III.
RUSSIAN VICTIMS.
The following morning, Rasumowski sat with his guests at a sumptuous breakfast in his elegant summer-house, the roof of which rested upon beautifully ornamented pillars. Adolph von Sempach appeared very sad; for he had again received evidences of Alexandra’s indomitable pride and want of feeling. Beck remarked the disposition of his friend, and he thought with satisfaction of the deeply afflicted mother in her lonely palace at Posen.
“Some years ago, the emperor emancipated the serfs—did he act prudently?” asked the high official of Berlin.
“Whatever the czar does, is well done,” answered the governor; “and if the future czar again introduces the former system of servitude, that also will be right. But you must not understand the abolition of servitude in a literal sense. The serfs; were freed only from servitude to the nobility; the Russian nobility have lost by it. But both peasant and noble will always remain slaves of the emperor. Consequently servitude still exists in Russia, the same kind that you desire to establish in the new German Empire. Ah! there comes the Roman Catholic pastor!” exclaimed the governor, his features assuming at once their accustomed look of ferocity. “Now, gentlemen, see how I shall deal with this hero of liberty, who preaches rebellion to the people!”
The pastor timidly approached the Russian dignitary, and allowed himself to be treated in a manner unworthy of his priestly dignity.
But the priest had seen many thousands of his Catholic brethren put to death and transported to Siberia. He knew that, by a stroke of the pen, Rasumowski could doom him to the same fate; and to this must also be added the fact that in Poland Catholic clergyman are educated by professors appointed by the Russian government. These professors very naturally train and discipline the seminarians according to the commands of a government hostile to the Roman Catholic religion. Solid theological learning and a proper appreciation of the dignity of the priesthood are not sufficiently esteemed, for which reason we must make allowances for the cringing deportment of the village pastor.
After having made a low reverence before the governor, the latter rudely accosted him by saying, “Have you your sermon with you?”
“It is at your service, your honor,” replied the priest, taking with trembling hands from his pocket a written sheet of paper, which he handed to the governor.
Rasumowski began to read, while now and then a sign of contempt or a shade of anger would spread itself over his face.
“By the heavens above me! pastor, this is incredible; in your sermon there is not one word said about his most high majesty the emperor! What is the meaning of this? Do you wish to go to Siberia?”
The priest shook like an aspen-leaf.
“Pardon me, your honor, pardon me!” stammered the priest. “I preached, as your honor may condescend to see, not about the most high emperor, but concerning Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world, who has redeemed men through his death upon the cross, and has freed them from the servitude of Satan.”
“Bah!—Saviour of the world—nonsense!” interrupted the governor. “You must always preach about the most high the emperor. Your remarks about the Saviour of the world are altogether superfluous. And then,” he continued, with a threatening frown, “in your sermon you repeatedly use words not approved of by the government; that is, freedom and servitude. You must never again use such expressions, for, if you do—remember Siberia!”
“Pardon, your honor! My intention was to show the people that we must obey God from motives of gratitude.”
“That, again, is nonsense!” exclaimed the governor. “If God wishes the people to obey him, let him march his soldiers against the disobedient. Our first duty is to the emperor; this you must preach to your parishioners!”
He rang the bell, which was immediately answered by a Cossack.
“Bring me a sheet of official paper, and the pen and ink!” said Rasumowski to the servant. “Now, listen, pastor, to what I say! If you again preach upon liberty or servitude, you will be sent to Siberia; for in the holy Russian Empire there is neither freedom nor servitude; and, in order that you may become a practical preacher, you must preach for a whole year on nothing else but on the kindness, mildness, glory, wisdom, power, and benevolence of the emperor, but, above all, on the strict obligation of unconditional obedience due to him. Will you do this?”
“At your honor’s command,” replied the intimidated priest.
Rasumowski wrote upon a sheet of paper which bore the printed superscription: “Police Notice.” He then read aloud what he had written: “In this church the only topic to be preached upon for a whole year is on the high qualities of the emperor, and on the obligations of his subjects to him.”
He then folded the paper, and gave it to the priest.
“That your congregation may be informed of my command,” said he, “you must nail this police notice upon the church door. Now go!”
Before the priest had left the garden, the Berlin official burst into a loud laugh.
“Oh! this is sublime!” he exclaimed. “I must confess that you have these priests under splendid subjection. The Russian method is admirable, and must be introduced into the new German Empire.”
“My opinion,” said the professor, in a tone of indescribable sarcasm, “is that this Russian method is even excelled by the Prussian. The governor has not forbidden the pastor to preach, he has simply given him matter for his sermons; but upon the doors of several churches in certain cities of Prussia police notices are placed, which forbid preaching altogether; and not only preaching, but even the hearing of confessions and the celebration of Mass. I think, therefore, that we have surpassed the Russians.”
“That is so,” replied Herr Schulze; “but the order of which you speak is unfortunately directed only against the Jesuits.”
“It is all the same,” answered Beck. “Catholic preaching, the holy Mass, and confession were forbidden. The war of destruction is not made solely against the Jesuits, but against the church.”
“You are correct, professor!” answered Schulze. “Do you know Dr. Friedberg, of Leipzig?”
“Not personally,” replied Beck; “but I am familiar with some of his writings.”
“Well,” continued Schulze, “Dr. Friedberg is Bismarck’s most faithful adviser and assistant in the combat against the ultramontanes, who are so hostile to the empire. Friedberg has lately published a work in which he expressly says that war is to be made not on the Jesuits alone, but on the whole Catholic Church, and that this war must be energetically carried out.”
“Without reference to Dr. Friedberg’s pamphlet,” said Beck, “it is clearly evident to every man of judgment, that the destruction of the Catholic Church is the one thing aimed at. It is really amusing to see how opinions change. Some years ago, the liberal press spoke of the Catholic religion with the greatest disrespect and contempt. The Pope was a feeble old man, and Catholicity tottering to its fall; it was, in fact, not only lifeless, but even unfit to live. To-day, however, this same liberal press proclaims the very reverse. The Pope is now so dangerous that Bismarck is already using every effort to secure at the next election of a pope a man who has what is popularly called extended views, and who will make very little use of the extraordinary powers of his office. It has become evident to the liberals that Catholicity is by no means a worn-out, dead thing, but that it is to be feared and is strong enough even to overthrow the new German Empire.”
“You make the newspapers of too much consequence,” replied Schulze. “Our journalists write under great restrictions, of course; but they are well paid for their work, and cost us a great deal of money. Bismarck’s organ, The North-German General Gazette, alone costs the empire every year over twenty thousand dollars. Bismarck, nevertheless, has a very low opinion of newspaper-writers; he calls them, as is well known, his swine-herds. You cannot, however, deny the fact, professor, that the Catholic Church is hostile to the empire.”
“If you ask me as an historian, Herr Schulze, I must contradict some of your assertions,” said Beck. “The Catholic Church is a spiritual power, but is not hostile to the empire, as far as the new empire aspires after the liberal development of noble ideas. Culture, freedom, civilization, true humanity, are children of the Catholic Church. As you know, Herder, our great writer, has said: ‘Without the Catholic Church, Europe would have become in all probability the prey of despots, the theatre of perpetual discord and strife, or else a vast desert.’ If, however, the new German Empire intends to introduce a Russian form of government, and with it servitude and the knout, then, of course, the Catholic Church will fearlessly manifest her displeasure.”
The governor and Herr Schulze opened their eyes, and gazed with astonishment and suspicion upon the daring speaker.
“Do not forget,” remarked Von Sempach, “that my friend speaks only from a historical standpoint.”
“On the whole you are right, Herr Beck!” exclaimed the governor. “The Catholic Church confuses the minds of the people by preaching about liberty, about being the children of God, about the dignity of man, and all such absurdities. The Pope and his priests make their people proud, obstinate, and rebellious, and difficult to manage. Mark my prediction, Herr Schulze: you cannot introduce the Russian form of government into Germany until Catholicity is exterminated.”
“We will rid ourselves of it,” said Schulze confidently. “The Jesuits are already expelled, and now we are using stringent measures to suppress their kith and kin—that is, all the orders and convents—so that we shall gradually have the Catholic Church under the same subjection as it is in Russia. And have you noticed, gentlemen, how quietly all has been effected? The Jesuits were sent away without the least opposition on the part of the Catholics; the riot at Essen was only the demonstration of a few workmen.”
“There was, however, great excitement among the liberals,” replied Von Sempach; “for, when the German religious were innocently proscribed and forcibly driven from their homes, the national liberals applauded and cried out ‘Bravo!’”
“If you imagine, Herr Schulze,” said Beck, “that the patient endurance of Catholics in witnessing the expulsion of their priests is not dangerous, you deceive yourself. Their manner of combat, however, is a very singular one. Recourse to arms, or rebellion against authority, is forbidden them by their religion; but history teaches that the weapons employed by the Catholic Church have proved most disastrous to all her enemies. And it is to me as clear as the sun at noon-day that, in consequence of this persecution of the church, the German Empire will succumb.”
“You speak in riddles, Herr Beck!” said Schulze. “What do you mean when you speak of the Catholic manner of combat?”
“That which is, in fact, the very essence of Catholicity,” answered the professor. “Catholics believe that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, is the founder of their church; they know that God will never abandon his church, because he has promised to abide always with her. Since they are forbidden to conspire and rebel, they have recourse to prayer, and they pray to Almighty God to keep his word—in my opinion, a very dangerous mode of combat; for no power, not even that of the new German Empire, can stand against the Lord. And it is a remarkable truth that the Catholics, for over 1,800 years, have conquered all their oppressors. If Bismarck should commence to boil and roast Catholics, as did Nero and other cruel tyrants who persecuted them for three hundred years, he would meet with the same fate that befell the pagan emperors of Rome.”
“What you say, professor, is no doubt incontrovertible, for the facts are historical,” replied Schulze. “We do not, however, intend, for the present, to either boil or roast Catholics, and it is not even necessary to adopt such severe measures. If the liberal government once gets undisputed control of all the academies and public schools, Catholicity must naturally die out.”
“Another deception, Herr Schulze,” replied Beck. “The apostate Emperor Julian, fifteen hundred years ago, adopted this very plan of exterminating Catholics. He established infidel instead of Christian schools; but the Emperor Julian perished, together with his empire, while the Catholic Church still exists, and is the terror of her enemies.”
“We have heard enough!” exclaimed the governor. “We will not deny the assertion of our learned friend. The Catholics in the new German Empire can suffer and pray, and look for assistance from above, until they say their dying prayer, as they do in Poland.”
From the eyes of the professor there shone a brilliant ray of light.
“You are mistaken, Governor Rasumowski,” said he; “not Catholic Poland, but the Russian Empire, is saying its dying prayer.”
If lightning had come down from heaven, it would not have made a greater impression upon the Russian when he heard Beck’s remark.
“You seem astonished, governor,” said the professor. “Are you really ignorant of what a volcano the Russian Empire is standing upon? I have made diligent inquiries upon the subject, and know something of the interior dissensions that prevail in Russia. The present emperor is also aware of it; for his father, when dying, admonished him, saying: ‘Soucha (that is, Alexander), take care, lest thou become the Louis XVI. of Russia!’ Excuse my candor, and permit me to wish you good-morning, as I intend to accompany my friend to the city.”
The two young men walked through the garden, followed by the angry looks of the Prussian and the Russian.
Severe weather prevailed for some days. Excursions into the country were out of the question. Schulze visited the public institutions of the city, which were managed according to the Russian system.
One day, Von Sempach found the professor busily writing in his room.
“Are you taking notes, Edward?”
“I am collecting important Russian items to send to Bolanden, that he may use them for the good of the German people, and for the benefit of other nations, who do not desire to be governed according to the Russian mode.”
“I protest against it,” replied Von Sempach. “I have no desire to figure in a novel.”
“Do not excite yourself, my dear Adolph! Bolanden will change our names, and perhaps call the gentleman from Berlin Schulze. How is Alexandra?”
The young man sighed heavily, and seemed greatly distressed.
“I wish that I had never known her!” said he; “for I can tell you, in confidence, that a deformed soul dwells in her beautiful body. Her pride is insufferable, her want of feeling repulsive; in fact, she is utterly devoid of those amiable qualities of heart and mind which a woman must possess in order to make a happy home.”
“She is the child of a Russian governor, who, by means of the pleti and Siberia, keeps in subjection the serfs of the divine emperor,” replied Beck. “I told Schulze and the governor my real opinion in regard to the decayed condition of the empire of the czar, and yet I was very temperate in my language; I should have added that Almighty God also is the arbiter of nations, and suffers the continuance of Russian barbarities only to show how deeply empires can sink, and how wicked men can become, when an emperor has unlimited command in church and state. The same result will take place in Germany, if she takes Russia as her model.”
“I hope you will not use such expressions before Rasumowski,” said Adolph warningly.
“No; we must not cast the pearls of truth before swine, for they would perhaps attack us with their Cossacks and the pleti!”
“Why do you jest?” said Adolph. “The discoveries I have made concerning Alexandra’s real nature have made me very sad. Why must I bind myself for ever to such a creature?”
“Reason and the desire for true happiness forbid it!” answered the professor. “You are free, and not a Russian serf. Act like a man; destroy the magic charm which her fatal beauty has woven around you. My travelling-bag is ready, let us go back to your dear mother Olga. I am disgusted with everything in this corrupt, stupid Russian Empire.”
The servant of Von Sempach now announced dinner. As the two friends entered the dining-room, Schulze, with an air of triumph, held out a newspaper.
“Herr Beck, you cannot say now that the Germans are unwilling to adopt the Russian form of government,” he exclaimed. “Here, read The Cross Gazette. You remember what trouble we had with reference to the village of huts which some miserable and poverty-stricken wretches had built outside the gates of Berlin. Well, these huts have been all removed, according to the Russian method.”
“So I understand!” said the professor, who had read the article. “The Cross Gazette announces that the President of Police, Herr von Madai, had given orders to several hundred policemen and soldiers to take down, in the night from Monday to Tuesday, the collection of huts outside of the Landsberg-gate; the poor settlers, who were roused from their sleep, were driven away without difficulty, although the men murmured, and the women and children wept; but there was otherwise no disturbance or resistance. What a fine contribution to the history of the new German Empire!” added Beck.
“Is it not also stated,” asked Adolph, whose face was glowing with indignation, “that the humanity on which they pride themselves held the torch while the sorrowing women and children were driven from their wretched homes into the cold, dark night?”
“Why, Von Sempach, do not be so sentimental!” exclaimed the governor. “Be like a Russian, who wastes very little time or sympathy on such occasions.”
Dinner was served. Alexandra had never appeared more lovely; her toilet was exquisite. She had remarked the serious deportment of her betrothed; for she made use of every species of blandishment in order to regain possession of his heart.
But something happened which brought matters to a crisis.
The dessert had just been laid, when a servant of the governor handed him an official paper. He had only read a few lines, when a grim smile diffused itself over his face.
“I have a surprise for you, gentlemen!” said he. “The nearest Prussian police-station has had the kindness to deliver up to me the Jesuit F. Indura, so that I may forward him to his native place, Kosow.”
“A Jesuit? Oh! that’s imperial!” exclaimed Alexandra, filled with curiosity. “I have heard so much of the Jesuits, and wish to see one. Papa, will you not have him brought here?”
“If it gives you pleasure, why not? That is, if our honored guests have no objection.”
“None at all, governor!” replied Adolph von Sempach, with stern formality. “You alone have to decide.”
“And I think that it is always praiseworthy to be willing to see and hear a Jesuit,” said Beck.
“Tell the commissioner of police,” commanded Rasumowski, “to bring before me without delay the Jesuit of Kosow!”
“Oh! that will be interesting!” exclaimed Alexandra. “I am so anxious to see a man who belongs to that terrible order which has sold itself to the devil, and labors only in the interest of hell.”
“Do you really believe what you say, mademoiselle?” asked Von Sempach, in astonishment.
“Certainly! I have often read in the newspapers shocking things about the Jesuits. They are said to possess in an extraordinary degree the power of deceiving people, and they owe this spiritual power to Satan, with whom they are in league.”
“You have derived your information from the Vienna New Free Press, is it not so?”
“It may be, I do not know exactly. The new German Empire, in its fear of God and love of morality, acts very prudently in expelling these diabolical Jesuits.”
“But suppose these diabolical Jesuits come to Russia?”
“Oh! we are not afraid of them; we will send them to Siberia!”
“Here comes the Jesuit,” said Rasumowski, when he heard the clattering sound made by the guards’ sabres.
Deep silence reigned in the dining-room. All sat with their eyes intently fixed upon the door. In the hall were heard heavy, weary steps, as though an aged or sick man was moving forward with great difficulty. Then a hand appeared, grasping the side of the door, and finally the Jesuit father, a tall, thin man, very much bent, and leaning on a cane.
“Come in, quick!” cried out Rasumowski roughly.
F. Indura staggered into the room. The door was closed after him.
Those who were present gazed in silence at the suffering priest, who could hardly stand on his feet, and who leaned exhausted against the wall. Although still young, the incredible hardships that he had undergone of fatigue as well as of hunger and thirst seemed to have entirely destroyed the bodily strength of the Jesuit. His face was deathly pale, and the hand which held his wide-brimmed hat trembled from excessive weakness. His black habit was covered with dust, as if he had been driven like a prisoner on the highway. Upon his breast there hung an honorable sign of distinction, bestowed by the new German Empire—the iron cross. After having saluted those present, this victim of modern humanity and liberal justice silently awaited the command of the Russian governor.
“Your name is Indura, and you come from Kosow?” commenced the governor.
“Yes, your honor!” answered the priest, in a feeble voice.
“You have been expelled by the Prussian government, and in the holy Russian Empire you can find an abiding-place, and perhaps secure for yourself a splendid position, if you will renounce the Society of Jesus, and embrace the Russian state religion. Are you determined to do this?” asked the governor.
“No, your honor! I prefer death to apostasy!”
“Well, we will not hang you yet awhile!” brutally exclaimed the governor. “But we can send you to the mines of Siberia.”
“That will be impossible, sir!” replied the Jesuit, with a faint smile. “for my strength is too far gone ever to reach Siberia.”
Von Sempach had until now been a quiet spectator of the scene; alternate feelings of compassion and indignation filled his breast whenever he looked at the priest. He turned to Alexandra, in whose impassive features not a vestige of sympathy was visible.
“Mademoiselle,” said he in a subdued voice, “a work of mercy is necessary in this case. This poor clergyman is dying from exhaustion. Will you have any objection if I offer him my seat?”
The Russian lady turned fiercely around, like a serpent that had been trodden upon.
“What do you mean, sir?” she answered, with a proud disdain. “Do you think that I will grant such a disgraceful request?”
An angry flush overspread the face of the young man; his eyes gleamed with a new light, and a proud, contemptuous smile wreathed his lips. Alexandra at this moment had for ever forfeited the love of a heart of which she was unworthy.
The governor meantime continued his questions.
“As you still wish to remain a Jesuit,” said he, “that is, a man dangerous to the empire, an enemy of modern civilization, you will be sent to Siberia!”
“Will your honor not procure me a passport to India?”
“What do you want to do in India?”
“We have missions there,” replied the priest. “As it is my vocation to work for the salvation of souls, I wish to preach there the doctrine of Christ according to my humble capacity.”
“I must reflect upon your petition,” replied the governor. “The government may not wish the Jesuits to continue their activity even in India. For the present, you must go to prison!”
The priest made a motion to leave, but his strength failed him, and a cold sweat appeared in large drops upon his forehead. Then Adolph von Sempach rose.
“Governor Rasumowski,” said he, “I do not believe that I shall appeal in vain to your feelings as a man. I therefore urgently beseech you to allow me to offer some refreshment to this exhausted gentleman from your hospitable table.”
Von Sempach spoke in such an earnest tone of voice that it seemed impossible to refuse him.
“If you wish to assume the character of the good Samaritan, Von Sempach, I do not object,” answered the Russian, making a great effort to conceal his real displeasure.
Adolph approached the weak and feeble priest, and, giving him the support of his arm, led him to his seat.
“Allow me, reverend sir, to serve you.”
The Jesuit looked at him with gratitude, and Adolph commenced to fill his plate. The half-starved owner of the iron cross began to eat, and like a lamp whose dying flame is revived when oil is poured upon it, so also was it with the proscribed priest, who soon felt the benefit of Adolph’s tender care.
Alexandra had left the room when she saw that her father would grant the request of Von Sempach. With an expression of unutterable scorn and disgust, she gathered up the train of her rich silk dress, and retired to her own apartment.
“Will the new German Empire send us any more of such guests?” asked the governor, who was filled with suppressed wrath at seeing a Jesuit at his table.
“Hardly!” replied Schulze. “The majority of the Jesuits are Germans or Swiss; there are only a few Poles among them.”
“Are only the foreigners expelled, and not the Germans?” asked the Russian.
“No Jesuit, even if he be a German, can remain in the new German Empire, and discharge any sacerdotal or educational functions,” replied Schulze.
“It has made a very strange impression upon me,” said the professor, “to see men condemned and treated like criminals, against whom not the least fault can be proved. Even the bitterest enemies of the Jesuits confessed this at the Diet, saying, ‘We find no fault in them!’ An old proverb asserts that ‘Justice is the foundation of kingdoms.’ The conduct of Russia against Poland excepted, there is not a similar example in modern history.”
“Is your remark intended as a reproach, Professor Beck?” asked the Russian.
“I refer only to historical facts,” replied the professor. “My personal opinion has nothing to do with it.”
“And I must openly acknowledge to you my belief that Germany acts very prudently in imitating the Russian method in treating defiant Catholics!” retorted the governor.
“Then, we shall have violence done to conscience, and the destruction of human liberty in the highest sense of the word,” said the professor. “From this tyranny of conscience would result, as a natural consequence, a state of slavery and a demoralized condition of affairs. Religion would cease to ennoble man, because her enemies would misrepresent her doctrines in such a way that she would cease to be the revelation of God; she would become a machine of the state, and this machine would be called a National Church—a hideous thing that would prove to be the grave of all liberty. Finally, an abyss would open, and swallow up the whole; for Almighty God will not suffer the wickedness of man to go beyond a certain length. History records his punishments; as, for example, the Deluge, the destruction of the kingdoms belonging to the Babylonians and Persians, the destruction of Jerusalem and of the Jewish nation.”
Rasumowski was about to answer, when the Jesuit father rose from his chair.
“Sir!” said he to Adolph von Sempach, “you have, in truth, performed a work of mercy. May the Lord in heaven reward you!”
“He has already done so, your reverence!” replied Von Sempach, with a look at Alexandra’s vacant seat.
“Accept my grateful thanks, your honor!” said Indura to the Russian.
“That will do!” interrupted the governor. “The commissioner is waiting for you.”
Adolph left the room with the priest.
“All learned gentlemen do not seem to approve of the war of extermination against the Catholic Church,” said Schulze, in a slightly ironical tone.
“At least, not those who have preserved some sense of justice,” replied Beck. “I cannot understand how so many millions of Catholics can submit to be insulted and threatened in a way that should excite the indignation of Christendom.”
“It is all very clear,” explained Schulze. “A national church is to be established in Germany, just as it is in Russia. Protestantism sees the necessity of the change, and makes no resistance; but it is not so with Catholicity.”
“I agree to the last assertion, Herr Schulze,” said Beck. “From the very earliest ages there have been cowardly bishops and cowardly priests; but the Catholic Church has never made concessions in matters of faith, and will never do so in all time to come.”
“For this very reason she must be exterminated, even if we have to resort to extreme measures,” answered the great official of Berlin, in a transport of passion.
“And do you believe in the possibility of extermination?” asked Beck.
“Why not? The educated portion of the world has long since repudiated all belief in the nursery tales of religion.”
“I most solemnly protest against your remarks,” said the professor. “Religion is as much a nursery tale as is the existence of God, who manifests himself in his works; the most wonderful work of whose hands is the Catholic Church, particularly her miraculous preservation. While everything else in the course of time falls into decay; while the proudest nations disappear from the face of the earth, leaving scarce a trace behind them; while sceptres are constantly passing from the hands of rulers, the chair of Peter stands immovable. No intelligent man can refuse to respect and admire the Catholic religion. On the other hand, I do not deny that liberalism in its spiritually rotten condition, devoid as it is of every high aspiration, is ripe for the establishment of a national church, which is to be fashioned after the Russian model. The new German Emperor-pope will be able, without opposition from the liberals, to introduce the Russian catechism. Liberalism will not object to the introduction of the pleti and to a Siberia; for it is servile, without principle, and utterly demoralized. Those Germans, however, who have preserved their holy faith, their dignity as men, and their self-respect, are no slaves, and will never wear the yoke of Russian servitude.”
“Sir, you insult me!” vociferated the Russian governor.
“In what manner do I insult you?” said Beck. “You yourself maintained a few days ago that the Russians were all serfs of the czar.”
“Yes, they are; but I will not allow you to speak of it with such contempt,” responded the irritated dignitary.
“Since we are not as yet serfs in the new German Empire,” said the professor earnestly, “you will permit a free man to express his views.”
“No, I will not allow you to do so!” cried Rasumowski, with a loud voice. “If you were not, unfortunately, the friend of my future son-in-law, I would send you to Siberia as a man dangerous to the empire.”
The professor rose.
“Governor!” he exclaimed, in a tone of unmistakable self-restraint, “your rudeness makes it impossible for me to stay one moment longer under your roof. The very thought of having received your hospitality is painful to me.”
At this moment, Adolph von Sempach appeared.
“Governor Rasumowski,” said he, “I have come to say farewell. Your daughter, whom I have seen, will communicate to you the reasons of my departure.”
The Russian, with widely distended eyes, looked with astonishment at the young nobleman, who bowed and disappeared with his friend the professor.
At the entrance of the palace, the servant of Von Sempach held open the door of a carriage. The friends entered, and drove to the depot.
“But, Adolph, how do you feel? Tell me what has happened!” asked Beck.
“That which had to be done, unless I chose to make myself unhappy for my whole life,” replied Von Sempach. “I have broken my engagement with Alexandra.”
“I congratulate you from my whole heart!” said Beck, warmly pressing the hand of his friend.
The next morning, the Baroness Olga welcomed the returned travellers; and when Adolph related what had happened, joy and happiness illuminated the face of the good mother, who embraced and kissed her son. The professor stood smiling at her side.
“You see, most gracious lady,” said he, “that the study of Russian affairs is very apt to convince every good German of the impossibility of obtaining real happiness and prosperity from the land of the knout.”
A few days later the poor people exclaimed: “Our mother Olga is well again; her eyes have lost their sad expression, and the kind smile has returned to her lips.”
[MY COUSIN’S INTRODUCTION.]
The only fault we could possibly find with the Gastons was that they were Roman Catholics.
True, they were our own cousins, quite as well off as ourselves, and as well educated and respectable as any family in the country; but then, being Romanists, you know, they associated with such queer people, had such singular notions, and attended a church filled every Sunday with families that you and I would never think of speaking to, you know.
Aunt Mildred went to Mass with them one Sabbath, just out of curiosity, and declared there wasn’t a decent bonnet in the whole congregation outside of Cousin Mary’s pew; and father, who looked in at the chapel on Christmas Day, told us he didn’t see a single carriage at the entrance—nothing but a lot of farmers’ and workingmen’s wagons.
Nevertheless, the Gastons were charming people. Our affection for them went to the full extent of our cousinly relationship, and I in particular—by the way, I forgot to introduce myself—George Willoughby, at your service, just twenty-one—nice age, isn’t it? Graduated at—but I won’t mention what college in New England, lest you might expect too much of me. Well, as I was saying—and I in particular had conceived quite an attachment for my Cousin Richard Gaston. He was three years my senior, had received his education in some out-of-the-way Catholic college situated on the top or at the foot—I really forget which—of some mountain among the Alleghenies. We had frequently met and exchanged visits during our vacations, and the only objection I had to Cousin Dick was that on these occasions he made no end of fun of my Protestant Latin pronunciation, asking me to read a page of Virgil, and then rolling over in his chair, splitting his sides with laughter. What he found so comical in my recitation I could not imagine. I saw nothing in it to laugh at. This was several years ago. I now know the cause of his mirth.
But even if Dick did make fun of my Latin, and call it barbarous, he was a good fellow, although I must say that at times he presumed a little upon his seniority so as to be a trifle mentorish. Indeed, I loved him as a friend, independently of my affection for him as a relative. He was considerate, too, and never troubled me with any of his Romanish notions, except when I sometimes asked him a question about the church, or touching some point in Catholic history, and then I generally received more information than I either expected or desired. One of these occasions I well remember, for the conversation eventually led to serious results for me. I had gone down to spend a week with the Gastons. One rainy afternoon—too wet to drive over to the village, as we had intended—I had just waded through the strange, eventful story of that gay and festive American citizen, Mr. St. Elmo, and, as usual when at a loss for something to do, I began to look around for Dick.
I soon found him in the library, but so entirely engrossed with a book that he did not notice my entrance.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Oh!” said he, “nothing that would interest you.”
“Let me see?” I took the book, and read the title-page: Introduction to a Devout Life. From the French of S. Francis of Sales. “Why, Dick,” said I, “this is Thursday, not Sunday.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why,” said I, “on Sunday you get out the Bible, or some pious book, and read a spell—needn’t read very long, you know, about enough to keep your face straight for the rest of the day. It’s the thing to do—good young man, and all that sort of thing, you know—Cela vous pose, as the French say; but as to pious reading, except for that or to fight a rainy Sabbath with—never heard of such a thing. But what’s your book about? Who is your Sales man? Some old ‘stick-in-the-mud’ of a stupid hermit, eh?”
“Your phrase is not of the politest,” replied Dick, “but I will answer your question. S. Francis of Sales was not what you describe, but an elegant, accomplished gentleman, a graduate of the Sorbonne at Paris, and of the University of Padua, where, after a brilliant examination, he took the degree of doctor of laws with great distinction.”
“That might all be,” I answered, for I was determined not to accept Dick’s saint without a fight, as was indeed my duty, being a staunch Protestant—a rôle no one need ever have any trouble in filling, for, as I understand it, you have nothing to do but deny everything the Romanists assert—“that might all be. I suppose he took refuge in orders and sanctimony because he had a game-leg, like your Loyola man there—what do you call him? yes, S. Ignatius—brave fellow, by the way, and a good soldier—or else he was jilted by some handsome girl.”
“Nothing of the kind. His early years, his youth, his student life, and his advent in the world were all marked by a modesty, a purity, and a piety that seemed to be the sure precursor of a saintly life.”
“Oh,” said I, “I have it now. He must have been a hard-featured fellow, so ugly, most probably, that, piety being his only resource, he became a regular old square-toes of a monk in advance of the mail.”
My cousin took a new book off the table, and said, “How ugly he was you shall hear from his Protestant biographer.[51] Listen:
“‘A commanding stature, a peculiar though unstudied dignity of manner, he habitually moved somewhat slowly, as though to check the natural impetuosity of a vigorous, healthy frame; regular though marked features, to which a singularly sweet smile, large blue eyes, and pencilled eyebrows gave great beauty; a complexion of almost feminine delicacy, in spite of ceaseless exposure to all weathers. His voice was deep and rich in tone; and, according to one who knew him, he was in appearance at once so bright and serious that it was impossible to conceive a more imposing presence.’”
“That’s all very well,” I answered, determined not to give it up yet; “but that work of his you were reading, that Devout life, is nothing but a string of prayers anyhow, isn’t it?—a sort of a down-on-your-marrowbones manual?”
“Quite the reverse, my dear George. When the book was first published, it was seized upon with avidity, and became immensely popular, precisely because its author, not content with prescribing rules for exterior acts of devotion, sought also to lead souls into the interior life of piety. But judge for yourself. Let me read now a short extract from the very first chapter, and you will at once see that, in the opinion of S. Francis of Sales, the mere down-on-your-marrowbones performance, as you not very elegantly phrase it, will not, of itself, take you to heaven.”
“Well,” said I, “Dick, this is getting to be rather more than I bargained for; but I’ll fight it out on this line if it takes me till tea-time. So go on.” And he read:
“As Aurelius painted all the faces of his pictures in the air and resemblance of the woman he loved, so every one paints devotion according to his own passion and fancy. He that is addicted to fasting, thinks himself very devout if he fasts, though his heart be at the same time filled with rancor; and, scrupling to moisten his tongue with wine, or even with water, through sobriety, he hesitates not to drink deep of his neighbor’s blood by detraction and calumny. Another considers himself devout because he recites daily a multiplicity of prayers, though immediately afterwards he utters disagreeable, arrogant, and injurious words amongst his domestics and neighbors. Another cheerfully draws alms out of his purse to relieve the poor, but cannot draw meekness out of his heart to forgive his enemies. Another readily forgives enemies, but never satisfies his creditors but by constraint. These by some are esteemed devout, while, in reality, they are by no means so.”
“That’s pretty plain talk,” was my comment—“a good deal plainer than they give it to us down at our meeting-house. It sets a fellow to thinking, too.” And here I was about to make a damaging admission, when I fortunately recollected that I was in line of battle, with my enemy in front. So I charged again with: “Oh! it’s easy enough to write or preach the most pious precepts, and, at the same time, not be at all remarkable for their practice. If your Sales man was such a fine gentleman as you describe, I strongly suspect that that very fact kept him pretty closely tied to the world, and that he may have been, after all, a mere ornamental guide-post to point out to others the road he had no idea of travelling himself.”
“George, you are incorrigible, and I doubt that you really believe the half of what you are saying. But I shall not ask you to accept my opinion of S. Francis of Sales’ personal piety. Here is a Protestant estimate of it: ‘There is a beauty, a symmetry, an exquisite grace of holiness, in all that concerns the venerable Bishop of Geneva which fascinates the imagination and fills the heart. Beauty, harmony, refinement, simplicity, utter unself-consciousness, love of God and man, welling up and bursting forth as a clear fountain that never can be stayed or staunched—such are the images and thoughts that fill the mind as we dwell upon his memory.’
“It was in 1592,” continued my cousin, “that Francis of Sales returned to the paternal mansion, after having been for twelve years a scholar at the universities, and a student of the great world. His father had ambitious projects for the advancement of his only son. By agreement of the parents on both sides, he was to marry a rich heiress, the daughter of the Seigneur de Vegy; and the reigning Duke of Savoy tendered him the high position of senator; yet, notwithstanding the most energetic remonstrances and prayers of his father and many friends, he calmly but resolutely declined both the marriage and the senatorial dignity, and in 1593 was received in minor orders by the Bishop of Geneva, and ordained priest in December of the same year.”
“After which,” I interposed, “he, of course, had an easy time of it.”
“Listen, and you shall hear. The duchy of Chablais, adjoining the Genevese territory, had in previous years been conquered and occupied by the Bernese, and, as one of the results, Calvinism became predominant. Restored to the Duke of Savoy in 1593 as the result of treaties, it was important to provide for the spiritual wants of the few scattered Catholics who remained. A learned and pious priest named Bouchut was sent to one of the towns of the Chablais, but was compelled to leave it, on account of the fierce and hostile attitude of the inhabitants. It was soon understood that any Catholic priest who undertook to minister there publicly would do so at his peril. There was an absolute necessity that some one should go, but the Bishop of Geneva naturally hesitated to order any of his priests to so dangerous a mission. He would gladly have sent Francis of Sales, for he saw that he possessed all the qualities desirable in so critical an emergency—bravery, firmness, prudence, and gentleness, besides a name and family position which commanded respect throughout the country. Sorely embarrassed, the good bishop convened a chapter, and all his ecclesiastics were summoned to be present. He laid the matter before them, together with the letters of the reigning duke, spoke plainly of the difficulties and perils of the mission, and asked their counsel as to what should be done. As in the case of an overwhelming peril at sea, or a desperate charge on a fortified place, where the captain or commander hesitates to order men to certain death, and calls for volunteers, so the good bishop in this manner really asked, ‘Who will undertake this dangerous duty?’
“As the head of the chapter, it was for Francis of Sales to speak first. No one present knew as well as he the most serious dangers of the proposed mission.
“Amid profound and discouraging silence, he arose, and said, ‘Monseigneur, if you hold me capable of the work, and bid me undertake it, I am ready’—few words, but to the point. Information of what had taken place soon reached Château de Sales, and in spite of his seventy-two years, the father instantly ordered his horse, and rode to Annecy, where he imploringly remonstrated with his son, and begged him to withdraw his offer.
“From the son the old man went to the bishop, and protested in tears against the step about to be taken. ‘I give up,’ he exclaimed, ‘my firs-tborn, the pride and hope of my life, the stay of my old age, to the church; I consent to his being a confessor; but I cannot give him to be a martyr.’ The father’s remonstrance was so powerful, his grief so violent, that the good bishop was deeply moved, and gave signs of wavering, when Francis, perceiving it, cried out: ‘Monseigneur, be firm, I implore you; would you have me prove myself unworthy of the kingdom of God? I have put my hand to the plough; would you have me look back, and yield to worldly considerations?’
“But the father held out as well as the son. ‘As to this undertaking,’ he said to Francis, in parting, ‘nothing can ever make me either sanction or bless it.’ At the last moment, several priests offered the brave volunteer to accompany him, but he would take no one but his cousin, the Canon Louis de Sales. It would be a long but most interesting history to go into the details of the Chablais mission. Under other circumstances, the people of that province might have run the risk of being dragooned into Catholicity as they had been into Protestantism. But the mild counsels of its noble apostle prevailed. After trials, labors, and dangers most formidable, his holy life and winning words of peace and reconciliation shamed persecution, transformed hatred into respect and admiration, and the conversion of the Chablais was the result of his holy daring. It was during this period that he even penetrated into the camp of the enemy, going to Geneva several times to visit Calvin’s successor, Theodore Beza, then seventy-eight years of age.
“The Apostle of the Chablais, as Francis de Sales was henceforth called by the reigning duke, was now urged by the aged Bishop of Geneva to become his coadjutor, and with great difficulty was almost forced to accept the position. He was soon after sent to Rome, to ask the good offices of the sovereign pontiff in arranging a serious dispute between Savoy and France, as to whether Geneva was included in the provisions of the treaty of Vervins. Having transacted the business of his mission, he was notified by Clement VIII. to prepare for a public examination in his presence within a few days. It is related, as characteristic of his strong sense of justice and independence, that, with all his reverence for pontifical authority, and his well-known personal humility, the first impulse of Francis was to resist this order as an infringement upon his ecclesiastical rights. He laid the matter before the ambassador of Savoy, who immediately sought an audience of his holiness. Clement VIII. at once recognized the validity of the objection, and promised that the case should not be treated as a precedent. He had heard so much, he said, of the ability and talent of De Sales, that he was desirous of an opportunity of judging of it himself, as was also the College of Cardinals. The order, it was then agreed, should stand, and the examination go on. The only preparation of Francis for this formidable trial was—prayer. Indeed, there was no time for any other, for there were but three days between the order and the ordeal.
“Among the cardinals before whom he appeared were Baronius, Federigo Borromeo, Borghese, and, among their assistants, the great Bellarmine. Added to these was a crowd of archbishops, bishops, generals of religious orders, and many eminent ecclesiastics of lesser dignity. A Spanish priest of distinguished learning, who was to have presented himself with Francis for examination before this body, was so overpowered on entering the hall that he fainted. The scope of the examination included civil law, canon law, and theology, but it was confined to the last-named branch. Thirty-five questions were proposed, and every possible objection was raised by the examiners to all the answers. The examination over, his holiness expressed his supreme satisfaction, went to Francis, and embraced him in presence of the assembly, repeating the verse: ‘Bibe, fili mi, aquam de cisterna tua, et fluenta putei tui; deriventur fontes tui foras, et in plateis aquas tuas divide.’[52]
“In January, 1602, Francis was sent to Paris, charged with the arrangement of certain ecclesiastical difficulties which had arisen in consequence of the late transfer of the small territory of Gex from Savoy to France. Negotiations with royal ministers are proverbially slow, and a matter that Francis supposed might be terminated in six days retained him at Paris six months. But for him this was not lost time. He gave the course of Lenten sermons at the Royal Chapel, preached constantly in various churches and communities, and was so tireless in his spiritual labors that during these six months he is said to have delivered one hundred sermons. It was during this visit that he suggested to Pierre de Berulle (afterwards cardinal) the foundation in France of an order for the education of the clergy, on the model of the Oratory established in Italy by S. Philip Neri. The project was carried out, and in 1611, when the Oratory was established in France, its founder asked Francis of Sales to be its first superior.
“The reigning King of France was then Henry IV. He so highly prized and admired De Sales that he offered him every inducement to remain in France. He recognized in Francis the possession of all the qualities and virtues belonging to the model ecclesiastic, and best calculated to make religion respected and loved in a community scarcely recovered from the evil effects of religious wars. The learned Cardinal du Perron also appeared to be of the same opinion, for he said: ‘God has certainly given him (De Sales) the key of hearts. If you want merely to convince men, bring me all the heretics, and I will undertake to do it; but if you want to convert them, take them to Mgr. de Genève.’”[53]
“Richard, cousin of mine,” said I, “your measure is Scriptural, heaped up and running over. I ask you a question about that little book there on the table, and you give me the entire biography of your Saint of Sales. It’s all very edifying, certainly, but I want to know about the work.”
“Oh! The Devout Life?” he replied. “I will tell you. In the first place, a singular fact connected with it is that the work was completed before S. Francis was aware that he had written a book. It happened thus: A young, beautiful, and wealthy lady of the fashionable Parisian world was so impressed by a sermon preached by the Bishop of Geneva that she resolved to lead a new life, and solicited his spiritual advice. His counsels of enlightened piety soon taught her that it was possible to serve God with zeal without absolutely leaving the world. Seeing her but seldom, he wrote from time to time such instructions as he wished to convey, and also answered her letters asking for further advice. On a visit to Chambéry, Mme. de Charmoisy—for that was the lady’s name—showed these papers to the learned and pious Père Forrier, rector of the College of Jesuits at that place. He was so much struck with their contents that he had them copied, and wrote to Francis of Sales, now Bishop of Geneva, urging him to publish them. The bishop did not at first understand what he meant, and replied that he had no talent for authorship, and no time to write. When the matter was explained, and he ascertained that Père Forrier had studied and written out what he called his ‘few miserable notes,’ he exclaimed: ‘Truly, it is a wonderful thing that, according to these good people, I have composed a book without knowing it.’ Very opportunely there reached him at this juncture a letter from the secretary of Henry IV. of France, expressing his majesty’s earnest wish that Mgr. de Genève would write a work setting forth the beauty of religion, and showing worldly people that a life of piety was not incompatible with a busy, active career. ‘No one,’ said the king, ‘could write such a book but Mgr. de Genève.’
“Thus pressed on all sides, the bishop set to work, made some changes and additions[54] in the manuscript, and published it under the now familiar title of Introduction to a Devout Life.
“The work had no model in French literature. It was neither apologetic nor controversial, but purely moral and advisory; and this was much in a period torn by religious dissensions and wars. Its success was enormous. Praises of the book and its author poured in upon all sides. Exaggerated encomiums disturbed the good bishop. ‘What!’ he said, ‘cannot God make fresh-water springs to come forth from the jaw-bone of an ass? These good friends of mine think of nothing but me and my glory, as though we might desire any glory for ourselves, and not rather refer it all to God, who alone works any good which may be in us.’
“Meantime, the Introduction was translated into all languages, and so widely read[55] that it was called at the time the breviary of people of the world.
“The imagery and symbolism of the book are full of grace and attraction. It draws illustrations from pictures and flowers, and its style is rife with similes and images which light up the essential solemnity of the subject. As Sainte-Beuve says, ‘He puts plenty of sugar and honey on the edge of the vase.’[56]
“But this grace of language and of style is not obtained at the sacrifice of strength or of principle. The work has many passages full of sombre energy, and, in particular, a meditation on death (first book), which displays something of the peculiar vigor of a similar chapter (twenty-third of the first book) in Thomas à Kempis.
“Then, there is a sharpness of penetration and a delicacy of insight surprising to those who have not closely watched the springs of human action and the workings of the human heart in themselves as well as in others. Distinguished moralists, such as Montaigne and Franklin, have discoursed eloquently and effectively on the morals and motives of men, but you will find in none of them the elevation and purity of S. Francis of Sales. Take, for instance, the thirty-sixth chapter of the third book, in which he points out the almost imperceptible motives of partiality and injustice which prompt us in everyday life to the most selfish acts, consulting only interest and passion, while we pretend to ourselves and others to be totally unconscious of anything in our conduct that is not entirely praiseworthy. Listen and see how admirably he introduces the subject: ‘It is reason alone that makes us men, and yet it is a rare thing to find men truly reasonable; because self-love ordinarily puts us out of the path of reason, leading us insensibly to a thousand small yet dangerous injustices and partialities, which, like the little foxes spoken of in the Canticle destroy the vines; for, because they are little, we take no notice of them; but, being great in number, they fail not to injure us considerably.’
“Now, remark how unerringly he places his finger on spots and blemishes that to our eyes are apparently as white as snow:
“‘Are not the things of which I am about to speak unjust and unreasonable? We condemn every trifle in our neighbors, and excuse ourselves in things of importance; we want to sell very dearly, and to buy very cheaply; we desire that justice should be executed in another man’s house, but mercy and connivance in our own; we would have everything we say taken in good part, but we are delicate and touchy with regard to what others say of us; we would insist on our neighbor parting with his goods, and taking our money; but is it not more reasonable that he should keep his goods, and leave us our money? We take it ill that he will not accommodate us; but has he not more reason to be offended that we should desire to incommode him?... On all occasions, we prefer the rich before the poor, although they be neither of better condition, nor more virtuous; we even prefer those who are best clad. We rigorously exact our own dues, but we desire that others should be gentle in demanding theirs: we keep our own rank with precision, but would have others humble and condescending; we complain easily of our neighbors, but none must complain of us; what we do for others seems always very considerable, but what others do for us seems as nothing. We have two balances: one to weigh to our own advantage, and the other to weigh in to the detriment of our neighbor. Deceitful lips, says the Scripture, have spoken with a double heart; and to have two weights, the one greater, with which we receive, and the other less, with which we deliver, is an abominable thing in the sight of God.’”
“The book must be interesting,” said I. “You must lend it to me.”
“Candidly, George,” my cousin answered, somewhat to my surprise, “you had better select something else for your reading; for, if you wish merely to pass away the time in its perusal, it will most certainly disappoint you, and you will find it dry and dull. If, indeed, you desire to read it with a motive corresponding to the author’s aim in writing it, that’s quite another affair. The book is for the heart and the soul, not for the calculating head and worldly mind. There’s nothing about it of what your admired Carlyle calls dilettanteism, and its object is your welfare—not in this world, but in the next.”
“In what language,” I inquired, “was this work written?”
“In French, of course.”
“But Francis of Sales was, you say, a Savoyard?”
“True,” replied Dick; “what then?”
“Why, perhaps he didn’t write pure French?”
“Perhaps not. You are an American, are you not, George?”
“Of course I am; what then?”
“Why, then, perhaps you don’t speak the English language correctly. And that,” continued Dick, “reminds me, as our late President used to say, of a little story. You know that queer old original Major Eustace, who lives just beyond the lake. I heard him relate that, when a young man, he was travelling in Europe, and found himself one fine day at Moscow without funds or tidings from home, except a letter advising him of the failure of his father’s house. This was at a time when travelling facilities were far inferior to those of the present day. He could not get away, and so sat down and studied the Moscow advertisements. One of them demanded an English tutor for the two sons (aged respectively fourteen and sixteen years) of a Russian nobleman residing at a well-known château near the city. Eustace was a college graduate. He felt himself abundantly qualified for the position, and made instant application. He was cordially received for the chances of obtaining an English tutor at Moscow were very slim. The Russian questioned Eustace very closely as to his acquirements—this conversation being, of course, in French—and things went on swimmingly until he asked our American cousin from what part of England he came. Eustace replied that he was an American. The Russian’s face fell. ‘And what language do they speak in America?’
“‘In the United States we speak English,’ replied Eustace.
“‘But it must be a patois,’ objected the Russian.
“‘Not at all,’ said Eustace. ‘We have no dialects, and, taken as a body, the American people speak better English than the people of England.’
“The Russian could not comprehend it. The result was that Eustace was not engaged. Our nobleman went all the way to St. Petersburg for what he wanted, and returned home triumphant with his born-English tutor. Meantime, Eustace found something else to do, and remained at Moscow long enough to acquire the Russian language, and make many pleasant acquaintances. Being in London five years afterwards, he found the Russian colony there in a fit of Homeric laughter over the strange mishap of two young noblemen recently arrived from Moscow. Eustace at once recognized the name of the Russian who insisted that Americans speak a patois. His sons had been taught English by the tutor picked up in St. Petersburg, and, fortified with plenty of money and excellent letters of introduction, had been sent over to acquire the polish of a London season in the best English society. In this society, then, they made their début speaking English fluently in the broadest Yorkshire dialect!
“Now, to return to your Savoyard objection,” continued my cousin. “You must know, my dear George, that Savoy is essentially French in tongue and general characteristics of race. The French language is both spoken and written there in all its purity; and many authors of worldwide reputation as French writers are, in reality, Savoyards. There is, for instance, Vaugelas the grammarian, Saint-Réal the historian, Ducis the poet, the great Joseph de Maistre, his brother Xavier de Maistre, whose Voyage autour de ma Chambre I know you have read; and, in our own day, Cherbuliez, whose success as a novelist has made the Parisian romancers look sharply to their laurels. I have reserved mention of S. Francis of Sales for a special reason. He wrote at a period when the French language under the influence of Malherbe was soon to settle down into its modern form; and so pure is his language and phraseology, even tried by the highest French standard, that he is one of the model authors adopted by the French Academy when its celebrated Dictionary of the language was undertaken. The list of prose writers included, among others, the names of Amyot, Montaigne, Charron, Arnauld, S. Francis of Sales, Duplessis-Mornay, Cardinal du Perron, etc., etc.[57] S. Francis of Sales is thus, you perceive, a French classic. The English translations we have of his works,” continued my cousin, “fail to do him justice.”
“Oh!” said I, “the old story—traduttore—traditore[58]—as the Italians say.”
“Precisely so, for the sense and substance; and then, for the form and setting, a period of nearly three hundred years has so modified shades of signification and value in words which to-day apparently have the same general meaning, that in our modern rendering the subtle aroma and the more delicate beauties of thought and language appear to evaporate in the process of translation.
“There is a certain charming simplicity and quaintness in the original to which our grand modern style refuses to bend; and it appears to me that we might have had an English version of the Devout Life really redolent of its author’s spirit if it could possibly have been done by one of that noble band of young Jesuit martyrs judicially murdered by Queen Elizabeth—say Campion or Southwell, for instance, who wrote in the English of Shakespeare’s day—a period exactly corresponding with that of S. Francis de Sales.”
“To sum it all up, then,” said I, “you ask me to accept this work as perfection, and yet refuse me an opportunity of judging for myself.”
“On the contrary, George; for, although I contend that it is admirable and, indeed, unsurpassed for its purpose, I have already said that a reader seeking in it purely literary gratification would most certainly be disappointed. I will say more, for I will not allow you to monopolize the functions of advocatus diaboli: the book, to our nineteenth century eyes, has several defects.”
“What do you mean by calling me the devil’s advocate?”
“Well, merely this, Cousin George. In our church, whenever it is proposed to canonize as a saint a person of holy life, there is a member of the commission appointed to examine the case, whose duty it is rigidly to scrutinize all the testimony presented as to the holy life of the deceased, to require the strictest proof, and to present and urge every valid objection to its saintliness, such as charges of any irregularity or lapse in conduct, morals, or faith. This official, in short, is a sort of infernal prosecuting attorney, and has hence received the descriptive nickname of advocatus diaboli. Now, it appears to me, Cousin George, that, from the moment our conversation on the Devout Life began, you have been plying his vocation pretty vigorously.”
I could not deny it, so I said nothing, and allowed Gaston to go on.
“No; so far from claiming perfection for the work, I will volunteer a criticism or two upon it. In the first place, there is an excess of symbolism, and the multitude of comparisons and images becomes fatiguing. Many of these images are full of grace and simplicity, especially those drawn from the writer’s observation of nature; for S. Francis of Sales, as we gather from this book, had a quick and sympathetic appreciation of the charm of landscapes, the song of birds, the fascination of flowers, and the thousand beauties of nature visible only to one who truly loves nature, and sincerely worships nature’s God. But there is an excess of all this; and when he gets beyond the line of personal sympathy and observation, the comparisons become stiff, and frequently violate good taste. Those drawn from natural history, for instance, are strained and incongruous. The writer must have found his Paphlagonian partridges with two hearts in Pliny. There are many things, too, which to us appear to be in excessively bad taste; but that is a defect not chargeable to the author individually, but to the prevalent style of the age in which he lived. After all, there are ‘spots on the sun.’ S. Francis of Sales did not write for fame as an author, nor, indeed, from any worldly motive. A ‘classic style’ and ‘the French Academy’ were inducements which never engaged his attention. There is nothing of the rhetorician in his phrase, for it is almost familiar in its ease and simplicity. But there’s the tea-bell, my dear George, probably a happy release for one of us, for I fear I have bored you dreadfully.”
“On the contrary, my dear Dick, for I have been as much edified as interested in the saintly life you have revealed to me.”
“Why, my dear boy, I haven’t told you the half of it; nor, indeed, do I know it thoroughly. But if it at all interests you, here it is.”
I read it, and have since read the lives and some few of the works of several other saints, with what result it does not interest the public to know. I can only say that I am going to fight it out on my present line if it takes till doomsday. Cousin Dick and I are firmer friends than ever, and Aunt Mildred from time to time asks me, with a slight tone of sarcasm, if I saw any fashionable bonnets at our church last Sabbath?
[MADAME AGNES.]
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.