Whether he perceived or acknowledged any truth in what he heard, or not, it certainly had the effect of making Mr. Schöninger ashamed of his ill-temper.
"I have to apologize, sir," he said, "for having made a personal attack instead of using argument, and for having acted like a whipped school-boy. My only excuse is that I was smarting under punishment. I am usually just enough to judge a principle by itself, not by its upholders."
They had now reached the step of the priest's house, and paused there, Mr. Schöninger declining mutely a mute invitation to enter.
"That is a point—that relating to persons—which we will discuss some other time, when we both feel more like it," F. Chevreuse said. "But, my friend," he added, with impassioned earnestness, "let the faults of individuals, and communities, and nations go. They are irrelevant. Let God be true, though all men may be false. Ecce Agnus Dei! If a haughty conqueror should demand your submission, I could understand why you would feel like rebelling. But here there is nothing but love to resist. Here there is only infinite sweetness and humility. Did he ever persecute you? Did he ever revile you? He wept over you. 'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!'"
Standing on his own threshold, the priest suddenly put his arm around the Jew's shoulder. "Love him, then hate whom you can. Love him, and do what you will," he said. "I don't ask you to listen to the church, to listen to me, to listen to any one, but only to behold the Lamb of God. Look at him, study him, listen to him. O my God! that I had the tongue of an angel! I love you! I am longing for your conversion, but I cannot say a word. Good-night! May God bless you and speak to you!"
The Jew was alone, overpowered by the sudden and tender passion of that appeal, feeling still the pressure of that more than brotherly embrace. If his mind had recognized any truth, he did not at the moment perceive or think of it, so moved was his heart at the vision of love that had been opened to him. If divine love was added to the human, he did not inquire; he only knew that the priest was sincere, and was at that moment on his knees praying for him. He would have liked to go in and beg his blessing, not, perhaps, as that of a priest, but as that of an incomparably good and loving man.
He checked the impulse, though it led him so far as to extend his hand to open the door.
Ah! if we did but yield to generous and affectionate impulses as we yield to bad ones, how much happier the world would be! How often they are checked by distrust of others or of ourselves, or by the petty fear of being unconventional, when, if followed, they might warm a little this cold human atmosphere, in which we stand so frozen that one might almost expect our fingers to rattle like icicles when we shake hands.
But though Mr. Schöninger did not go in, neither did he turn carelessly away. We wonder if any of our readers will understand how much affection was expressed in what he did. It was a trifling act, apparently. He laid his right hand, palm forward, against the door, and let it press the panel a moment. From some it might not mean much, but this man never gave his hand lightly, nor used it lightly; and it was one of those hands which seem to contain in themselves the whole person. It was a hand with a heart in it; and while it rested there, his face wore an expression more tender than a smile, as if he gave both a benediction and a caress to all within those walls for the sake of one who dwelt there. Then he turned away, and walked slowly down the street.
Mr. Schöninger was essentially and sufficiently manly. If the long pursuit of money had been dry and distasteful to him, he had made no complaint of the necessity, even to himself. That which must be done he attempted and carried out as best he might, feeling, it may be, a certain pleasure in exercising his will; perceiving, also, a goal ahead where such sordid strife would end. It may be that even in the fascinating and delightful exercise of his art, there had still been a sense of something lacking; for the artist is, above all things, human, and this man was alone; but he made no sentimental moan. The want, if it had a voice, was never listened to. It was only now, in the moment of a sharp and bitter pain that had cleft his heart, and a soothing sweetness that had fallen on the wound like an unguent, that he realized how utterly without sympathy his life had been, and how all that had made it tolerable had been a looking forward to something better. He was like one who, wandering long in a frozen desert, sees unexpectedly the warm, red hearth-light shining toward his feet. It was not his home-light, but another's; yet it touched him so that his heart woke up with a cry, and demanded something in the present, and could no longer be satisfied with a vague expectation.