Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

CHAPTER XLII
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH

In the year 1540, five Spaniards and a Savoyard, styling themselves “Clerks of the Company of Jesus,” left Paris under the leadership of the famous Ignatius Loyola, to found an establishment at Rome.

Here Pope Paul III. presented them with a church, and in return these half-dozen of energetic priests gave in an unqualified adhesion to the Sovereign Pontiff. Their avowed intention in thus forming themselves into a separate and independent body (except in so far as they owed allegiance to its supreme head), was the propagation of the Roman Catholic faith, the conversion of heathens, the suppression of heresy, and the education of the young. For these purposes a system was at once organised which should combine the widest sphere of action with the closest surveillance over its agents, the broadest views with the most minute attention to details, an absolute unquestioned authority with a stanch and implicit obedience. To attain universal rule (possibly for a good motive, but at any sacrifice to attain it) over the opinions of humanity, however different in age, sex, character, and nationalities, was the object proposed; and almost the first maxim laid down, and never departed from in the Order, established that all means were justifiable to such an end. It was obvious that to win universal dominion over the moral as over the physical world, every effort must not only be vigorous, but combined and simultaneous, such waste of power must never be contemplated as the possibility of two forces acting in opposite directions, and therefore a code of discipline must be established, minute, stringent, and comprehensive, like that of an army before an enemy, but with this difference, that its penalties must never be modified by circumstances, nor its bonds relaxed by conquest or defeat. In the Order of Jesus must be no speaking, no questioning, no individuality, and—no forgiveness!

Their constitution was as follows: A “General,” as he was styled, resided in perpetuity at Rome, and from that central spot sent forth his directions over the whole civilised world, enjoying absolute authority and exacting unqualified obedience. Even to the supreme head, however, was attached an officer entitled his “Admonisher.” It was his duty to observe the conduct of his chief, and report on it to the five “Assistants,” who constituted that chief’s council. These, again, were instructed to watch each other carefully, and thus, not even at the very head and fountain of supreme authority, could any single individual consider himself a free agent, even in the most trifling matters of dress, deportment, or daily conversation.

In every country where the Jesuits obtained a footing (and while there are few in which they have not been notoriously powerful, even in those which betray no traces of their presence, who shall say that their influence has not been at work below the surface?) a “Provincial,” as he was called, assumed the direction of affairs within a certain district, and on his administration every one of his subordinates, temporal and spiritual, was instructed to report. There were three degrees in the Order, according to the experience and utility of its votaries—these were “Professors,” “Coadjutors,” both priests and laymen, for their ramifications extended from the highest to the lowest, through all classes of society, and “Novices.”

To enter the Order, many severe examinations had to be passed, and while it numbered among its votaries men of superlative abilities in a thousand different callings, every member was employed according to his capacity of useful service.

With such an organisation it may be imagined that the society has been a powerful engine for good and for evil. It has planted Christianity in the most remote corners of the earth, and has sent missionaries of skill, eloquence, piety, and dauntless courage, amongst savages who otherwise might never have heard the faintest echo of the Glad Tidings, in which all men claim interest alike; but, on the other hand, it has done incalculable mischief in the households of Christian Europe, has wormed itself into the confidence of women, has destroyed the concord of families, has afforded the assailants of religion innumerable weapons of offence, and in its dealings with those whom it was especially bound to succour and protect, has brought on them desolation rather than comfort, remorse where there should be hope, and war instead of peace.

It is necessary to remember the effect of a constant and reciprocal supervision, not only on the outward actions and conduct, but on the very thoughts and characters of men unavoidably fettered by its influence, to understand the position of two priests walking side by side along one of the narrow level banks that intersect the marshy country lying near the town of St. Omer.

These old friends, if, indeed, under such conditions as theirs men can ever be termed friends, had not met since they sat together, many years before, beneath the limes at Versailles, when the younger had not yet taken orders, and the elder, although he accepted the title of Abbé, neither led the life of an ecclesiastic, nor admitted openly that he was in any way amenable to the discipline observed by the Jesuits. Now, both were ostensibly votaries of the Order. Its impress might be seen in their measured steps, their thoughtful faces, and their downward looks, taking no heed of the peaceful scene around: the level marshes, the ripening orchards, the lazy cattle knee-deep in rich wet herbage, the peasant’s punt pushed drowsily and sluggishly along the glistening ditches that divided his fields, the mellow warmth of the autumnal sun, and the swarms of insects wheeling in his slanting, reddening rays.