loss. In her case the feeling of regret had nothing to
do with money, for he spent all her fortune and left her nothing
even of her own. She has to work hard for her living now,--but she
loves him and is as true to him as if he were still alive. What do
you say to that?"

"I say that the lady in question must be a charming person!" replied
the Abbe, "Perfectly charming! But of course she is deceiving
herself; and she takes pleasure in the self-deception. She knows
that the man had deserted her and was quite unworthy of her
devotion;--but she pretends to herself that she does NOT know. And
it is charming, of course! But women will do that kind of thing. It
is extraordinary,--but they will. They all deceive themselves in
matters of love. Even you deceive yourself."

Angela started.

"I?" she exclaimed.

"Yes--you--why not?" And the Abbe treated her to one of his
particularly paternal smiles. "You are betrothed to Florian
Varillo,--but no man ever had or ever could have all the virtues
with which you endow this excellent Florian. He is a delightful
creature,--a good artist--unique in his own particular line,--but
you think him something much greater than even artist or man--a sort
of god, (though the gods themselves were not impeccable) only fit to
be idealised. Now, I am not a believer in the gods,--but of course
it is delightful to me to meet those who are."

"Signor Varillo needs neither praise nor defence," said Angela with
a slight touch of hauteur, "All the world knows what he is."

"Yes, precisely! That is just it,--all the world knows what he is,--
" and the Abbe rubbed his forehead with an air of irritation, "And I
am vexing you by my talk, I can see! Well, well!--You must forgive
my garrulity;--I admit my faults--I am old--I am a cynic--I talk too
much--I have a bad opinion of man, and an equally bad opinion of the
Forces that evolved him. By the way, I met that terrible reformer
and socialist Aubrey Leigh at the Embassy the other day--the man who
is making such a sensation in England with his 'Addresses to the
People.' He is quite an optimist, do you know? He believes in
everything and everybody,--even in me!"

Angela laughed, and her laughter sweet and low, thrilled the air
with a sense of music.

"That is wonderful!" she said gaily,--"Even in you! And how does he
manage to believe in you, Monsieur l'Abbe? Do tell me!"

A little frown wrinkled the Abbe's brow.

"Well! in a strange way," he responded. "You know he is a very
strange man and believes in very strange things. When I treat
humanity as a jest--which is really how it should be treated--he
looks at me with a grand air of tolerance, 'Oh, you will progress;'
he says, 'You are passing through a phase.' 'My dear sir,' I assure
him, 'I have lived in this "phase", as you call it, for forty years.
I used to pray to the angels and saints and to all the different
little Madonnas that live in different places, till I was twenty.
Then I dropped all the pretty heaven-toys at once;--and since then I
have believed in nothing--myself, least of all. Now I am sixty--and
yet you tell me I am only passing through a phase.' 'Quite so,' he
answered me with the utmost coolness, 'Your forty years--or your
sixty years, are a Moment merely;--the Moment will pass--and you
will find another Moment coming which will explain the one which has
just gone. Nothing is simpler.' And when I ask him which will be the
best Moment,--the one that goes, or the one that comes--he says that
I am making the coming Moment for myself--'which is so satisfactory'
he adds with that bright smile of his, 'because of course you will
make it pleasant!' 'Il faut que tout homme trouve pour lui meme une
possibilite particuliere de vie superieure dans l'humble et
inevitable realite quotidienne.' I do not find the 'possibilite
particuliere'--but this man assures me it is because I do not
trouble to look for it. What do you think about it?" Angela's eyes
were full of dreamy musing.

"I think Mr. Leigh's ideas are beautiful," she said, slowly, "I have
often heard him talk on the subject of religion--and of art, and of
work,--and all he says seems to be the expression of a noble and
sincere mind. He is extraordinarily gifted."

"Yes,--and he is becoming rather an alarming personage in England,
so I hear,--" returned the Abbe--"He writes books that are
distinctly dangerous, because true. He wants to upset shams like our
Socialist writer Gys Grandit. Gys Grandit, you know, will never be
satisfied till, like Rousseau, he has brought about another French
Revolution. He is only a peasant, they say, but he writes with the
pen of a prophet. And this Englishman is of the same calibre,--only
his work is directed against religious hypocrisies more than social
ones. I daresay that is why I always feel so uneasy in his
presence!" And Vergniaud laughed lightly. "For the rest, he is a
brilliant creature enough, and thoroughly manly. The other evening
at the Club that little Vicomte de Lorgne was chattering in his
usual offensive manner about women, and Leigh astonished everyone by
the way in which he pulled him up. There was almost a very pretty
quarrel,--but a stray man happened to mention casually,--that Leigh
was considered one of the finest shots in England. After that the
dear Vicomte vanished, and did not return."

Angela laughed.

"Poor de Lorgne! Yes--I have heard that Mr. Leigh excels in
everything that is distinctly English--riding, shooting, and all
that kind of thing. He is not effeminate."

"Few Englishmen are," said the Abbe,--"And yet to my mind there is
something not altogether English in this man. He has none of the
heavy British mental and physical stolidity. He is strong and
muscular certainly,--but also light and supple,--and with that keen,
intellectual delicate face of his, he is more of the antique Greek
type than like a son of Les Isles Sans-Soleil."

"Sans-Soleil," echoed Angela, "But there is plenty of sunshine in
England!"

"Is there? Well, I have been unfortunate,--I have never seen any,--"
and the Abbe gave a shrug of half regret, half indifference. "It is
very curious the effect that this so brave England has upon me! In
crossing to its shores I suffer of course from the mal de mer--then
when I arrive exhausted to the white cliffs, it is generally
raining--then I take train to London, where it is what is called
black fog; and I find all the persons that I meet either with a
cold, or going to have a cold, or just recovering from a cold! It is
not lively--the very funerals are dull. And you--this is not your
experience?"

"No--frankly I cannot say it is," replied Angela, "I have seen rain
and fog in Rome that cannot be surpassed for wretchedness anywhere.
Italy is far more miserable in cold weather than England. I passed a
summer once in England, and it was to me like a glimpse of Paradise.
I never saw so many flowers--I never heard so many birds--(you know
in Italy we kill all the singing birds and eat them), and I never
met so many kind and gentle people."

"Well!--perhaps the religious sects in England are responsible for
the general feeling of depression in the English atmosphere," said
the Abbe with a light laugh, "They are certainly foggy! The one
round Sun of one Creed is unknown to them. I assure you it is best
to have one light of faith, even though it be only a magic lantern,-
-a toy to amuse the children of this brief life before their
everlasting bedtime comes--" He broke off abruptly as a slow step
was heard approaching along the passage, and in another moment
Cardinal Bonpre entered the room.

"Ah, le bien aime Felix!" cried Vergniaud, hastening to meet him and
clasp his outstretched hand, bowing slightly over it as he did so,
"I have taken the liberty to wait for you, cher Monseigneur, being
anxious to see you--and I understand your stay in Paris will not be
long?"

"A few days at most, my dear Abbe",--replied the Cardinal, gently
pressing the hand of Vergniaud and smiling kindly. "You are well?
But surely I need not ask--you seem to be in the best of health and
spirits."

"Ah, my seeming is always excellent," returned the Abbe, "However, I
do not fare badly. I have thrown away all hard thinking!"

"And you are happier so?"

"Well, I am not quite sure! There is undoubtedly a pleasure in
analysing the perplexities of one's own mind. Still, on the whole,
it is perhaps better to enjoy the present hour without any thought
at all."

"Like the butterflies!" laughed Angela.

"Yes,--if butterflies DO enjoy their hour,--which I am not at all
prepared to admit. In my opinion they are very dissatisfied
creatures,--no sooner on one flower than off they go to another.
Very like human beings after all! But I imagine they never worry
themselves with philosophical or religious questions."

"And do you?" enquired Bonpre, smiling, as he sat down in the easy
chair his niece placed for him.

"Not as a rule!--" answered Vergniaud frankly, with a light laugh--
"But I confess I have done a little in that way lately. Some of the
new sciences puzzle me,--I am surprised to find how closely they
approach to the fulfilment of old prophecies. One is almost inclined
to believe that there must be a next world and a future life."

"I think such belief is now placed beyond mere inclination," said
the Cardinal--"There is surely no doubt of it."

Vergniaud gave him a quick side-glance of earnest scrutiny.

"With you, perhaps not--" he replied--"But with me,--well!--it is a
different matter. However, it is really no use worrying one's self
with the question of 'To be, or not to be.' It drove Hamlet mad,
just as the knotty point as to whether Hamlet himself was fat or
lean nearly killed our hysterical little boy, Catullus Mendes. It's
best to leave eternal subjects like God and Shakespeare alone."

He laughed again, but the Cardinal did not smile.

"I do not agree with you, Vergniaud," he said--"I fear it is because
we do not think sufficiently for ourselves on the One eternal
subject that so much mischief threatens us at the present time. To
take gifts and ignore the Giver is surely the blackest ingratitude,
yet that is what the greater part of humanity is guilty of in these
days. Never was there so much beholding and yet ignoring of the
Divine as now. Science is searching for God, and is getting closer
to Him every day;--the Church remains stationary and refuses to look
out beyond her own pale of thought and conventional discipline. I
know,--" and the Cardinal hesitated a moment, "I know I can speak
quite plainly to you, for you are what is called a freethinker--yet
I doubt whether you are really as free as you imagine!"

The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.

"I imagine nothing!" he declared airily, "Everything is imagined for
me nowadays,--and imagination itself is like a flying Geni which
overtakes and catches the hair of some elusive Reality and turns its
face round, full-shining on an amazed world!"

"A pretty simile!" said Angela Sovrani, smiling.

"Is it not? Almost worthy of Paul Verlaine who was too 'inspired' to
keep either his body or his soul clean. Why was I not a poet!
Helas!--Fact so much outweighs fancy that it is no longer any use
penning a sonnet to one's mistress's eyebrow. One needs to write
with thunderbolts in characters of lightning, to express the wonders
and discoveries of this age. When I find I can send a message from
here to London across space, without wires or any visible means of
communication,--and when I am told that probably one of these days I
shall be able at will to SEE the person to whom I send the message,
reflected in space while the message is being delivered,--I declare
myself so perfectly satisfied with the fairy prodigies revealed to
me, that I have really no time, and perhaps no inclination to think
of any other world than this one."

"You are wrong, then," said the Cardinal, "Very wrong, Vergniaud. To
me these discoveries of science, this apparent yielding of invisible
forces into human hands, are signs and portents of terror. You
remember the line 'the powers of heaven shall be shaken'? Those
powers are being shaken now! We cannot hold them back;--they are
here, with us;--but they mean much more than mere common utility to
our finite selves. They are the material declarations of what is
spiritual. They are the scientific proofs that Christ's words to
'THIS generation,' namely, this particular phase of creation,--are
true. 'Blessed are they which have not seen and yet believed,' He
said;--and many there are who have passed away from us in rapt faith
and hope, believing not seeing, and with whom we may rejoice in
spirit, knowing that all must be well with them. But now--now we are
come upon an age of doubt in the world--doubt which corrodes and
kills the divine spirit in man, and therefore we are being forced to
SEE that we may believe,--but the seeing is terrible!"

"Why?"

"Because in the very beholding of things we remain blind!" answered
the Cardinal, "Our intense selfishness obscures the true light of
every fresh advance. We accept new marvels of knowledge, as so much
practical use to us, and to the little planet we live on,--but we do
not see that they are merely reflections of the Truth from which
they emanate. The toy called the biograph, which reflects pictures
for us in a dazzling and moving continuity, so that we can see
scenes of human life in action, is merely a hint to us that every
scene of every life is reflected in a ceaseless moving panorama
SOMEWHERE in the Universe, for the beholding of SOMEONE,--yes!--
there must be Someone who so elects to look upon everything, or such
possibilities of reflected scenes would not be,--inasmuch as nothing
exists without a Cause for existence. The wireless telegraphy is a
stupendous warning of the truth that 'from God no secrets are hid',
and also of the prophecy of Christ 'there is nothing covered that
shall not be revealed'--and, 'whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness
shall be revealed in light.' The latter words are almost appalling
in their absolute accord with the latest triumphant discoveries of
science."

Abbe Vergniaud looked at the Cardinal, and slightly raised his
eyebrows in a kind of wondering protest.

"TRES-SAINT Felix!" he murmured, "Are you turning into a mystic? One
of those doubtful personages who are seeking to reconcile science
with the Church?--"

"Stop!" interposed the Cardinal, raising his hand with an eloquent
gesture, "Science is, or should be, the Church!--science is Truth,
and Truth is God! God cannot be found anywhere in a lie; and the
Church in many ways would make our Divine Redeemer Himself a lie
were it not that His words are every day taking fresh meaning, and
bringing new and solemn conviction to those who have eyes to see and
ears to hear!"

He spoke as if carried beyond himself,--his pale cheeks glowed,--his
eyes flashed fire,--and the combined effect of his words and manner
was startling to the Abbe, and in a way stupefying to his niece
Angela. She had never heard him give utterance to such strong
sentiments and she shrank a little within herself, wondering whether
as a Cardinal of the Roman Church he had not been too free of
speech. She glanced apprehensively at Vergniaud, who however only
smiled a little.

"If you should be disposed to express yourself in such terms at the
Vatican,--" he began.

The Cardinal relapsed into his usual calm, and met the Abbe's
questioning, half cynical glance composedly. "I have many things to
speak of at the Vatican," he answered,--"This matter will probably
be one of them."

"Then--" But whatever Vergniaud was about to say was interrupted by
the entrance of the boy Manuel, who at that moment came into the
room and stood beside the Cardinal's chair. The Abbe gave him an
upward glance of surprise and admiration.

"Whom have we here?" he exclaimed, "One of your acolytes,
Monseigneur?"

"No," replied the Cardinal, his eyes resting on the fair face of the
lad with a wistful affection, "A little stray disciple of our Lord,-
-to whom I have ventured to offer protection. There is none to
question my right to do so, for he is quite alone in the world."

And in a few words he related how he had discovered the boy on the
previous night, weeping outside the Cathedral in Rouen. Angela
Sovrani listened attentively, her violet eyes darkening and
deepening as she heard,--now and then she raised them to look at the
youthful waif who stood so quietly while the story of his troubles
was told in the gentle and sympathetic way which was the Cardinal's
usual manner of speech, and which endeared him so much to all. "And
for the present," finished Bonpre, smiling--"he stays with me, and
already I have found him skilled in the knowledge of many things,--
he can read Scripture with a most musical and clear emphasis,--and
he is a quick scribe, so that he will be valuable to me in more ways
than one."

"Ah!" and the Abbe turned himself round in his chair to survey the
boy more attentively, "You can read Scripture? But can you
understand it? If you can, you are wiser than I am!"

Manuel regarded him straightly.

"Was it not once said in Judaea that "IT IS THE SPIRIT THAT
QUICKENETH'?" he asked.

"True!--And from that you would infer . . . ?"

"That when one cannot understand Scripture, it is perhaps for the
reason that 'THE LETTER KILLETH, BECAUSE LACKING THE SPIRIT THAT
GIVETH LIFE."

The boy spoke gently and with grace and modesty,--but something in
the tone of his voice had a strange effect on the cynical
temperament of Abbe Vergniaud.

"Here," he mused, "is a lad in whom the principle of faith is strong
and pure,--shall I drop the poison of doubt into the open flower of
his mind, or leave it uncontaminated?" Aloud he said, kindly,

"You speak well,--you have evidently thought for yourself. Who
taught you to recognise 'the Spirit that giveth life'?"

Manuel smiled.

"Does that need teaching?" he asked.

Radiance shone in his eyes,--the look of purity and candour on his
young face was infinitely touching to the two men who beheld it,--
the one worn with age and physical languors, the other equally worn
in mind, if not in body. In the brief silence which followed,--a
silence of unexpressed feeling,--a soft strain of organ-music came
floating deliciously towards them,--a delicate thread of grave
melody which wove itself in and out the airspaces, murmuring
suggestions of tenderness and appeal. Angela smiled, and held up one
finger, listening.

"That is Mr. Leigh!" she said, "He is in my studio improvising."

"Happy Mr. Leigh!" said the Abbe with a little malicious twinkle in
his eyes, "To be allowed to improvise at all in the studio of the
Sovrani!"

Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.

"Mr. Leigh is a friend," she said, "He is welcome in the studio
always. His criticism of a picture is valuable,--besides--he is a
celebrated Englishman!" She laughed, and her eyes flashed.

"Ah! To a celebrated Englishman all things are conceded!" said the
Abbe satirically, "Even the right to enter the sanctum of the most
exclusive lady in Europe! Is it not a curious thing that the good
Britannia appears to stick her helmet on the head, and put her
sceptre in the hand of every one of her sons who condescends to soil
his boots by walking on foreign soil? With the helmet he defies the
gemdarme,--with the sceptre he breaks open every door,--we prostrate
ourselves before his face and curse him behind his back,--c'est
drole!--yet we are all alike, French, Germans, Austrians, and
Italians;--we hate the Englishman, but we black his boots all the
same,--which is contemptible of us,--MAIS, QUE FAIRE! He is so
overwhelming in sheer impudence! With culture and politeness we
might cross swords in courtly duel,--but in the presence of absolute
bluff, or what is called 'cheek', we fall flat in sheer dismay! What
delicious music! I see that it charms our young friend,--he is fond
of music."

"Yes," said Manuel speaking for himself before any question could be
put to him, "I love it! It is like the fresh air,--full of breath
and life."

"Come then with me," said Angela, "Come into the studio and we will
hear it more closely. Dearest uncle," and she knelt for a moment by
the Cardinal's chair, "Will you come there also when Monsieur l'Abbe
has finished talking with you?"

Cardinal Bonpre's hand rested lovingly on her soft hair.

"Yes, my child, I will come." And in a lower tone he added,--"Do not
speak much to Manuel,--he is a strange lad; more fond of silence and
prayer than other things,--and if such is his temperament I would
rather keep him so."

Angela bowed her head in acquiescence to this bidding,--then rising,
left the room with a gentle gesture of invitation to the boy, who at
once followed her. As the two disappeared a chill and a darkness
seemed to fall upon the air, and the Cardinal sank back among the
cushions of his fauteuil with a deep sigh of utter exhaustion. Abbe
Vergniaud glanced at him inquisitively.

"You are very tired, I fear?" he said.

"Physically, no,--mentally, yes. Spiritually, I am certainly
fatigued to the death."

The Abbe shrugged his shoulders.

"Helas! There is truly much in spiritual matters to engender
weariness!" he said.

With a sudden access of energy the Cardinal gripped both arms of his
chair and sat upright.

"For God's sake, do not jest," he said earnestly, "Do not jest! We
have all been jesting too long, and the time is near when we shall
find out the bitter cost of it! Levity--carelessness--doubt and
final heresy--I do not mean heresy against the Church, for that is
nothing--"