CHAPTER XI

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Durtal had begged his housekeeper, Madame Mesurat, to serve his coffee in his study. He thus hoped to escape having her constantly standing in front of him, as she did all through his meal, asking him if his mutton-cutlet were good.

And though that meat had a taste of flannel, Durtal had nodded a sketchy affirmative, knowing full well that if he ventured on the least comment he would have to endure an incoherent harangue on all the butchers in the town.

As soon as this woman, at once servile, despotic, and obsequious, had placed his cup on the table, he buried his nose in a book, and by his repellent attitude compelled her to fly.

He knew the book he was turning over almost by heart, for he had often read it between the hours of service at the cathedral. It was so entirely sympathetic to him, with its artless faith and ingenuous enthusiasm, that it was to him like the familiar speech of the Church itself.

The little volume contained the prayers composed in the fourteenth century by Gaston Phoebus, Comte de Foix. Durtal had it in two editions, one printed in the original form of his authentic words and antiquated spelling, by the Abbé de Madaune; the other modernized, but with great skill and taste, by Monsieur de la Brière.

Durtal, as he turned the pages, came on such lamentable and humble prayers as these: "Thou who hast shapened me in my mother's womb, let me not perish.... Lord, I confess my poverty.... My conscience gnaws me and shows me the secrets of my heart. Avarice constrains me, concupiscence befouls me, gluttony disgraces me, anger torments me, inconstancy crushes me, indolence oppresses me, hypocrisy beguiles me.... and these, Lord, are the companions with whom I have spent my youth, these are the friends I have known, these are the masters I have served." And further on he exclaims, "Sin have I heaped upon sin, and the sins which I could not commit in very deed yet have I committed by evil desire."

Durtal closed the volume, regretting that it should be so entirely unknown to Catholics. They were all busy chewing the cud of the old hay left at the heading or end of the "Christian's Day" or "The Eucologia," or meditating on the pompous prayers elaborated in the ponderous phraseology of the seventeenth century, in which there is no accent of sincerity to be found--nothing, not an appeal that comes from the heart, not even a pious cry!

How far were these rhapsodies all cast in the same mould from this penitent and simple language, from this easy and candid communion of the soul with God?

Then Durtal dipped again here and there, and read:--

"My God and my Mercy, I am ashamed to pray to Thee for very shame of my evil conscience; give a fountain of tears to my eyes, and my hands largess of alms and charity; give me a seemly faith, and hope, and abiding charity. Lord, Thou holdest no man in horror save the fool that denies Thee. Oh, my God, the Giver of My Redemption and Receiver of my soul, I have sinned and Thou hast suffered me!"

Then, turning over a few more pages, he came at the end of the volume to a few passages collected by Monsieur de la Brière, among them these reflections on the Eucharist culled from a manuscript of the fifteenth century:--

"Not every man can assimilate this meat; some there be who eat it not, but swallow it down in haste. It should be chewed as much as possible with the teeth of the understanding, to the end that the sweet of its savour be pressed out of it, and may come forth from it. Ye have heard it said that in nature, that which is most crushed is most nourishing; now the crushing of the teeth is our deep and keen meditation on the Sacrament itself."

Then, after having elucidated the individual use of each tooth, the author adds, in speaking of the fifteenth, "the Sacrament on the altar is not merely as meat to fill and refill us; but, which is more, to make us divine."

"Lord!" murmured Durtal, laying down the book. "O Lord! If we allowed ourselves nowadays to use such materialistic comparisons and make use of such homely terms in speaking of Thy supremely adorable Body, what a clamour would arise from the 'respectable' among the worshippers and the blessed legion of the good women who have comfortable praying-chairs and reserved places near the altar--like front seats in a theatre--in the House where all are equal."

And Durtal pondered over these reflections which assailed him every time he happened to take up a clerical journal or one of the Manuals introduced by some prelate's note of approval, like a clean bill of health.

He could never get over his amazement at the incredible ignorance, the instinctive aversion for art, the type of ideas, the terror of words, peculiar to Catholics. Why was this? For after all there was no reason why believers should be more ignorant and stupid than any other folks. Indeed, the contrary ought to be the truth.

Whence did this inferiority proceed? And Durtal could answer himself. It was due to the system of education, to the training in intellectual timidity, to the lessons in fear, given in a cellar, far from a vital atmosphere and the light of day. It really seemed as if there were some intention of emasculating souls by nourishing them on dried-up fragments, literary white-meat; some set purpose of destroying all independence and initiative in the disciples by levelling them, crushing them all under the same roller, and restricting the sphere of thought by maintaining a deliberate ignorance of art and literature.

And all merely to avert the temptation of forbidden fruit, of which the idea was suggested under the pretext of inspiring dread of it. By this method curiosity with regard to the veiled unknown tormented their young brains and excited their senses, for it was always in the background, and in a form all the more dangerous because it had the effect of a more or less transparent gauze. The imagination could not fail to exasperate itself by cogitating its desire to know and its fear of knowing, and it was ready to fly off at the least word.

Under these circumstances the most anodyne book was a source of danger from the simple fact that love was alluded to, and woman depicted as an attractive creature; and this was enough to account for all--for the inherent ignorance of Catholics, since it was proclaimed as the preventive cure for temptations--for the instinctive horror of art, since to these craven souls every written and studied work was in its nature a vehicle of sin and an incitement to fall.

Would it not really be far more sensible and judicious to open the windows, to air the rooms, to treat these souls as manly beings, to teach them not to be so much afraid of their own flesh, to inculcate the firmness and courage needed for resistance? For really it is rather like a dog which barks at your heels and snaps at your legs if you are afraid of him, but who beats a retreat if you turn on him boldly and drive him off.

The fact remains that these schemes of education have resulted, on the one hand, in the triumph of the flesh in the greater number of men who have been thus brought up and then thrown into a worldly life, and on the other, in a wide diffusion of folly and fear, an abandonment of the possessions of the intellect and the capitulation of the Catholic army surrendering without a blow to the inroads of profane literature, which takes possession of territory that it has not even had the trouble of conquering.

This really was madness! The Church had created art, had cherished it for centuries; and now by the effeteness of her sons she was cast into a corner. All the great movements of our day, one after the other--romanticism, naturalism--had been effected independently of her, or even against her will.

If a book were not restricted to the simplest tales, or pleasing fiction ending in virtue rewarded and vice punished, that was enough; the propriety of beadledom was at once ready to bray.

As soon as the most modern form of art, the most malleable and the broadest--the Novel--touched on scenes of real life, depicted passion, became a psychological study, an effort of analysis, the army of bigots fell back all along the line. The Catholic force, which might have been thought better prepared than any others to contest the ground which theology had long since explored, retired in good order, satisfied to cover its retreat by firing from a safe distance, with its old-fashioned match-lock blunderbusses, on works it had neither inspired nor written.

The Church party, centuries behind the time, and having made no attempt to follow the evolution of style in the course of ages, now turned to the rustic who can scarcely read; it did not understand more than half of the words used by modern writers, and had become, it must be said, a camp of the illiterate. Incapable of distinguishing the good from the bad, it included in one condemnation the filth of pornography and real works of art; in short, it ended by emitting such folly and talking such preposterous nonsense, that it fell into utter discredit and ceased to count at all.

And it would have been so easy for it to work on a little way, to try to keep up with the times, and to understand, to convince itself whether in any given work the author was writing up the Flesh, glorifying it, praising it, and nothing more, or whether, on the contrary, he depicted it merely to buffet it--hating it. And, again, it would have done well to convince itself that there is a chaste as well as a prurient nude, and that it should not cry shame on every picture in which the nude is shown. Above all, it ought to have recognized that vices may well be depicted and studied with a view to exciting disgust of them and showing their horrors.

For, after all, this was the great theory of the Middle Ages, the theological method in sculpture, the literary dogma of the monks of that time; and this is the meaning and purpose of certain groups which even now shock the propriety of our methodistical purists. These unseemly subjects and images of indecency are very numerous at Saint Benoît on the Loire, in the cathedral of Reims, at le Mans, in the crypt at Bourges, everywhere in our churches; for in those where they do not occur, it is because the prudery which was most rife in the most immoral times, broke them by stoning them in the name of a morality very unlike that which was inculcated by the mediæval saints.

These subjects have for many years been the delight of Freethinkers and the despair of Catholics; those see in them a scathing satire on the manners of the monks and bishops, these lament that such turpitude should ever have fouled the walls of the Temple. And yet it would have been so easy to explain the purpose of these scenes; far from seeking to apologize for the tolerance of the Church that allowed them, her honesty and breadth should have been held up to admiration. By acting thus, the Church manifested her determination to inure her sons by showing them the ridiculous side of the temptations which assail them. It was, so to speak, an object lesson or demonstration, and at the same time a bidding to self-examination before venturing into the sanctuary which was thus prefaced by a catalogue of sins as a reminder to confession.

This was part of her plan of education, for she aimed at moulding manly souls and not crippled creatures such as are turned out by the spiritual orthopedists of our day; she dragged out vice and lashed it wherever it lurked, and did not hesitate to preach the equality of men before God, insisting that bishops and monks should, when guilty, be placed in the pillory of its doorways; nay, she gibbeted them more willingly than others, to set an example.

These scenes were practically a comment of the Sixth (Seventh) Commandment, a sculptured paraphrase of the Catechism; the Church's accusation and teaching plainly expressed so as to be understood of all men.

And Our Mother did not restrict herself to one mode only of expressing Her warnings and reproofs; to reiterate them she borrowed the language of other arts. Literature and the pulpit were inevitably the interpreters that she employed to vituperate the sins of the people.

And they were not a whit more prudish or less audacious than sculpture. We have only to open the books of the Church to convince ourselves of the violent language in which she was wont to lash the sins of the flesh. Beginning with the Scriptures, the Bible itself--which no one dares read now but in mawkish French versions--what priest, for instance, would venture to recommend to the nerveless spirit of his flock the study of the sixteenth chapter of Ezekiel or of the Song of Songs, that Epithalamium of Jesus and the Soul--down to the Fathers and the Doctors?

How our modern Pharisees would reprove the uncompromising language of Saint Gregory the Great when he exclaims, "Speak the truth! A scandal is better than a lie;" or Saint Epiphanius' plain speaking in discussing the Gnostics and describing in detail the abominations of that sect, quietly adding in the face of the congregation, "Why should I shrink from speaking of the things you do not fear to do? By speaking thus, I hope to fill you with horror of the turpitude you commit."

Or what would they think of Saint Bernard expatiating in his third meditation on horrible physiological details to demonstrate the baseness of our carnal ambition and the foulness of our pleasures? Or of Saint Hildegarde, who placidly discusses the various factors of such pleasures, Saint Vincent Ferrier freely dealing in his sermons with the sins of Onan and of Sodom, using the simplest language, and comparing confession to a purgative, and asserting that the priest, like a doctor, should examine the excreta of the soul and prescribe for it?

What reprobation would be poured on the splendid passage by Odo of Cluny quoted by Rémy de Gourmont in his "Latin Mystique," the passage where that terrible monk analyzes the attractions of woman, turns them over, eviscerates them, and flings them aside like a drawn rabbit on a butcher's stall; and again on Clement of Alexandria, who sums the whole matter up in two sentences:--

"I am not ashamed to name the parts of the body wherein the foetus is formed and nourished; and why indeed should I be, since God was not ashamed to create them?"

None of the great writers of the Church were prudish. This mock-modesty which has so long stultified us dates actually from the ages of impiety, the period of paganism, the return on threadbare classicism which was known as the Renaissance; and see how it has developed since! Its hot-bed and nursery ground lay in the lewd and gorgeous years of the so-called _Grand-siècle_; the virus of Jansenism, the old Protestant taint mingled with the blood of Catholics, and pollutes it still.

"It is very true! And pretty results have come of this infection of decency!" Durtal burst out laughing as he thought of the cathedral at Chartres.

"Here," said he to himself, "we reach the climax; pious imbecility can go no further. Among the subjects in sculpture in the ambulatory of the choir there is a group representing the Circumcision, Saint Joseph holding the Infant while the Virgin has a napkin ready and the High Priest is preparing to operate. And there has been a priest so modest, a divine so decorous as to regard this scene as licentious and to paste a piece of paper over the Child's nakedness!

"The indecency of God, the obscenity of a new-born Babe is too much!

"Bah!" said he. "The time has slipped away in all this meditation, and the Abbé will be waiting."

He ran quickly downstairs and hurried across to the cathedral, where the Abbé Plomb was pacing to and fro in front of the northern porch, reciting his Breviary.

"The side where sinners and demons are figured is especially that of the Virgin, who saves those and crushes these," said the Abbé. "The northern porch of a church is usually the most lively of all; here, however, the Satanic incidents are on the southern side, because they form part of the Last Judgment represented over the south door. Otherwise Chartres, unlike her sister cathedrals, would have no scenes of that kind."

"Then the rule in the thirteenth century was to place the Virgin in the northern portion?"

"Yes. To the men of that time the north meant the gloom of winter, the dejection of darkness, the misery of cold; the ice-bound chant of the winds was to them the very blast of evil; to the north was the home of the devil, the hell of nature, as the south was its Eden."

"But that is absurd!" cried Durtal, "the greatest blunder ever introduced into the symbolism of the elements. The medieval sages were mistaken, for snow is pure and cold is chastity. It is the sun, on the contrary, that is the active agent in developing the germs of rottenness, the ferment of vice!

"They forget that the third Psalm of Compline speaks of the hot hour of noon as the most harassing and dangerous of all; they must have overlooked the horrors of sweat and unwholesome heat, the risks of relaxed nerves, of loosened dresses, all the abominations of leaden clouds and hard blue skies!

"There are diabolical effluvia in the storm, and in weather when the air stirs like the vapours from a furnace, rousing evil instincts and bringing about us the raging swarm of evil angels."

"But remember the passages in which Isaiah and Jeremiah speak of Lucifer as dwelling in the blast of the north wind; and recollect that the great cathedrals did not originate in the south but in the middle and north of France; consequently, after having adopted this symbolism of seasons and weather, the pious architects dreamed of the horror of men buried in snow, and longing for a gleam of sunshine and a bright day. Naturally they thought of the east as the region of the original Paradise, and of those lands as milder and less inclement than their own."

"That does not hinder the fact that this theory was controverted by Our Lord Himself."

"Where do you find that?" asked the Abbé Plomb.

"On Calvary; Jesus died" turning His back to the south, which had crucified Him, and extending His arms on the Cross to bless and embrace the north. He seemed to be withdrawing His favours from the east, 'to bestow them on the west. Hence, if any region is accurst and inhabited by Satan, it is the south and not the north."

"You abominate the south and its races, that is evident," said the Abbé, laughing.

"I do not love them. Their scenery, vulgarized by crude daylight, their dusty trees standing out against a sky of washerwoman's blue, have no charm for me; as to the natives, hairy and noisy, with a blue bar under their nostrils if they shave, I flee from them!"

"Here, in short, we are face to face with a fact which no discussions can alter. This side of the church is dedicated to the Virgin. Shall we now examine it, first as a whole, and then in detail?

"This portal, brought forward like an open porch, a sort of verandah in front of the doors, is an allegory of the Saviour showing the way into the heavenly Jerusalem. It was begun in the year 1215 under Philip Augustus, and finished by about 1275, under Philip the Bold; thus it was nearly sixty years in building, the greater part of the thirteenth century. It is divided into three parts, corresponding to the three doors behind it; there are more than seven hundred statues grouped here, large and small, representing, for the most part, personages from the Old Testament.

"It forms, in fact, three deep bays or gulfs.

"The central portal, before which we are standing, and which leads to the middle door, has for its subject the Glorification of the Virgin.

"The left-hand bay contains the life and virtues of the Virgin.

"The right-hand bay is devoted to images of Mary Herself.

"According to another interpretation, put forward by Canon Davin, this porch, which was built at the time when Saint Dominic instituted the Rosary, is a reproduction in images of its mysteries."

"On that theory, the left-hand arch, containing the scenes of the Annunciation, the Visitation, and the Nativity, answers to the Joyful Mysteries; the central bay, containing the Assumption and Coronation of the Virgin, to the Glorious Mysteries; and that to the right, where we find a presentment of Job, precursor of the Crucifixion under the ancient law, to the Sorrowful Mysteries."

"There is a third interpretation," said Durtal, "but it is ridiculous. That of Didron, who regards this front as the first page of the Book of Chartres. He opens it at this porch, and asserts that the sculptors began to render the Encyclopedia of Vincent de Beauvais by representing the creation of the world. But if so, where are those wonderful representations of Genesis hidden?"

"There," said the Abbé, pointing to a row of statuettes lost in a hollow moulding at the very edge of the porch.

"But to ascribe so much importance to tiny figures which, after all, are there merely to fill up, as stop-gaps--it is preposterous!" cried Durtal.

"No doubt. But now let us examine the work.

"You will observe in the first place that, in opposition to the ritual observed in most of the great churches of the time--those of Amiens, Reims, and Paris, to name but three--it is not the Virgin who stands on the pillar between the two halves of the door, but Her Mother, Saint Anne; and inside, in the windows, we find the same thing: Saint Anne, as a negress, her head bound in a blue kerchief, holds Mary in her arms, as brown as a half-caste."

"Why is this?"

"No doubt because the Emperor Beaudouin, after the sack of Constantinople, bestowed that Saint's head on this cathedral.

"The ten colossal statues placed on each side of Her in the niches of the porch are familiar to you, for they attend Our Lady in every sanctuary of the thirteenth century--in Paris, at Amiens, at Rouen, Reims, Bourges, and Sens. The five to the left are a series figurative of the Son; the five on the right symbolize Our Lord Himself. They stand in chronological order: the prototypes of the Messiah, or the Prophets who foretold His birth, death, resurrection, and everlasting priesthood.

"To the left, Melchizedec, Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and David; to the right, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Simeon, Saint John the Baptist, and Saint Peter."

"But why," remarked Durtal, "is the son of Jonas in the midst of the Old Testament? His place is not there, but in the Gospels."

"Yes, but you will observe that Saint Peter here stands next to Saint John the Baptist; the two statues are side by side and touch each other. Then do you not perceive the meaning of this juxtaposition? One was the Precursor and the other the Successor of Christ; the first anticipated Him, the second carried out His mission. It was quite natural to place them together, and that the Chief of the Apostles should figure as the conclusion to the premisses set forth by the other statues of this portal.

"Finally, in addition to this series of patriarchs and prophets, you may see there, in the hollow between the pilasters, a pair of statues, one on each side of the door: Elijah the Tishbite, and Elisha his disciple.

"The first prefigures the Saviour's Ascension by his being carried up alive to Heaven in a chariot of fire; the second typifies Jesus saving and preserving mankind in the person of the Shunammite's son.

"Argument is vain," murmured Durtal, who was meditative. "The Messianic prophecies are irresistible. All the logic of the Rabbins, the Protestants, the Freethinkers, all the ingenuity of the Germans, have failed to find a crack or to undermine the old rock of the Church. There is such a body of evidence, such certainty, such demonstration of the truth, such an indestructible foundation, that a man must be stricken with spiritual blindness to dare deny it."

"Yes: and to the end that there should be no mistake, no possibility of alleging that the inspired Scriptures were written subsequent to the arrival of the Messiah they prophesy, to prove that they were neither invented nor added to after the event, it was God's pleasure that they should be translated into Greek in the Septuagint version and known to the whole world more than two hundred and fifty years before the birth of Christ."

"To imagine the impossible--supposing the Gospels were to be annihilated, they could, I suppose, be restored, and a brief history written of the Saviour's life as they relate it merely by studying the Messianic announcements in the books of the Prophets?"

"No doubt; for, after all, and it cannot be too often repeated, the Old Testament is the story before the event of the Son of Man and the founding of His Church; as Saint Augustine bears witness, 'the whole history of the Jewish people was a perpetual prophecy of the expected King.'

"You will see, apart from personages prefiguring the Redeemer which you may find in every page of the Bible: Isaac, Joseph, Moses, David, Jonah, to name five taken at random; apart, too, from the animals and objects that symbolized Him under the Old Laws, as, for instance, the Paschal Lamb, the Manna, the Brazen Serpent, and others, we can, if you please, simply by quoting the Prophets, trace the broad outlines of Emmanuel's life and epitomize the Gospels in a few words. Listen!"

The Abbé paused for thought, his hand over his eyes.

"That he should be born of a Virgin is foretold by Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel--that this Advent should be preceded by a special messenger, Saint John, is noted by Malachi, whom Isaiah confirms, adding for greater certainty that he should be as 'the voice of one crying in the Wilderness.'

"The place of His birth, Bethlehem, is mentioned by Micah; the adoration of the Magi, offering gold, myrrh and frankincense, is announced by Isaiah and the Psalm ascribed to Solomon.

"His youth and His calling are clearly suggested by Ezekiel, who speaks of Him as seeking the lost sheep, and by Isaiah, who tells beforehand of the miracles He would perform on the blind and the deaf and dumb, and who finally declares that He will be 'a stone of stumbling' to the Jews.

"But it is when they speak of His Passion and Death that the prophecies become mathematically exact, incredibly precise. The offering of palm branches, the betrayal by Judas, and the price of thirty pieces of silver appear in Zechariah; and Isaiah takes up the parable to describe the rejection and opprobrium of Calvary: 'He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.... The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.... He was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.... He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb.'

"David expatiates on the dreadful scene: 'He was a worm and no man, a very scorn of men and the outcast of the people.'

"Details are multiplied. The wounds in His hands are spoken of by Zechariah; David enumerates the circumstances of the Passion, word for word: the pierced hands, the division of His raiment, casting lots for the robe. The hooting of the Jews, bidding Him to save Himself if He be the Son of God, is mentioned in