{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15067/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15067","id":"gutenberg_15067","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15067","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Shell, Cori Samuel and the PG Online Distributed\nProofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJ.K. Huysmans\n\n\nTHE CATHEDRAL\n\n\nTranslated by Clara Bell\n\n\n_Publishing History_\nFirst published in France in 1898\nFirst English edition in 1898\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHEDRAL.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nAt Chartres, as you turn out of the little market-place, which is swept\nin all weathers by the surly wind from the flats, a mild air as of a\ncellar, made heavy by a soft, almost smothered scent of oil, puffs in\nyour face on entering the solemn gloom of the sheltering forest.\n\nDurtal knew it well, and the delightful moment when he could take\nbreath, still half-stunned by the sudden change from a stinging north\nwind to a velvety airy caress. At five every morning he left his rooms,\nand to reach the covert of that strange forest he had to cross the\nsquare; the same figures were always to be seen at the turnings from the\nsame streets; nuns with bowed heads, leaning forward, the borders of\ntheir caps blown back and flapping like wings, the wind whirling in\ntheir skirts, which they could hardly hold down; and shrunken women, in\ngarments they hugged round them, struggling forward with bent shoulders\nlashed by the gusts.\n\nNever at that hour had he seen anybody walking boldly upright, without\nstraining her neck and bowing her head; and these scattered women\ngathered by degrees into two long lines, one of them turning to the\nleft, to vanish under a lighted porch opening to a lower level than the\nsquare; the other going straight on, to be swallowed up in the darkness\nby an invisible wall.\n\nClosing the procession came a few belated priests, hurrying on, with one\nhand gathering up the gown that ballooned behind them, and with the\nother clutching their hats, or snatching at the breviary that was\nslipping from under one arm, their faces hidden on their breast, to\nplough through the wind with the back of their neck; with red ears, eyes\nblinded with tears, clinging desperately, when it rained, to umbrellas\nthat swayed above them, threatening to lift them from the ground and\ndragging them in every direction.\n\nThe passage had been more than usually stormy this morning; the squalls\nthat tear across the district of La Beauce, where nothing can check\nthem, had been bellowing for hours; there had been rain, and the puddles\nsplashed under foot. It was difficult to see, and Durtal had begun to\nthink that he should never succeed in getting past the dim mass of the\nwall that shut in the square, by pushing open the door behind which lay\nthat weird forest, redolent of the night-lamp and the tomb, and\nprotected from the gale.\n\nHe sighed with satisfaction, and followed the wide path that led through\nthe gloom. Though he knew his way, he walked cautiously in this alley,\nbordered by enormous trunks, their crowns lost in shadow. He could have\nfancied himself in a hothouse roofed with black glass, for there were\nflagstones under foot, and no sky could be seen, no breeze could stir\noverhead. The few stars whose glimmer twinkled from afar belonged to our\nfirmament; they quivered almost on the ground, and were, in fact,\nearth-born.\n\nIn this obscurity nothing was to be heard but the fall of quiet feet,\nnothing to be seen but silent shades visible against the twilight like\nshapes of deeper darkness.\n\nDurtal presently turned into another wide walk crossing that he had\nleft. There he found a bench backed by the trunk of a tree, and on this\nhe leaned, waiting till the Mother should awake, and the sweet interview\ninterrupted yesterday by the close of the day should begin again.\n\nHe thought of the Virgin, whose watchful care had so often preserved him\nfrom unexpected risk, easy slips, or greater falls. Was not She the\nbottomless Well of goodness, the Bestower of the gifts of good Patience,\nthe Opener of dry and obdurate hearts? Was She not, above all, the\nliving and thrice Blessed Mother?\n\nBending for ever over the squalid bed of the soul, she washed the sores,\ndressed the wounds, strengthened the fainting weakness of converts.\nThrough all the ages She was the eternal supplicant, eternally\nentreated; at once merciful and thankful; merciful to the woes She\nalleviated, and thankful to them too. She was indeed our debtor for our\nsins, since, but for the wickedness of man, Jesus would never have been\nborn under the corrupt semblance of our image, and She would not have\nbeen the immaculate Mother of God. Thus our woe was the first cause of\nHer joy; and this supremest good resulting from the very excess of Evil,\nthis touching though superfluous bond, linking us to Her, was indeed the\nmost bewildering of mysteries; for Her gratitude would seem unneeded,\nsince Her inexhaustible mercy was enough to attach Her to us for ever.\n\nThenceforth, in Her immense humility, She had at various times\ncondescended to the masses; She had appeared in the most remote spots,\nsometimes seeming to rise from the earth, sometimes floating over the\nabyss, descending on solitary mountain peaks, bringing multitudes to Her\nfeet, and working cures; then, as if weary of wandering to be adored,\nShe wished--so it had seemed--to fix the worship in one place, and had\ndeserted Her ancient haunts in favour of Lourdes.\n\nThat town was the second stage of Her progress through France in the\nnineteenth century. Her first visit was to La Salette.\n\nThis was years ago. On the 19th of September, 1846, the Virgin had\nappeared to two children on a hill; it was a Saturday, the day dedicated\nto Her, which, that year, was a fast day by reason of the Ember week. By\nanother coincidence, this Saturday was the eve of the Festival of Our\nLady of Seven Dolours, and the first vespers were being chanted when\nMary appeared as from a shell of glory just above the ground.\n\nAnd she appeared as Our Lady of Tears in that desert landscape of\nstubborn rocks and dismal hills. Weeping bitterly, She had uttered\nreproofs and threats; and a spring, which never in the memory of man had\nflowed excepting at the melting of the snows, had never since been dried\nup.\n\nThe fame of this event spread far and wide; frantic thousands scrambled\nup fearful paths to a spot so high that trees could not grow there.\nCaravans of the sick and dying were conveyed, God knows how, across\nravines to drink the water; and maimed limbs recovered, and tumours\nmelted away to the chanting of canticles.\n\nThen, by degrees, after the sordid debates of a contemptible lawsuit,\nthe reputation of La Salette dwindled to nothing; pilgrims were few,\nmiracles were less often proclaimed. The Virgin, it would seem, was\ngone; She had ceased to care for this spring of piety and these\nmountains.\n\nAt the present day few persons climb to La Salette but the natives of\nDauphine, tourists wandering through the Alps, or invalids following the\ncure at the neighbouring mineral springs of La Mothe. Conversions and\nspiritual graces still abound there, but bodily healing there is next to\nnone.\n\n\"In fact,\" said Durtal to himself, \"the vision at La Salette became\nfamous without its ever being known exactly why. It may be supposed to\nhave grown up as follows: the report, confined at first to the village\nof Corps at the foot of the mountain, spread first throughout the\ndepartment, was taken up by the adjacent provinces, filtered over all\nFrance, overflowed the frontier, trickled through Europe, and at last\ncrossed the seas to land in the New World which, in its turn, felt the\nthrob, and also came to this wilderness to hail the Virgin.\n\n\"And the circumstances attending these pilgrimages were such as might\nhave daunted the determination of the most persevering. To reach the\nlittle inn, perched on high near the church, the lazy rumbling of slow\ntrains must be endured for hours, and constant changes at stations; days\nmust be spent in the diligence, and nights in breeding-places of fleas\nat country inns; and after flaying your back on the carding-combs of\nimpossible beds, you must rise at daybreak to start on a giddy climb, on\nfoot or riding a mule, up zig-zag bridle-paths above precipices; and at\nlast, when you are there, there are no fir trees, no beeches, no\npastures, no torrents; nothing--nothing but total solitude, and silence\nunbroken even by the cry of a bird, for at that height no bird is to be\nfound.\n\n\"What a scene!\" thought Durtal, calling up the memories of a journey he\nhad made with the Abbe Gevresin and his housekeeper, since leaving La\nTrappe. He remembered the horrors of a spot he had passed between Saint\nGeorges de Commiers and La Mure, and his alarm in the carriage as the\ntrain slowly travelled across the abyss. Beneath was darkness increasing\nin spirals down to the vasty deeps; above, as far as the eye could\nreach, piles of mountains invaded the sky.\n\nThe train toiled up, snorting and turning round and round like a top;\nthen, going into a tunnel, was swallowed by the earth; it seemed to be\npushing the light of day away in front, till it suddenly came out into a\nclearing full of sunshine; presently, as if it were retracing its road,\nit rushed into another burrow, and emerged with the strident yell of a\nsteam whistle and deafening clatter of wheels, to fly up the winding\nribbon of road cut in the living rock.\n\nSuddenly the peaks parted, a wide opening brought the train out into\nbroad daylight; the scene lay clear before them, terrible on all sides.\n\n\"Le Drac!\" exclaimed the Abbe Gevresin, pointing to a sort of liquid\nserpent at the bottom of the precipice, writhing and tossing between\nrocks in the very jaws of the pit.\n\nFor now and again the reptile flung itself up on points of stone that\nrent it as it passed; the waters changed as though poisoned by these\nfangs; they lost their steely hue, and whitened with foam like a bran\nbath; then the Drac hurried on faster, faster, flinging itself into the\nshadowy gorge; lingered again on gravelly reaches, wallowing in the sun;\npresently it gathered up its scattered rivulets and went on its way,\nscaly with scum like the iridescent dross on boiling lead, till, far\naway, the rippling rings spread and vanished, skinned and leaving behind\nthem on the banks a white granulated cuticle of pebbles, a hide of dry\nsand.\n\nDurtal, as he leaned out of the carriage window, looked straight down\ninto the gulf; on this narrow way with only one line of rails, the train\non one side was close to the towering hewn rock, and on the other was\nthe void. Great God! if it should run off the rails! \"What a hash!\"\nthought he.\n\nAnd what was not less overwhelming than the appalling depth of the abyss\nwas, as he looked up, the sight of the furious, frenzied assault of the\npeaks. Thus, in that carriage, he was literally between the earth and\nsky, and the ground over which it was moving was invisible, being\ncovered for its whole width by the body of the train.\n\nOn they went, suspended in mid-air at a giddy height, along interminable\nbalconies without parapets; and below, the cliffs dropped\navalanche-like, fell straight, bare, without a patch of vegetation or a\ntree. In places they looked as if they had been split down by the blows\nof an axe--huge growths of petrified wood; in others they seemed sawn\nthrough shaley layers of slate.\n\nAnd all round lay a wide amphitheatre of endless mountains, hiding the\nheavens, piled one above another, barring the way to the travelling\nclouds, stopping the onward march of the sky.\n\nSome made a good show with their jagged grey crests, huge masses of\noyster shells; others, with scorched summits, like burnt pyramids of\ncoke, were green half-way up. These bristled with pine woods to the very\nedge of the precipices, and they were scarred too with white\ncrosses--the high roads, dotted in places with Nuremberg dogs,\nred-roofed hamlets, sheepfolds that seemed on the verge of tumbling\nheadlong, clinging on--how, it was impossible to guess, and flung here\nand there on patches of green carpet glued on to the steep hill-sides;\nwhile other peaks towered higher still, like vast calcined hay-cocks,\nwith doubtfully dead craters still brooding internal fires, and trailing\nsmoky clouds which, as they blew off, really seemed to be coming out of\ntheir summits.\n\nThe landscape was ominous; the sight of it was strangely discomfiting;\nperhaps because it impugned the sense of the infinite that lurks within\nus. The firmament was no more than a detail, cast aside like needless\nrubbish on the desert peaks of the hills. The abyss was the\nall-important fact; it made the sky look small and trivial, substituting\nthe magnificence of its depths for the grandeur of eternal space.\n\nThe eye, in fact, turned away with disappointment from the sky, which\nhad lost its infinitude of depth, its immeasurable breadth, for the\nmountains seemed to touch it, pierce it, and uphold it; they cut it up,\nsawing it with the jagged teeth of their pinnacles, showing mere\ntattered skirts of blue and rags of cloud.\n\nThe eye was involuntarily attracted to the ravines, and the head swam at\nthe sight of those, vast pits of blackness. This immensity in the wrong\nplace, stolen from above and cast into the depths, was horrible.\n\nThe Abbe had said that the Drac was one of the most formidable torrents\nin France; at the moment it was dormant, almost dry; but when the\nseason of snows and storms comes it wakes up and flashes like a tide of\nsilver, hisses and tosses, foams and leaps, and can in an instant\nswallow up villages and dams.\n\n\"It is hideous,\" thought Durtal. \"That bilious flood must carry fevers\nwith it; it is accursed and rotten with its soapy foam-flakes, its\nmetallic hues, its scrap of rainbow-colour stranded in the mud.\"\n\nDurtal now thought over all these details; as he closed his eyes he\ncould see the Drac and La Salette.\n\n\"Ah!\" thought he, \"they may well be proud of the pilgrims who venture to\nthose desolate regions to pray where the vision actually appeared, for\nwhen once they are there they are packed on a little plot of ground no\nbigger than the Place Saint Sulpice, hemmed in on one side by a church\nof rough stone daubed with cement of the colour of Valbonnais mustard,\nand on the other by a graveyard. The horizon is a circle of cones, of\ndry scoriae, like pumice, or covered with short grass; above them, the\nglassy slope of perpetual ice and snow; to walk on, a scanty growth of\ngrass moth-eaten by sand. In two words, to sum up the scene, it was\nnature's scab, the leprosy of the earth.\n\n\"From the artistic point of view, on this microscopic grand parade,\nclose to the spring whose waters are caught in pipes with taps, three\nbronze statues stand in different spots. One, a Virgin, in the most\npreposterous garments, her headgear a sort of pastry-mould, a Mohican's\nbonnet, is on her knees weeping, with her face hidden in her hands. Then\nthe same Woman, standing up, her hands ecclesiastically shrouded in her\nsleeves, looks at the two children to whom she is speaking; Maximin,\nwith hair curled like a poodle, twirling a cap like a raised pie, in his\nhand; Melanie buried in a cap with deep frills and accompanied by a dog\nlike a paper-weight--all in bronze. Finally the same Person, once more\nalone, standing on tip-toe, her eyes raised to heaven with a\nmelodramatic expression.\n\n\"Never has the frightful appetite for the hideous that disgraces the\nChurch in our day been so resolutely displayed as on this spot; and if\nthe soul suffered in the presence of the obtrusive outrage of this\ndegrading work--perpetrated by one Barreme of Angers and cast in the\nsteam foundries of Le Creusot--the body too had something to endure on\nthis plateau under the crushing mass of hills that shut in the view.\n\n\"And yet it was hither that thousands of sick creatures had had\nthemselves hauled up to face the cruel climate, where in summer the sun\nburns you to a cinder while, two yards away, in the shade of the church,\nyou are frozen.\n\n\"The first and greatest miracle accomplished at La Salette was that of\nbringing such an invasion to this precipitous spot in the Alps, for\neverything combines to forbid it.\n\n\"But crowds came there year after year, till Lourdes took possession of\nthem; for it is since the apparition of the Virgin there that La Salette\nhas fallen into disrepute.\n\n\"Twelve years after the vision at La Salette, the Virgin showed herself\nagain, not in Dauphine this time, but in the depths of Gascony. After\nthe Mother of Tears, Our Lady of Seven Dolours, it was Our Lady of\nSmiles, of the Immaculate Conception, the Sovereign Lady of Joy in\nGlory, who appeared; and here again it was to a shepherdess that she\nrevealed the existence of a spring that healed diseases.\n\n\"And here it is that consternation begins. Lourdes may be described as\nthe exact opposite to La Salette; the scenery is magnificent, the hills\nin the foreground are covered with verdure, the tamed mountains permit\naccess to their heights; on all sides there are shady avenues, fine\ntrees, living waters, gentle slopes, broad roads devoid of danger and\naccessible to all; instead of a wilderness, a town, where every\nrequirement of the sick is provided for. Lourdes may be reached without\nadventures in warrens of vermin, without enduring nights in country\ninns, or days of jolting in wretched vehicles, without creeping along\nthe face of a precipice; and the traveller is at his destination when he\ngets out of the train.\n\n\"This town then was so admirably chosen for the resort of crowds, that\nit did not seem necessary that Providence should intervene with such\nstrong measures to attract them.\n\n\"But God, who forced La Salette on the world without availing Himself of\nthe means of fashionable notoriety, now changed His tactics; with\nLourdes, advertisement appeared on the scene.\n\n\"This it is that confounds the mind: Jesus condescending to make use of\nthe wretched arts of human commerce; adopting the repulsive tricks which\nwe employ to float a manufacture or a business.\n\n\"And we wonder whether this may not be the sternest lesson in humility\never given to man, as well as the most vehement reproof hurled at the\nAmerican abominations of our day--God reduced to lowering Himself once\nmore to our level, to speaking our language, to using our own devices\nthat He may make Himself heard and obeyed; God no longer even trying to\nmake us understand His purpose through Himself, or to uplift us to that\nheight.\n\n\"In point of fact, the way in which the Lord set to work to promulgate\nthe mercies peculiar to Lourdes is astounding. To make them known He is\nno longer content to spread the report of its miracles by word of mouth;\nno, and it might be supposed that in His eyes Lourdes is harder to\nmagnify than La Salette--He adopted strong measures from the first. He\nraised up a man whose book, translated into every language, carried the\nnews of the vision to the most distant lands, and certified the truth of\nthe cures effected at Lourdes.\n\n\"To the end that this work should stir up the masses, it was necessary\nthat the writer destined to the task should be a clever organizer, and\nat the same time a man devoid of individuality of style and of any novel\nideas. In a word, what was needed was a man devoid of talent; and that\nis quite intelligible, since from the point of view of appreciating art\nthe Catholic public is still a hundred feet beneath the profane public.\nAnd our Lord did the thing well; he selected Henri Lasserre.\n\n\"Consequently the mine exploded as required, rending souls and bringing\ncrowds out on to the road to Lourdes.\n\n\"Years went by. The fame of the sanctuary is an established fact.\nIndisputable cures are effected by supernatural means and certified by\nclinical authorities, whose good faith and scientific skill are above\nsuspicion. Lourdes has its fill; and yet, little by little, in the long\nrun, though pilgrims do not cease to flow thither, the commotion about\nthe Grotto is diminishing. It is dying out, if not in the religious\nworld, at any rate in the wider world of the careless or the doubting,\nwho must be convinced. And our Lord thinks it desirable to revive\nattention to the benefits dispensed by His Mother.\n\n\"Lasserre was not such an instrument as could renew the half-exhausted\nvogue enjoyed by Lourdes. The public was soaked in his book; it had\nswallowed it in every vehicle and in every form; the end was achieved;\nthis budding-knife of miracles was a tool that might now be laid aside.\n\n\"What was now wanted was a book entirely unlike his; a book that would\ninfluence the vaster public, whom his homely prosiness would never\nreach. Lourdes must make its way through denser and less malleable\nstrata, to a public of higher class, and harder to please. It was\nrequisite, therefore, that this new book should be written by a man of\ntalent, whose style nevertheless should not be so transcendental as to\nscare folks. And it was an advantage that the writer should be very well\nknown, so that his enormous editions might counterpoise those of\nLasserre.\n\n\"Now in all the realm of literature there was but one man who could\nfulfil these imperative conditions: Emile Zola. In vain should we seek\nanother. He alone with his battering push, his enormous sale, his\nblatant advertisement, could launch Lourdes once more.\n\n\"It mattered little that he would deny supernatural agency and endeavour\nto explain inexplicable cures by the meanest hypotheses; it mattered\nlittle that he mixed mortar of the medical muck of a Charcot to make his\nwretched theory hold together; the great thing was that noisy debates\nshould arise about the book of which more than a hundred and fifty\nthousand copies proclaimed the name of Lourdes throughout the world.\n\n\"And then the very disorder of his arguments, the poor resort to a\n'breath that heals the people,' invented in contradiction to all the\ndata of positive science on which he prided himself, with the purpose of\nmaking these extraordinary cures intelligible--cures which he had seen,\nand of which he dared not deny the reality or the frequency--were\nadmirable means of persuading unprejudiced and candid inquirers of the\nauthenticity of the recoveries effected year after year at Lourdes.\n\n\"This avowed testimony to such amazing facts was enough to give a fresh\nimpetus to the masses. It must be remarked, too, that the book betrays\nno hostility to the Virgin, of whom it speaks only in respectful terms\non the whole; so is it not very credible that the scandal to which this\nwork gave rise was profitable?\n\n\"To sum up: it may be asserted that Lasserre and Zola were both useful\ninstruments; one devoid of talent, and for that very reason penetrating\nto the very lowest strata of the Catholic methodists; the other, on the\ncontrary, making himself welcome to a more intelligent and cultivated\npublic, by those splendid passages where the flaming multitude of\nprocessions moves on, and amid a cyclone of anguish, the triumphant\nfaith of the white ranks is exultant.\n\n\"Oh, yes! She is fond of Her Lourdes, is Our Lady, and pets it. She\nseems to have centred all Her powers there, all Her favours; Her other\nsanctuaries are perishing that this one may live!\n\n\"Why?\n\n\"Why, above all, have created La Salette and then sacrificed it, as it\nwere?\n\n\"That She should have appeared there is quite intelligible,\" thought\nDurtal, answering himself. \"The Virgin is more highly venerated in\nDauphine than in any other province; chapels dedicated to Her worship\nswarm in those parts, and She meant perhaps to reward their zeal by Her\ngracious presence.\n\n\"On the other hand, She appeared there with a special and very definite\nend in view: to preach repentance to mankind, and especially to priests.\nShe ratified by certain miracles the evidence of this mission which She\nconfided to Melanie, and then, that being accomplished, She could desert\nthe spot where She had, no doubt, never intended to remain.\n\n\"And after all,\" he went on, after a moment's reflection, \"may we not\nadmit an even simpler solution, namely, this:--\n\n\"Mary vouchsafes to appear under various aspects to satisfy the tastes\nand cravings of each soul. At La Salette, where She descended in a\ndistressful spot, all in tears, She revealed Herself no doubt to certain\npersons, more especially to the souls in love with sorrow, the mystical\nsouls that delight in reviving the anguish of the Passion and following\nthe Mother in Her heart-breaking way to the Cross. She would thus seem\nless attractive to the vulgar who do not love woe or weeping; it may be\nadded that they still less love reproof and threats. The Virgin of La\nSalette could not become popular, by reason of Her aspect and address,\nwhile She of Lourdes, who appeared smiling, and prophesied no\ncatastrophes, was easy of access to the hopes and gladness of the crowd.\n\n\"She was, in short, in that sanctuary, the Virgin of the world at large,\nnot the Virgin of mystics and artists, the Virgin of the few, as at La\nSalette.\n\n\"What a mystery is this direct intervention of the Christ's Mother on\nearth!\" thought Durtal.\n\nAnd he went on: \"It is clear, on reflection, that the churches founded\nby Her may be classed in two very distinct groups.\n\n\"One group where She has revealed Herself to certain persons, where\nwaters spring and bodily ills are healed: La Salette and Lourdes.\n\n\"The other, where She has never been gazed on by human beings, or where\nHer appearance occurred in immemorial times, in forgotten centuries, the\ndead ages. In those chapels prayer alone is in force, and Mary answers\nit without the help of any waters. Indeed, She effects more moral than\nphysical cures. Notre Dame de Fourvieres at Lyon, Notre Dame de\nSous-Terre at Chartres, Notre Dame des Victoires at Paris, to mention\nonly three.\n\n\"Wherefore this difference? None can understand, and probably none will\never know. At most may we suppose that in compassion for the everlasting\ncraving of our hapless souls wearied with prayer without sight, She\nwould fain confirm our faith and help to gather in the flock by showing\nHerself.\n\n\"In all this obscurity,\" Durtal went on, \"is it at least possible to\ndiscern some dim landmarks, some vague law?\n\n\"As we gaze into the darkness, two spots of light appear,\" he replied to\nhimself.\n\n\"In the first place, this: She appears to none but the poor and humble;\nShe addresses the simple souls who have in a way handed down the\nprimitive occupation, the biblical function of the Patriarchs; She\nunveils herself to the children of the soil, to the shepherds, to girls\nas they watch the flock. Both at La Salette and at Lourdes She chose\nlittle pastors for Her confidants, and this is intelligible, since, by\nacting thus, she confirms the known will of Her Son; the first to behold\nthe infant Jesus in the manger at Bethlehem were in fact shepherds, and\nit was from among men of the lowest class that Christ chose His\napostles.\n\n\"And is not the water that serves as a medium of cure prefigured in the\nSacred Books--in the Old Testament by the River Jordan, which cleansed\nNaaman of his leprosy; and in the New by the probationary pool stirred\nby an angel?\n\n\"Another law seems no less probable. The Virgin is, as far as possible,\nconsiderate of the temperament and individual character of the persons\nShe appears to. She places Herself on the level of their intellect, is\nincarnate in the only material form that they can conceive of. She\nassumes the simple aspect these poor creatures love, accepting the blue\nand white robes, the crown and wreaths of roses, the trinkets and\ngarlands and frippery of a first Communion, the ugliest garb.\n\n\"There is not indeed a single case where the shepherd maids who saw Her\ndescribed Her otherwise than as a 'beautiful lady' with the features of\nthe Virgin of a village altar, a Madonna of the Saint-Sulpice shops, a\nstreet-corner Queen.\n\n\"These two rules are more or less universal,\" said Durtal to himself.\n\"As to the Son, it would seem that He never now will reveal Himself in\nhuman form to the masses. Since His appearance to the Blessed Mary\nMargaret, whom He employed as a mouthpiece to address the people, He has\nbeen silent. He keeps in the background, giving precedence to His\nMother.\n\n\"He, it is true, reserves for Himself a dwelling in the secret places,\nthe hidden regions, the strongholds of the soul, as Saint Theresa calls\nthem; but His presence is unseen and His words spoken within us, and\ngenerally not apprehended by means of the senses.\"\n\nDurtal ceased speaking, confessing to himself how inane were these\nreflections, how powerless the human reason to investigate the\ninconceivable purposes of the Almighty; and again his thoughts turned to\nthat journey to Dauphine which haunted his memory.\n\n\"Ah! but the chain of the High Alps and the peaks of La Salette,\" said\nhe to himself; \"that huge white hotel, that church coloured with dirty\nyellow lime-wash, vaguely Byzantine and vaguely Romanesque in its\narchitecture, and that little cell with the plaster Christ nailed to a\nflat black wooden Cross--that tiny Sanctuary plainly white-washed, and\nso small that one could step across it in any direction--they were\npregnant with her presence, all the same!\"\n\n\"Surely She revisited that spot, in spite of Her apparent desertion, to\ncomfort all comers; She seemed so close at hand, so attentive and so\ngrieving, in the evening as one sat alone by the light of a candle, that\nthe soul seemed to burst open like a pod shedding the fruit of sin, the\nseeds of evil deeds; and repentance, that had been so tardily evolved,\nand sometimes so indefinite, became so suddenly despotic and\nunmistakable that the penitent dropped on his knees by the bed, and\nburied his head sobbing in the sheets. Ah, those were evenings of mortal\ndulness and yet sweetly sad! The soul was rent, its very fibres laid\nbare, but was not the Virgin at hand, so pitiful, so motherly, that\nafter, the worst was over She took the bleeding soul in her arms and\nrocked it to sleep like a sick child.\n\n\"Then, during the day, the church afforded a refuge from the frenzy of\ngiddiness that came over one; the eye, bewildered by the precipices on\nevery side, distracted by the sight of the clouds that suddenly gathered\nbelow and steamed off in white fleece from the sides of the rocks, found\nrest under the shelter of those walls.\n\n\"And finally, to make up for the horrors of the scene and of the\nstatues, to mitigate the grotesqueness of the inn-servants, who had\nbeards like sappers and clothes like little boys--the caps, and holland\nblouses with belts, and shiny black breeches, like cast iron, of the\nchildren at the Saint Nicolas school in Paris--extraordinary characters,\nsouls of divine simplicity expanded there.\"\n\nAnd Durtal recollected the admirable scene he had watched there one\nmorning.\n\nHe was sitting on the little plateau, in the icy shade of the church,\ngazing before him at the graveyard and the motionless swell of mountain\ntops. Far away, in the very sky, a string of beads moved on, one by one,\non the ribbon of path that edged the precipice. And by degrees these\nspecks, at first merely dark, assumed the bright hues of dresses,\nassumed the form of coloured bells surmounted by white knobs, and at\nlast took shape as a line of peasant women wearing white caps.\n\nAnd still in single file they came down the square.\n\nAfter crossing themselves as they passed the cemetery, they went each to\ndrink a cup of water at the spring and then turned round; and Durtal,\nwho was watching them, saw this:\n\nAt their head walked an old woman of at least a hundred, very tall and\nstill upright, her head covered by a sort of hood from which her stiff,\nwavy hair escaped in tangled grey locks like iron wire. Her face was\nshrivelled like the peel of an onion, and so thin that, looking at her\nin profile, daylight could be seen through her skin.\n\nShe knelt down at the foot of the first statue, and behind her, her\ncompanions, girls of about eighteen for the most part, clasped their\nhands and shut their eyes; and slowly a change came over them.\n\nUnder the breath of prayer, the soul, buried under the ashes of worldly\ncares, flamed up, and the air that fanned it made it glow like an inward\nfire, lighting up the thick cheeks, the stolid, heavy features. It\nsmoothed out the crackled surface of wrinkles, softened in the younger\nwomen the vulgarity of chapped red lips, gave colour to the dull brown\nflesh, overflowed in the smile on lips half parted in silent prayer, in\ntimid kisses offered with simple good faith, and returned no doubt in an\nineffable thrill by the Holy Child they had cherished from His birth,\nwho, since the martyrdom of Calvary, had grown to be the Spouse of\nSorrows.\n\nThey felt, perhaps, something of the raptures of the Blessed Virgin who\nis Mother and Wife and at the same time the beatified Handmaid of God.\n\nAnd in the silence a voice as from the remotest ages arose, and the\nancestress said, \"_Pater Noster_,\" and they all repeated the prayer, and\nthen dragged themselves on their knees up the steps of the way of\ncrosses, where the fourteen upright posts, each with its cast metal\nbas-relief, bordered a serpentine path, dividing the statues from the\ngroups. Thus they went forward, stopping long enough to recite an _Ave_\non each step they climbed, and then, helping themselves with their\nhands, they mounted to the next. And when the rosary was ended the old\nwoman rose, and they solemnly followed her into the church, where they\nall prayed a long time, prostrate before the altar; and the grandmother\nstood up, gave each holy water at the door, led her flock to the spring\nwhere they all drank again, and then they went away, without speaking a\nword, one after another up the narrow path, ending as black specks just\nas they had come, and vanishing on the horizon.\n\n\"Those women have been two days and two nights crossing the mountains,\"\nsaid a priest, coming up to Durtal. \"They started from the depths of\nSavoy, and have travelled almost without rest to spend a few minutes\nhere; they will sleep to night in a cow-house or a cave, as chance may\ndirect, and to-morrow by daybreak they will start again on their\nweariful way.\"\n\nDurtal was overpowered by the radiant splendour of such faith.\n\nIt was possible, then, to find souls ever young, souls ever new, souls\nas of undying children, watching where absolute solitude was not,\noutside cloister walls, in the waste places of these peaks and gorges,\nand amid this race of stern and rugged peasants. Here were women who,\nwithout knowing it even, lived the contemplative life in union with God,\nwhile they dug the barren slopes of a little plot at some prodigious\nelevation. They were Leah and Rachel, Martha and Mary in one; and these\nwomen believed guilelessly, entirely, as man believed in the middle\nages. These beings, with their rough-hewn feelings, their shapeless\nideas, hardly able to express themselves, hardly knowing how to read,\nwept with love in the presence of the Inaccessible, whom they compelled\nby their humility and single-heartedness to appear, to become actual to\ntheir mind.\n\n\"Yes, it was but just that the Virgin should cherish them and choose\nthem above all others to be Her vessels of election.\n\n\"Yes. For they are unburdened with the dreadful weight of doubt, they\nare endowed with almost total ignorance of evil.\n\n\"And yet are there not some souls too experienced, alas! in the culture\nof wrong-doing, who nevertheless find mercy at Her feet? Has not the\nVirgin other sanctuaries less frequented, less well known, which yet\nhave outlived the wear of time, the various caprice of the ages; very\nancient churches where She welcomes you if you love Her in solitude and\nsilence?\"\n\nAnd Durtal, coming back to Chartres once more, looked about him at the\npersons who were waiting in the warm shade of the indefinite forest till\nthe Virgin should awake, to worship Her.\n\nWith dawn, now beginning to break, this forest of the church under whose\nshade he was sitting became absolutely unintelligible. The shapes,\nfaintly sketched, were transformed in the gloom which blurred every\noutline as it slowly faded. Below, in the vanishing mist, rose the\nimmemorial trunks of fabulous white trees, planted as it seemed in wells\nthat held them tightly in the rigid circle of their margin; and the\nnight, now almost diaphanous on the level of the ground, was thicker as\nit rose, cutting them off at the spring of the branches, which were\nstill invisible.\n\nDurtal, as he raised his head, gazed into deep obscurity unlighted by\nmoon or star.\n\nLooking up still, but straight before him, he saw in the air, through\nthe hazy twilight, sword-blades already bright, gigantic blades without\nhilts or handles, thinner towards the point; and these blades, standing\non end at an immense height, appeared in the gloom they cut, to be\npatterned with vague intaglios or in ill-defined relief.\n\nAs he peered into space to the right and left, he was aware of a\ngigantic panoply on each side at a vast height, resting on blocks of\ndarkness, and consisting of a colossal shield riddled with holes,\nhanging above five broader swords, without hilts, but damascened on\ntheir flat blades with indefinite designs of bewildering niello.\n\nLittle by little the tentative sun of a doubtful winter's day pierced\nthe fog, which vanished in blueness; the shield that hung to the left of\nDurtal, the north, was the first to come to life; rosy fires and the\nlurid flames of punch gleamed in its hollows, while below, in the middle\nblade, there started forth in the steel-grey arch, the gigantic image of\na negress robed in green with a brown mantle. Her head, wrapped in a\nblue kerchief, was set in a golden glory, and she stared out, hieratic\nand wild-looking, with white, wide-open eyes.\n\nAnd this engimatical Ethiop had on her knees a black infant whose eyes,\nin the same way, stood out like snowballs from the dusky face.\n\nAll about her, very gradually, the other swords, still so dim, began to\nglow, blood rippling from their crimsoned points as if from recent\nslaughter; and this trickling red formed a setting for the shapes of\nbeings come, no doubt, from the distant shores of Ganges: on one side a\nking playing on a golden harp; on the other a monarch wielding a sceptre\nending in the turquoise-blue petals of a fabulous lily.\n\nThen, to the left of the royal musician there was another man, bearded,\nwith a walnut-stained face, the eye-sockets vacant and covered by round\nspectacles; on his head were a diadem and a tiara, in his hands a\nchalice and a paten, a censer and a loaf; while to the right of the\nother sovereign who held the sceptre, a still more harassing shape came\nforth against the blue background of the sword--a sort of oriental\nbrigand, escaped perhaps from the prison cells of Persepolis or Susa, a\nbandit as it seemed, wearing a little scarlet cap edged with yellow, in\nshape like an inverted jam-pot, and a tan-coloured gown with white\nstripes on the skirt; and this clumsy and ferocious personage bore a\ngreen palm and a book.\n\nDurtal turned away to sound the depths of darkness, and before him, at a\ngiddy height on the horizon, more sword-blades gleamed. The scrawls\nwhich might have been mistaken in the darkness for patterns embossed or\nincised on the surface of the steel, developed into figures draped in\nlong, straight, pleated robes; and at the highest point of the firmament\nthere hovered amid a sparkle of rubies and sapphires a woman crowned,\npale of face, dressed like the Moorish mother of the northern side in\nCarmelite-brown and green; and she too held an infant, a child, like\nherself, of the white race, clasping a globe in one hand, and extending\nthe other in benediction.\n\nLast of all, the still dark side, the late side, to Durtal's right hand\nand further south, till now wrapped in the half-dispelled morning haze,\nwas lighted up; the shield opposite to that on the north caught the\nblaze, and below it, against the polished metal of the broad blade\nfacing that which presented the negress queen, appeared a woman of\nsomewhat olive hue, in raiment like the others, of myrtle-green and\nbrown, holding a sceptre, and with her, too, there was a child. And\nround her again emerged images of men piled up one above the other,\nshouldering each other in the narrow field they filled.\n\nFor a quarter of an hour nothing was clearly defined; then the real\nthings asserted themselves. In the middle of the swords, which were in\nfact mosaic of glass, the figures stood out in broad daylight. In the\nfield of each window with its pointed arch bearded faces took form,\nmotionless in the midst of fire; and on all sides, in the thicket of\nflames, as it were the burning bush of Horeb where God showed His glory\nto Moses, the Virgin was seen in an unchangeable attitude of imperious\nsweetness and pensive grace, mute and still, and crowned with gold.\n\nShe was, indeed, many; She came down from the empyrean to lower levels,\nto be closer to Her flock, and at last found a place where they might\nalmost kiss Her feet, at the corner of an aisle that was always in\ngloom; but there She wore a different aspect.\n\nShe stood forth in the middle of a window, like a tall, blue plant, and\nthe garnet-red foliage was supported by black iron rods.\n\nHer colour was slightly coppery, almost Chinese, with a long nose and\nrather narrow eyes; on the head there was a black coif, and She looked\nsteadily before Her, while the lower part of the face with its short\nchin, the mouth rather drawn by two grave lines, gave it an expression\nof suffering that was even a little morose. And here again, under the\nimmemorial name of Notre Dame de la belle Verriere, she held an infant\nin a dress of raisin-purple, a child barely visible in the mixture of\ndark hues all about it.\n\nIn short, She to whom all appealed was there; everywhere under the\nforest roof of this cathedral the Virgin was present. She seemed to have\ncome from all the ends of the earth, under the semblance of every race\nknown in the Middle Ages: black as an African, tawny as a Mongolian,\npale coffee colour as a half-caste, and white as an European, thus\ndeclaring that, as mediator for the whole human race, She was everything\nto each, everything to all; and promising by the presence of Her Son,\nwhose features bore the character of each race, that the Messiah had\ncome to redeem all men without distinction.\n\nAnd it seemed as though the sun, as it mounted higher, followed the\ngrowth of the Virgin, taking its birth in the window where She was still\na babe in that northern transept where Saint Anne, her mother, of the\nblack face, sat between David, the king of the golden harp, and Solomon,\nthe bearer of the blue-lilied sceptre, each against a background of\npurple, to prefigure the royal birth of the Son; between Melchizedec,\nthe mitred patriarch, holding the censer, and Aaron, in the curious red\ncap bordered with lemon yellow, representing prophetically the\nPriesthood of Christ.\n\nAnd at the end of the apse, quite high up, there was another\nMary--triumphant, looking down the sacred grove, supported by figures\nfrom the Old Testament and by Saint Peter. It was She again who in the\nsouth transept faced Saint Anne, She, now a woman and herself a mother,\namid four enormous men bearing pick-a-back on their shoulders four\nsmaller figures; these were the four Greater Prophets who had foretold\nthe coming of the Messiah--Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, and Ezekiel,\nbearing the four Evangelists, and thus artlessly expressing the\nparallelism of the Old and New Testaments, and the support given by the\nOld Covenant to the New.\n\nAnd then, as though Her presence were not fully ubiquitous, as though\nShe desired that, turn where they might, Her worshippers should ever see\nHer, the Virgin was to be found on a smaller scale in less important\npositions; enthroned in the centre of the shields, in the heart of the\ngreat rose-windows, and finally, ceasing to appear as a mere picture,\ntook shape, materialized as a statue of black wood standing on a\npedestal in a full hooped skirt like a silver bell.\n\nThe sheltering forest had vanished with the darkness; the tree-trunks\nremained, but rose with giddy flight from the ground, unbroken pillars\nto the sky, meeting at a vast height under the groined vault; the forest\nwas seen as an immense church blossoming with roses of fire, pierced\nwith glowing glass, crowded with Virgins and apostles, patriarchs and\nsaints.\n\nThe genius of the middle ages had devised the skilful and pious lighting\nof this edifice, and harmonized the ascending march of day to some\nextent with its windows. The walls and the aisles were very dark, the\ndaylight creeping, mysteriously subdued, along the body of the church.\nIt was lost in the stained glass, checked by dark bishops, and opaque\nsaints completely filling the dusky-bordered windows with the dead hues\nof a Persian rug; the panes absorbed the sun's rays, refracting none,\narrested the powdered gold of the sunbeams in the dull violet of purple\negg-fruit, the tawny browns of tinder or tan, the too-blue greens, and\nthe wine-coloured red stained with soot, like the thick juice of\nmulberries.\n\nAs it reached the chancel, the light came in through brighter and\nclearer colours, through the blue of translucent sapphires, through pale\nrubies, brilliant yellow, and crystalline white. The gloom was relieved\nbeyond the transepts near the altar. Even in the centre of the cross the\nsun pierced clearer glass, less storied with figures, and bordered with\nalmost colourless panes that admitted it freely.\n\nAt last, in the apse, forming the top of the cross, it poured in,\nsymbolical of the light that flooded the world from the top of the Tree;\nand the pictures were diaphanous, just lightly covered with flowing\nlines and aerial tints, to frame in a sheaf of coloured sparks the image\nof a Madonna, less hieratic and barbaric than the others, and a fairer\nInfant, blessing the earth with uplifted hand.\n\nBy this time the Cathedral of Chartres was alive with the clatter of\nwooden shoes, the rustle of petticoats, and the tinkle of mass-bells.\n\nDurtal left the corner of the transept where he had been sitting with\nhis back to a pillar, and turned to the left, towards a bay where there\nwas a framework ablaze with lighted tapers before the statue of the\nVirgin.\n\nAnd schools of little girls under the guidance of Sisters, troops of\npeasant women and countrymen, poured out of every aisle, knelt in front\nof the image, and then came up to kiss the pedestal.\n\nThe appearance of these folks suggested to Durtal that their prayers\nwere not like those that are sobbed out at evening twilight, the\nsupplications of women worn and dismayed by the weary hours of day.\nThese peasant souls prayed less as complaining than as loving; these\npeople, kneeling on the flags, had come for Her sake rather than for\ntheir own. There was here and now a pause from grieving, a sort of\nreprieve from tears; and this attitude was in harmony with the special\naspect adopted by Mary in this cathedral; She was seen there, in fact,\nunder the form of a child and of a young mother; She was the Virgin of\nthe Nativity, rather than our Lady of Dolour. The old artists of the\nMiddle Ages seemed to have feared to sadden Her by reminding Her of\nmemories too painful, to have striven to prove by this delicate reserve,\ntheir gratitude to Her who in this sanctuary had ever shown Herself to\nbe the Dispenser of Mercies, the Lady Bountiful of Grace.\n\nDurtal felt in himself an answering thrill, the echo of the prayers\nchanted all round him by these loving souls; and he let himself melt\naway in the soothing sweetness of the hymns, asking for nothing,\nsilencing his ungratified desires, smothering his secret repining,\nthinking only of bidding an affectionate good-morning to the Mother to\nwhom he had returned after such distant wanderings in the land of sin,\nafter such a long absence.\n\nAnd now that he had seen Her, that he had spoken to Her, he withdrew,\nmaking room for others who came in greater numbers as the day grew. He\nwent home to get some food; and as he cast a last sweeping glance at the\nbeautiful church, remembering the warlike imagery of its details, the\nbuckler-shape of the rose-windows, the sword-blades of the lower lights,\nthe casque and helmet forms of the ogee, the resemblance of some\ngrisaille glass with its network of lead to a warrior's shirt of mascled\nmail; as, outside, he gazed at one of the two belfries carved into\nscales like a pine cone--like scale-armour--he said to himself that the\n\"Builders for God\" must have borrowed their ideas from the military\npanoply of the knights; that thus they had endeavoured to perpetuate the\nmemory of their exploits by representing the magnified image of the\narmour with which the Crusaders girt themselves when they sailed to win\nback the Holy Sepulchre.\n\nAnd the interior of the church seemed, as a whole, to impress the same\nidea and complete the symbolical images of the details by its vaulted\nnave, of which the groined roof was so like the reversed hull of a\nvessel, suggesting the graceful form of the ships that made sail for\nPalestine.\n\nOnly, in the present day, such memories of heroic times were vain. In\nthis city of Chartres, where Saint Bernard preached the second crusade,\nthe vessel was stranded for ever, her hull overset, her anchor out.\n\nAnd looking down on the unthinking city, the Cathedral kept watch alone,\nbeseeching pardon for the inappetency for suffering, for the inertia of\nfaith that her sons displayed, uplifting her towers to the sky like two\narms, while the spires mimicked the shape of joined hands, the ten\nfingers all meeting and upright one against another, in the position\nwhich the image-makers of old gave to the dead saints and warriors they\ncarved upon tombs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nDurtal had already been living at Chartres for three months.\n\nOn his return to Paris from La Trappe he had fallen into a fearful state\nof spiritual anemia. His soul kept its room, rarely rose, lounged on a\ncouch, was torpid with the tepid langour still lulled by the sleepy\nmutter of mere lip-service, and prayers reeled off as by a worn-out\nmachine of which the spring releases itself, so that it works all alone\nwith no result, and without a touch to start it.\n\nSometimes, however, in a rebellious mood he managed to check himself, to\nstop the ill-regulated clockwork of his prayers, and then he would try\nto examine himself, to get above himself, and to see in a comprehensive\nglance the puzzling perspective of his nature.\n\nAnd facing these chambers of the soul, dim with mist, he was struck by a\nstrange association of the Revelations of Saint Theresa and a tale by\nEdgar Poe.\n\nThose chambers of the inner man were empty and cold, and like the halls\nof the House of Usher, surrounded by a moat whence the fog rose, forcing\nits way in at last and cracking the worn shell of wall. Alone and\nuneasy, he prowled about the ruined cells, with closed doors that\nrefused ever to open again; thus his walks about his own mind were very\nlimited, and the panorama he could see was strangely narrowed, shrunk\nclose and near to him, almost nothing. And he knew full well that the\nruins surrounding the central cell, the Master's Room, were bolted and\nfastened with rivets that could not be unscrewed, and triple\nbars--inaccessible. So he restricted himself to wandering in the halls\nand passages.\n\nAt Notre Dame de l'Atre he had ventured further; he had gone into the\nenclosure round about the abode of Christ; he had seen in the distance\nthe frontiers of Mysticism, and, too weak to go on his road, he had\nfallen; and now this was to be lamented, for, as Saint Theresa truly\nremarks, \"in the spiritual life, if we do not go forward, we go back.\"\nHe had, in fact, retraced his steps, and lay half paralyzed, no longer\neven in the vestibule of his mansion, but in the outer court.\n\nTill this time the phenomena described by the matchless Abbess had been\nexactly repeated. In Durtal, the Chambers of the Soul were deserted as\nafter a long mourning; but in the rooms that had remained open, phantoms\nof sins confessed, of buried evil-doing, wandered like the sister of the\ntormented Usher.\n\nDurtal, like Edgar Poe's unhappy sufferer, listened with horror to the\nrustle of steps on the stairs, the piteous weeping behind the doors.\n\nAnd yet these ghosts of departed crimes were no more than indefinite\nshapes; they never consolidated nor took a definite form. The most\npersistent miscreant of them all, which had tormented him so long, the\nsin of the flesh, at last was silenced, and left him in peace. La Trappe\nhad rooted up the stock of those debaucheries. The memory of them,\nindeed, haunted him still, on his most distressing, most ignoble side;\nbut he could see them pass, his heart in his mouth, wondering that he\ncould so long have been the dupe of such foul delusions, no longer\nunderstanding the power of those mirages, the illusions of those carnal\noases as he met them in the desert of a life shut up in seclusion, in\nsolitude, and in books.\n\nHis imagination could still put him on the rack; still, without merit,\nwithout a struggle, by the help of divine grace, he had escaped a fall\never since his return from the monastery.\n\nOn the other hand, though he had, to some extent, emasculated himself,\nthough he was exempt from his chief torment, he discerned, flourishing\nwithin him, another crop of tares, of which the spread had till now been\nhidden behind the sturdier growth of other vices. In the first instance,\nhe had believed himself to be less enslaved by sin, less utterly vile;\nand he was nevertheless as closely bound to evil as ever, only the\nnature and character of the bonds were different, and no longer the\nsame.\n\nBesides that dryness of the heart which made him feel as soon as he\nentered a church or knelt down in his room, that a cold grip froze his\nprayers and chilled his soul, he detected the covert attacks, the mute\nassaults of ridiculous pride.\n\nIn vain did he keep watch; he was constantly taken by surprise without\nhaving time even to look round him.\n\nIt began under the most temperate guise, the most benign reflections.\n\nSupposing, for instance, that he had done his neighbour a service at\nsome inconvenience to himself, or that he had refrained from retaliating\non anybody against whom he believed he had a grievance, or for whom he\nhad no liking, a certain self-satisfaction stole, sneaked into his mind,\na certain vain-glory, ending in the senseless conclusion that he was\nsuperior to many another man; and then, on this feeling of petty vanity,\npride was engrafted--the pride of a virtue he had not even struggled to\nacquire, the arrogance of chastity, so insidious that most of those who\nindulge it do not even suspect themselves.\n\nAnd he was never aware of the end of these assaults till too late, when\nthey had become definite, and he had forgotten himself and succumbed;\nand he was in despair at finding that he constantly fell into the same\nsnare, telling himself that the little good he could do must be wiped\nout of the balance of his life by the outrageous extravagance of this\nvice.\n\nHe was frenzied, he reasoned with the old mad arguments, and cried out\nat his wits' end,--\n\n\"La Trappe crushed me! It cured me of sensuality, but only to load me\nwith disorders of which I knew nothing before I submitted to that\ntreatment! It is humble itself, but it puffed up my vanity and increased\nmy pride tenfold--then it set me free, but so weak, so wearied, that I\nhave never since been able to conquer that inanition, never have been\nfit to enjoy the Mystical Nourishment which I nevertheless must have if\nI am not to die to God!\"\n\nAnd for the hundredth time he asked himself,--\n\n\"Am I happier than I was before I was converted?\"\n\nAnd to be truthful to himself he was bound to answer \"Yes.\" He lived on\nthe whole a Christian life, prayed but badly, but at any rate prayed\nwithout ceasing; only--only--Alas! How worm-eaten, how arid were the\npoor recesses of his soul! He wondered, with anguish, whether they would\nnot end like the Manor in Edgar Poe's tale, by crumbling suddenly, one\nfatal day, into the dark waters of the pool of sin which was undermining\nthe walls.\n\nHaving reached this stage of his round of meditations, he was compelled\nto throw himself on the Abbe Gevresin, who required him, in spite of his\ncoldness, to take the Communion. Since his return from Notre Dame de\nl'Atre his friendship with the Abbe had become much closer, altogether\nintimate.\n\nHe knew now the inner man of this priest, who, in the midst of modern\nsurroundings, led a purely mediaeval life. Formerly, when he rang at his\nbell, he had paid no heed to the housekeeper, an old woman, who curtsied\nto him without a word when she opened the door.\n\nNow he was quite friendly with this singular and loving creature.\n\nTheir first conversation had arisen one day when he called to see the\nAbbe, who was ill. Seated by the bedside, with spectacles on the alert\nat the tip of her nose, she was kissing, one by one, the pious prints\nthat illustrated a book wrapped in black cloth. She begged him to be\nseated, and then, closing the volume, and replacing her spectacles, she\nhad joined in the conversation; and he had left the room quite amazed by\nthis woman, who addressed the Abbe as \"Father,\" and spoke quite simply\nof her intercourse with Jesus and the Saints as if it were a natural\nthing. She seemed to live in perfect friendship with them, and spoke of\nthem as of companions with whom she chatted without any embarrassment.\n\nThen the countenance of this woman, whom the priest introduced to him as\nMadame Celeste Bavoil, was, strange to say, the least of it. She was\nthin and upright, but short. In profile, with her strong Roman nose and\nset lips, she had the fleshless mask of a dead Caesar; but, seen in\nfront, the sternness of the features was softened into a familiar\npeasant's face, and melted into the kindliness of an old nun, quite out\nof keeping with the solemn strength of her features.\n\nIt seemed as though with that clean-cut, imperious nose, small white\nteeth, and black eyes sparkling with light, busy and inquisitive as\nthose of a mouse, under fine long lashes, the woman ought,\nnotwithstanding her age, to have been handsome; it seemed at least as\nthough the combination of these details would have given the face a\nstamp of distinction. Not so; the conclusion was false to the premises;\nthe whole betrayed the combined effect of the details.\n\n\"This contradiction,\" thought he, \"evidently is the result of other\npeculiarities which nullify the harmony of the more important features;\nin the first place the thinness of the cheeks and their hue of old wood\ndotted here and there with freckles, calm stains of the colour of stale\nbran; then the flat braids of white hair drawn smooth under a frilled\ncap, and finally the modest dress, a black dress clumsily made, dragging\nacross the bosom, and showing the lines of her stays stamped in relief\non the back.\n\n\"And perhaps, in her, it is not so much incongruity of features, as a\ncrying contrast between the dress and the face, the head and the body,\"\nthought he.\n\nAltogether, as he summed her up, she was equally suggestive of the\nchapel and the fields. Thus she had something of the Sister and\nsomething of the peasant.\n\n\"Yes,\" he went on to himself, \"that is very near the mark; but that is\nnot all, for she is both less dignified and less common, inferior and\nyet more worthy. Seen from behind she is more like a woman who hires out\nthe chairs in church than like a nun; seen in front she is conspicuously\nsuperior to the natives of the soil. Also it may be noted that when she\nspeaks of the saints she is loftier, quite different; she soars up in a\nflame of the spirit. But all these hypotheses are in vain,\" he\nconcluded, \"for I cannot judge of her from one brief impression, one\nrapid view. What is quite certain is that, though she is not in the\nleast like the Abbe, she too is in two halves--two persons in one. He,\nwith the innocent gaze, the pure eyes of a girl at her first Communion,\nhas the sometimes bitter mouth of an old man; she is proud of feature\nand humble of heart; they both, though by different outward signs and\nacts, achieve the same result, an identical semblance of paternal\nindulgence and mature goodness.\"\n\nAnd Durtal had gone again and again to see them. His reception was\nalways the same; Madame Bavoil greeted him with the invariable formula:\n\"Here is our friend,\" while the priest's eyes smiled as he grasped his\nhand. Whenever he saw Madame Bavoil she was praying: over her stove,\nwhen she sat mending, while she was dusting the furniture, as she opened\nthe door, she was always telling her rosary, without pause.\n\nThe chief delight of this rather silent woman consisted in talking of\nthe Virgin to whom she had vowed worship; on the other hand she could\nquote by memory long passages from a mystic and somewhat eccentric\nwriter of the end of the sixteenth century: Jeanne Chezard de Matel, the\nfoundress of the Order of the Incarnate Word, an Institution of which\nthe Sisters display a conspicuous costume--a white dress held round the\nwaist by a belt of scarlet leather, a red cloak and a blood-coloured\nscapulary on which the name of Jesus is embroidered in blue silk, with a\ncrown of thorns, a heart pierced with three nails, and the words _Amor\nMeus_.\n\nAt first Durtal thought Madame Bavoil slightly crazy, and while she\npoured out a passage by Jeanne de Matel on Saint Joseph, he looked at\nthe priest--who gave no sign.\n\n\"Then Madame Bavoil is a saint?\" he asked one morning when they were\nalone.\n\n\"My dear Madame Bavoil is a pillar of prayer,\" replied the Abbe gravely.\n\nAnd one afternoon, when Gevresin was away in his turn, Durtal questioned\nthe woman.\n\nShe gave him an account of her long pilgrimages across Europe,\npilgrimages that she had spent years in making on foot, begging her way\nby the roadside.\n\nWherever the Virgin had a sanctuary, thither she went, a bundle of\nclothing in one hand, an umbrella in the other, an iron Crucifix on her\nbreast, a rosary at her waist. By a reckoning which she had kept from\nday to day she had thus travelled ten thousand five hundred leagues on\nfoot.\n\nThen old age had come on, and she had \"lost her old powers,\" as she\nsaid; Heaven had formerly guided her by inward voices, fixing the dates\nof these expeditions; but journeying was no longer required of her. She\nhad been sent to live with the Abbe that she might rest; but her manner\nof life had been laid down for her once for all: her bed a straw\nmattress on wooden planks; her food such rustic and monastic fare as\nbeseemed her, milk, honey and bread, and at seasons of penance she was\nto substitute water for milk.\n\n\"And you never take any other nourishment?\"\n\n\"Never.\" And then she would add,--\n\n\"Aha! our friend, you see I am in disgrace up there!\" and she would\nlaugh cheerfully at herself and her appearance \"If you had but seen me\nwhen I came back from Spain, where I went to visit Our Lady of the\nPillar at Saragoza! I was a negress. With my large Crucifix on my\nbreast, my gown looking like a nun's--every one asked: 'What can that\nwoman be?' I looked like a charcoal-burner out for a holiday; no white\nto be seen but my cap, collar and cuffs; all the rest--face, hands and\npetticoats--quite black.\"\n\n\"But you must have been very dull travelling about alone?\"\n\n\"Not at all, our friend, the Saints kept me company on the way; they\ntold me at which house I should find a lodging for the night, and I was\nsure of being well received.\"\n\n\"And you never were refused hospitality?\"\n\n\"Never. To be sure I did not ask for much; when I was wandering I only\nbegged for a piece of bread and a glass of water, and to rest on a truss\nof straw in the cow-house.\"\n\n\"And Father Gevresin--how did you first know him?\"\n\n\"That is quite a long story. Fancy! Heaven, as a punishment, deprived me\nof the Communion for a year and three months to a day. When I confessed\nto a priest, I owned to my intercourse with Our Saviour, and the Virgin\nand the Angels; then he at once treated me as a mad woman, unless he\naccused me of being possessed by the devil; to conclude, he refused me\nabsolution, and I thought myself happy if he did not slam the little\nwicket of the confessional roughly in my face at my very first words.\n\n\"I believe I should have died of grief if the Lord had not at last had\npity on me. One Saturday, when I was in Paris, He sent me to Notre Dame\ndes Victoires, where the Father was in the confessional. He listened to\nme, he put me through long and severe tests, and then he granted me\nCommunion. I often went to him again as a penitent, and then the niece\nwho kept house for him retired into a convent, and I took her place;\nand I have been his housekeeper near on ten years now--\"\n\nShe told her story with many breaks. Since she had ceased to wander\nabout the country, she followed the pilgrimages in Paris in honour of\nthe Blessed Virgin, and she had a list of the most popular sanctuaries:\nNotre-Dame des Victoires, Notre-Dame de Paris; Our Lady of Good Hope at\nSaint-Severin, of Ever-present Help at L'Abbaye au Bois, of Peace at the\nconvent in the Rue Picpus, of the Sick at the church of Saint-Laurent,\nof Happy Deliverance--a black Virgin from the church of Saint-Etienne\ndes Gres--in the care of the Sisters of Saint-Thomas de Villeneuve, Rue\nde Sevres; and outside Paris the shrines in the suburbs: Our Lady of\nMiracles at Saint-Maur, of the Angels at Bondy, of the Virtues at\nAubervilliers, of Good Keeping at Long Pont, and those of Notre-Dame at\nSpire, at Pontoise, &c.\n\nOn another occasion, as he seemed suspicious of the severity of the rule\nimposed on her by Christ, she replied,--\n\n\"Remember, our friend, what happened to an illustrious handmaid of the\nLord, Maria d'Agreda; being very ill, she yielded to the wishes of her\ndaughters in the faith and sucked a mouthful of chicken, but she was\nforthwith reproved by Jesus, who said to her: 'I will not have my\nSpouses dainty.'\n\n\"Well, and I should run the risk of a similar reproof, if I attempted to\ntouch a morsel of meat or to drink a drop of coffee or wine.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said Durtal to himself as he came away, \"it is quite evident\nthat the woman is not mad. She has nothing the matter with her, either\nhysterical or mental: she is fragile and very thin, but she is scarcely\nnervous, and in spite of the laconic character of her meals she is in\nvery good health, indeed is never ailing; nay more, she is a woman of\ngood sense and an admirable manager. Up by daybreak, after Communion she\nsoaps and washes all the linen herself, makes the sheets and shirts,\nmends the Abbe's gowns, and lives with amazing economy, while taking\ncare that her master wants for nothing. Such a sagacious apprehension of\nthe conduct of life has no connection with lunacy or delirium.\"\n\nHe knew too that she would never take any wages. It is true that in the\nsight of a world which gives its whole mind to legalized larceny this\nwoman's disinterestedness might be enough to prove her insanity; but\nDurtal, in contradiction to received ideas, did not think that a\ncontempt for money was necessarily allied with madness, and the more he\nthought of it the more was he convinced that she was a saint, and not a\nstrait-laced saint, but indulgent and cheerful.\n\nWhat he could positively assert was that she was very good to him; ever\nsince his return from La Trappe she had helped him in every way,\nencouraging his spirits when she saw him depressed, and going, in spite\nof his protesting, to look over his wardrobe when she suspected that\nthere might be sutures to operate upon, and buttons to replace.\n\nThis intimacy had become even closer since their life in common, all\nthree together, on the occasion of Durtal's accompanying them, at their\nentreaty, to La Salette. And then suddenly their affectionate\nfamiliarity was endangered, for the Abbe Gevresin left Paris.\n\nThe Bishop of Chartres died, and his successor was one of Gevresin's\noldest friends. On the very day when the Abbe Le Tilloy des Mofflaines\nwas promoted to the episcopal throne, he begged Gevresin to accompany\nhim to Chartres. There was an anxious struggle in the old priest's mind.\nHe was ailing, weary, good for nothing, and at the bottom of his heart\nlonged only never to move; but on the other hand he had not the courage\nto refuse his poor support to Monseigneur des Mofflaines. He tried to\nmollify the prelate by his advanced age, but the Bishop would not\nlisten; all he would concede was that, instead of being appointed\nVicar-general, the Abbe should be no more than a Canon. Still Gevresin\nmildly shook his head. Finally the prelate had his way, appealing to his\nfriend's charity, and declaring that he ought to accept the post, in the\nlast resort as a mortification and penance.\n\nAnd when his departure was decided on, it became the Abbe's turn to\ncircumvent Durtal and persuade him to leave Paris and come to settle\nnear him at Chartres.\n\nAlthough he was deeply grieved at this move, which he had done his\nutmost to hinder, Durtal was refractory, and refused to bury himself in\na country town.\n\n\"But why, our friend,\" said Madame Bavoil, \"I wonder why you are so\nobstinately bent on remaining here; you live in perfect solitude at home\nwith your books. You can do the same if you come with us.\"\n\nAnd when, his arguments exhausted, after a vehement diatribe against\nprovincial life, Durtal ended by saying,--\n\n\"Then at Paris there are the quays, Saint Severin, Notre Dame; there are\ndelightful convents--\"\n\n\"You would find equally good things at Chartres,\" answered the Abbe.\n\"You will have one of the finest cathedrals in the world, monasteries\nsuch as you love, and as for books, your library is so well furnished\nthat I can hardly think that you can add to it by wandering along the\nquays. Besides, as you know even better than I, no work of the class you\nseek is ever to be disinterred from the boxes of second-hand books.\nTheir titles figure only in the catalogues of sales, and there is\nnothing to hinder their being sent to you at Chartres.\"\n\n\"I do not deny it--but there are other things on the quays besides old\nbooks; there are curiosities to be seen, and the Seine--a landscape--\"\n\n\"Well, if you are homesick for that particular walk, you have only to\ntake a train, and spend a whole afternoon lounging by the parapet over\nthe river; it is easy to get from Chartres to Paris; there are express\ntrains morning and evening which make the journey in less than two\nhours.\"\n\n\"And besides,\" cried Madame Bavoil, \"what does all that matter? The\ngreat thing is that you leave a town just like any other town, to\ninhabit the very home of the Virgin. Just think! Notre Dame de\nSous-Terre is the most ancient chapel to Mary in all France; think! you\nwill live near Her, with Her, and She will load you with mercies!\"\n\n\"And after all,\" the Abbe went on, \"this exile cannot interfere with any\nof your schemes in art. You talk of writing the Lives of Saints; will\nyou not work at them far better in the silence of the country than in\nthe uproar of Paris?\"\n\n\"The country--the provinces! The mere idea overpowers me,\" exclaimed\nDurtal. \"If you could but imagine the impression it suggests to me, the\nsort of atmosphere, the kind of smell it presents to my brain. You know\nthe huge cupboards you find in old houses, with double doors, and lined\nwithin with blue paper that is always damp. Well, at the mere name of\nthe provinces I feel as if one of these were opened in my face, and I\ngot a full blast of the stuffiness that comes out of it!--And to put the\nfinishing touch to the vision by combining taste and smell, I have only\nto bite one of the biscuits they make nowadays of Lord knows what,\nreeking the moment you taste them, of fish glue and plaster that has\nbeen rained upon, I have only to eat that cold, insipid paste and sniff\nat a musty closet, and at once the lugubrious picture rises before me of\nsome Godforsaken place!--Your Chartres will no doubt smell like\nthat--Pah!\"\n\n\"Oh, oh!\" cried Madame Bavoil. \"But you cannot know much about it, since\nyou have never been to the place.\"\n\n\"Let him be!\" said the Abbe, laughing. \"He will get over his\nprejudices.\" And he went on,--\n\n\"Just explain this inconsistency: here is a Parisian who likes his city\nso little that he seeks out the most deserted nook to live in, the\nquietest, the least frequented, the spot that is most like a provincial\nretreat. He has a horror of the Boulevards, of public promenades, and of\ntheatres; he buries himself in a hole, and stops his ears that he may\nnot hear the noises around him; but, when he has a chance of improving\non this scheme of existence, of ripening in real silence far from the\ncrowd, when he can invert the conditions of life, and, instead of being\na provincial Parisian, can become a Parisian of the provinces, he shies\nand kicks!\"\n\n\"It is a fact,\" Durtal admitted when he was alone, \"a positive fact\nthat the capital is unprofitable to me. I never see anybody now, and\nshall be reduced to still more utter solitude when these friends are\ngone. I shall, for all purposes, be quite as well off at Chartres;\nI can study at my ease amid peaceful surroundings, within reach of\na cathedral of far greater interest than Notre Dame de Paris. And\nbesides--besides--there is another question of which the Abbe Gevresin\nsays nothing, but which disturbs me greatly. If I remain here, alone, I\nshall have to find a new confessor, to wander through the churches, just\nas I wander through work-a-day life in search of dining-places and\ntables d'hote. No, no; I have had enough at last of this day-by-day\ndiet, spiritual and material! I have found a boarding-house for my soul\nwhere it is content, and it may stay there!\n\n\"And there is yet another argument. I can live more inexpensively at\nChartres, and, without spending more than I spend here, I can settle\nmyself once for all, dine with my feet on my own fender, and be waited\non!\"\n\nSo he had ended by deciding to follow his two friends, and had secured\nfairly spacious rooms facing the Cathedral; and then he, who had always\nlived cramped in tiny apartments, at last understood the provincial\ncomfort of vast spaces and books ranged against the walls, with ample\nelbow-room.\n\nMadame Bavoil had found him a servant, familiar and voluble indeed, but\na good and pious woman. And he had begun his new existence lost in\nconstant amazement at that wonderful Cathedral, the only one he had\nnever before seen, probably because it was so near Paris, and, like all\nParisians, he never took the trouble to set out on any but longer\njourneys. The town itself seemed to him devoid of interest, having but\none secluded walk, a little embankment where, below the suburbs and near\nthe old Guillaume Gate, washerwomen sang while they soaped the linen in\na stream that blossomed, as they rubbed, with flecks of iridescent\nbubbles.\n\nHence he determined to walk out only very early in the morning or in the\nevening; then he could dream alone in the town, which by the afternoon\nwas already half dead.\n\nThe Abbe and his housekeeper were lodged in the episcopal palace, under\nthe shadow of the Cathedral apse. They occupied a first floor, with\nnothing over it, above some empty stables; a row of cold, tiled rooms\nwhich the Bishop had had redecorated.\n\nSome time after their arrival at Chartres the Abbe had replied to\nDurtal, who had remarked that he was anxious,--\n\n\"Yes, I am certainly going through a difficult time; I have had to live\ndown certain prejudices--but indeed I was prepared for them. And that\nwas another reason why I did not wish to leave Paris. But the Blessed\nVirgin is good! Everything is coming right--\"\n\nAnd when Durtal persisted,--\n\n\"As you may suppose,\" said the priest, \"the appointment of a Canon from\nanother diocese was not looked upon with indifferent eyes by the clergy\nof Chartres. Such suspicions with regard to an unknown priest brought by\na new Bishop are not after all unnatural; it is inevitably feared that\nhe may play the part of a ruler without a robe; each one is on his\nguard, and they sift his least word and pick over his least action.\"\n\n\"And then,\" said Durtal, \"is it not another mouth to feed out of the\nwretched pittance allowed by the State?\"\n\n\"So far as that goes, no. I draw no stipend, and damage no man's\ninterest; in fact I would not accept it. The only pecuniary advantage I\nderive from being about the Bishop's person is that I have no rent to\npay, since I am lodged for nothing in the episcopal building.\n\n\"I could not in any case have drawn a stipend, for the allowance granted\nto Canons by the Government has ceased to be given, since a measure was\npassed, on March 22nd, 1885, decreeing the suppression of such\nemoluments as the incumbents died off. Hence only those who held such\nbenefices before the passing of the law now draw on the funds devoted to\nthe maintenance of the Church; and they are dying off one by one, so\nthat the time is fast approaching when there will not be a single Canon\nleft who is salaried by the State. In some dioceses these lapsed\nbenefices are compensated for by the revenues from some religious\nfoundation, or, as you may call it, a prebend. But there are none at\nChartres. The Chapter has at the utmost the use of a varying income\nwhich it divides among those who have no benefice, giving them, good\nyears with bad, a sum of about three hundred francs each, and that is\nall.\"\n\n\"And the Canons have no perquisites?\"\n\n\"None whatever.\"\n\n\"Then I wonder how they live.\"\n\n\"If they have no private fortune they live more penuriously than the\npoorest labourers in Chartres. Most of them simply vegetate; some\nperform Mass for Sisterhoods, or are convent chaplains, but that brings\nin very little, two hundred or two hundred and fifty francs perhaps.\nAnother holds the post of secretary to the diocese, by which he gets\nrooms and as much, perhaps, as six hundred francs. Yet another conducts\nthe services of the holy week known as the Voice of Our Lady of\nChartres, and acts as precentor; and some find employment as the\nBishop's officials. Each one, in short, has a struggle to earn his food\nand lodging.\"\n\n\"What exactly is a Canon; what are his functions, and the origin of his\noffice?\"\n\n\"The origin? It is lost in the night of ages. It is supposed that\nColleges of Canons existed in the time of Pepin le Bref; it is at any\nrate certain that during his reign Saint Chrodegang, Bishop of Metz,\nassembled the clerks of his cathedral and obliged them to live together,\nin a house in common, as though it were a convent, under a rule of which\nCharlemagne makes mention in his Capitularies.--A Canon's functions?\nThey consist in the solemn celebration of the Canonical services, and\nthe direction of all processions. As a matter of conscience every Canon\nis required in the first place to reside in the town where the church is\nsituated to whose service he is attached; then to be present at the\nCanonical hours when Mass is said; finally to sit on the meetings of the\nChapter on certain fixed days. But to tell the truth, their part has\nalmost fallen into desuetude. The Council of Trent speaks of them as the\n'_Senatus Ecclesiae_,' the Senate of the Church, and they then formed the\nnecessary Council of the Bishop. In these days the prelates do not even\nconsult them.\n\n\"They only exercise a small part of their lost prerogatives when the See\nis vacant. At that time the Chapter acts in the place of the Bishop, and\neven then its rights are greatly restricted. As it has not Episcopal\nOrders, it can exercise none of the powers inherent in them. It cannot\nconsequently ordain or confirm.\"\n\n\"And if the See remains long vacant?\"\n\n\"Then the Chapter requests the Bishop of a neighbouring diocese to\nordain its seminarists, and confirm the children it presents to him. In\nshort, as you see, a Canon is not a very important gentleman.\n\n\"I am not speaking, of course, of Honorary Canons, or Titular Canons.\nThey have no duties to fulfil; they merely enjoy an honorary title which\nallows them to wear the Canon's hood, by permission of their own Bishop\nwhen, as frequently happens, they belong to another diocese.\n\n\"The Chapter of this Cathedral of Chartres is said to have been founded\nin the sixth century by Saint Lubin. It then consisted of seventy-two\nCanons, and the number was added to, for when the Revolution broke out\nit amounted to seventy-six, and included seventeen dignitaries: the\nDean, the sub-Dean, the Precentor, the sub-Precentor, the chief\nArchdeacon of Chartres, the Archdeacons of Beauce-en-Dunois, of Dreux,\nof Le Pincerais, of Vendome, and of Blois; the gatekeeper, the\nChancellor, the Provosts of Normandy, of Mezangey, of Ingre, and of\nAuvers; and the Chancel Warden. These priests, most of them men of\nfamily and wealth, were a nursery ground of Bishops; they owned all the\nhouses round the Cathedral and lived independently in their cloister,\ndevoting themselves to history, theology, and the Canon law--they are\nnow indeed fallen!\"\n\nThe Abbe was silent, shaking his head. Then he went on,--\n\n\"To return to my subject--I was naturally somewhat hurt by the coldness\nI met with on my arrival at Chartres. As I told you, I had to allay many\napprehensions. But I think I have succeeded. And I thank God, too, for\nhaving given me a valuable supporter in the person of a subordinate\npriest of the Cathedral, who has done me invaluable service with my\ncolleagues--the Abbe Plomb; do you know him?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"He is a highly intelligent priest, very learned, a passionate mystic,\nthoroughly acquainted with the Cathedral, of which he has examined every\ncorner.\"\n\n\"Ah ha! I am interested in that priest! Perhaps he is one of those I\nhave already noticed. What is he like?\"\n\n\"Short, young, pale, slightly marked with the small-pox, with spectacles\nthat you may recognize by this peculiarity: the arch which rests on the\nnose is shaped like a loop, or, if you choose to say so, like a\nhorseman's legs astride in the saddle.\"\n\n\"That man!\"--and Durtal, left to himself, thought about the priest whom\nhe had repeatedly seen in the church or the square.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said he to himself, \"there is always the risk of a mistake\nwhen we judge of people by appearances; but how startling is the truth\nof that commonplace remark when applied to the clergy! This Abbe Plomb\nlooks like a scared sacristan; he goes about gaping at invisible crows,\nand he seems so ill at ease, so loutish, so awkward--and this is our\nlearned man and devoted mystic, in love with his Cathedral! Certainly it\nis not safe to judge of an Abbe from appearances. Now that it is to be\nmy fate to live in this clerical world, I must begin by throwing\nprejudice overboard, and wait till I know all the priests of the\ndiocese, before allowing myself to form an opinion of them.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n\"In point of fact,\" said Durtal to himself as he stood dreaming on the\nmarket-place, \"no one exactly knows what was the origin of the Gothic\nforms of a cathedral. Archaeologists and architects have exhausted\nhypotheses and systems in vain; they seem to agree in attributing the\nRomanesque to Oriental parentage, and that in fact maybe proven. That\nthe Romanesque should be an offshoot of the Latin and Byzantine styles,\nand be, as Quicherat defines it, 'the style which has ceased to be Roman\nand is not yet Gothic, though it already has something of the Gothic,' I\nam ready to admit; and indeed, on examining the capitals, and studying\ntheir outline and drawing, we perceive that they are Assyrian or Persian\nrather than Roman or Byzantine and Gothic; but as to discovering the\npaternity even of the pointed and flamboyant styles, that is quite\nanother thing. Some writers assert that the pointed arch based on an\nequilateral triangle existed in Egypt, Syria, and Persia; others regard\nit as descended from Saracen and Arab art; nothing certainly is\nprovable.\n\n\"Again, it must be clearly stated that the pointed equilateral arch,\nwhich some persons still suppose to be the distinctive characteristic of\nan era in architecture, is not so in fact, as Quicherat has very clearly\ndemonstrated, and, since him, Lecoy de la Marche. The study of archives\nhas, on this point, completely overset the hobbies of architects, and\ndemolished the twaddle of the Bonzes. Besides, there is abundant\nevidence of the employment of the pointed arch side by side with the\nround arch in a perfectly systematic design, in the construction of many\nRomanesque churches; in the Cathedrals of Avignon and Frejus, in Notre\nDame at Aries, in Saint Front at Perigueux, at Saint Martin d'Ainay, at\nLyon, in Saint Martin des Champs in Paris, in Saint Etienne at Beauvais,\nin the Cathedral of Le Mans; and in Burgundy, at Vezelay, at Beaune, in\nSaint Philibert at Dijon, at La Charite-sur-Loire, in Saint Ladre at\nAutun, and in most of the basilicas erected by the monastic school of\nCluny.\n\n\"Still, all this throws no light on the lineage of the Gothic, which\nremains obscure--possibly because it is perfectly clear; setting aside\nthe theory which restricts itself to discerning in this question a\nmerely material and technical problem of stability and resistance,\nsolved by monks who discovered one fine day that the strength of their\nroofs would be increased by the adoption of the mitre-shaped vaulting of\nthe pointed arch instead of the semicircular arch, would it not seem\nthat the romantic hypothesis--Chateaubriand's explanation--which was so\nmuch laughed at, and which is nevertheless the simplest and the most\nnatural, may really be the most obvious and the true one?\n\n\"To me,\" thought Durtal, \"it is almost certain that it was in the forest\nthat man found the prototype of the nave and the pointed arch. The most\namazing cathedral constructed by Nature herself, with lavish outlay of\nthe pointed aisle of branches, is at Jumieges. There, close to the\nsplendid ruins of the Abbey, where the two towers are still intact,\nwhile the roofless nave, carpeted with flowers, ends in a chancel of\nfoliage shut in by an apse of trees, three vast aisles of centenary\nboles extend in parallel lines; one in the middle, very wide, the two\nothers, one on each side, somewhat narrower; they exactly represent a\nchurch nave with its two side aisles, upheld by black columns and roofed\nwith verdure. The ribs of the arches are accurately represented by the\nbranches which meet above, as the columns which support them are\nsimulated by the great shafts. It must be seen in winter, with the\ngroining outlined and powdered with snow, and the pillars as white as\nthe trunks of birch-trees, to understand the primitive idea, the seed of\nart which could give rise in the mind of an architect to the conception\nof similar arcades, and lead to the gradual refining of the Romanesque\ntill the pointed arch had entirely superseded the round.\n\n\"And there is not a park, whether older or more recent than the groves\nof Jumieges, which does not exhibit the same forms with equal\nexactitude; but what Nature could not give was the prodigious art, the\ndeep symbolical knowledge, the over-strung but tranquil mysticism of the\nbelievers who erected cathedrals. But for them the church in its\nrough-hewn state, as Nature had formed it, was but a soulless thing, a\nsketch, rudimentary; the embryo only of a basilica, varying with the\nseasons and the days, at once living and inert, awaking only to the\nroaring organ of the wind, the swaying roof of boughs wrung with the\nslightest breath; it was lax and often sullen; the yielding victim of\nthe breeze, the resigned slave of the rain; it was lighted only by the\nsunshine that filtered between the diamond and heart-shaped leaves, as\nif through the meshes of a green network. Man's genius collected the\nscattered gleams, condensed them in roses and broad blades, to pour it\ninto his avenues of white shafts; and even in the darkest weather the\nglass was splendid, catching the very last rays of sunset, dressing\nChrist and the Virgin in the most fabulous magnificence, and almost\nrealizing on earth the only attire that beseems the glorified Body, a\nrobe of mingled flame.\n\n\"Really, when you come to think of it, a cathedral is a superhuman\nthing!\n\n\"Starting in our lands from the old Roman crypt, from the vault, crushed\nlike the soul by humility and fear, and bowed before the infinite\nMajesty whose praise they hardly dared to sing, the churches gradually\nwaxed bolder; they gave an upward spring to the semicircular arch,\nlengthening it to an almond shape, leaping from the earth, uplifting\nroofs, heightening naves, breaking out into a thousand sculptured forms\nall round the choir, and flinging heavenward, like prayers, their\nrapturous piles of stones! They symbolized the loving tenderness of\norisons; they became more trusting, more playful, more daring in the\nsight of God.\n\n\"Each and all seemed to smile, as soon as they gave up their dismal\nskeleton and strove upwards.\n\n\"The Romanesque, I fancy, must have been born old,\" Durtal went on after\na pause. \"At any rate it has always remained gloomy and timid.\n\n\"Although at Jumieges, for instance, it has attained grandiose\ndimensions with its enormous span opening like a vast portal to the sky,\nit still is depressing. The semicircular arch, in fact, bends to the\nearth, for it has not the point, soaring upwards, of the lancet arch.\n\n\"Oh! to think of the tears, the dolorous murmurs of those thick\npartitions, those smoky vaults, those arches resting on squat pillars,\nthose almost speechless blocks of stone, those sober ornaments\nexpressing their symbolism so curtly! The Romanesque is the La Trappe of\narchitecture; we find it sheltering the austerest Orders, the sternest\nBrotherhoods, kneeling in ashes, and chanting in an undertone with bowed\nheads none but penitential Psalms. These massive cellars speak of the\nfear of sin, but also of the dread of a God whose wrath could only be\nappeased by the Advent of the Son. The Romanesque seems to have\npreserved from its Oriental origin an element antedating the Birth of\nChrist; prayer seems to rise there to the implacable Adonai rather than\nto the pitying Infant, the gentle Mother. The Gothic, on the contrary,\nis less timid, more captivated by the two other Persons and the Virgin;\nit is the home of less rigorous and more artistic Orders. Bowed\nshoulders are straightened, downcast eyes are raised, sepulchral voices\nbecome seraphic. It is, in fact, the expansion of the spirit, while the\nRomanesque symbolizes its repression. At least, to me, that is the\ninterpretation of these styles,\" Durtal repeated to himself.\n\n\"Nor is that all,\" he went on. \"Yet another distinction may be deduced\nfrom these observations.\n\n\"The Romanesque is allegorical of the Old Testament, as the Gothic is of\nthe New.\n\n\"The parallel, when you consider it, is exact. Is not the Bible--the\ninflexible Book of Jehovah, the awful Code of the Father, well expressed\nby the stern and penitential Romanesque; and the consoling, tender\nGospel by the Gothic, full of effusiveness and invitation, full of\nhumble hope?\n\n\"If the symbols are these, it would seem that time very often plays the\npart of man's purpose in evolving the completed idea and uniting the two\nstyles, as, in Holy Scripture, the two Books are united; thus certain\ncathedrals present a very curious result. Some, austere at their birth,\nare cheerful and even smiling as they are completed. All that is left\nof the old Abbey church of Cluny is from this point of view a typical\ninstance. This, next to that of Paray-le-Monial, which remains entire,\nis undoubtedly one of the most magnificent examples of the Burgundian\nRomanesque, which, with its fluted pilasters, unfortunately betrays the\ndistressing tradition of Greek art imported into France by the Romans.\nStill, allowing that these basilicas--which may have been built between\nthe eleventh and thirteenth centuries--are purely Romanesque, as\nQuicherat opines, mentioning them as examples, their structure is\nalready of a mingled type, and the joyousness of the vaulted arch is\nalready to be seen there.\n\n\"Nor have we here, as at Notre Dame la Grande at Poitiers, a Romanesque\nfacade, minutely elaborate, flanked at each wing by a low tower\nsupporting a heavy stone spire cut into facets, like a pine-apple. At\nParay there is none of the puerile ornament and heavy richness that we\nsee at Poitiers. The barbaric dress of the little toy church of Notre\nDame la Grande gives way to the winding-sheet of a flat wall, but the\nexterior is none the less remarkably impressive with its solemn\nsimplicity of outline. And those two square towers, pierced with narrow\nwindows and overlooked by a round tower resting so calmly, so firmly on\nan open arcade of columns joined by round arches, are a belfry at once\ndignified and rustic, spirited and strong.\n\n\"And the august simplicity of the exterior is repeated in the interior\nof the church.\n\n\"Here, however, the Romanesque has already lost its crushed, crypt-like\ncharacter, its obscure aspect as of a Persian cellar. The strong\nstructural lines are the same; the capitals still display the\ninflorescence of Mussulman involutions, the fabulous entanglements of\nAssyrian patterns, reminiscences of Asiatic art transplanted to our\nsoil; but we already see the union of dissimilar bays; columns struggle\nupwards, pillars are taller, the wide arches are less rigid, and have a\nlighter and longer trajectory; and the plain walls, enormous but already\nlight, are pierced at prodigious heights with holes admitting the day.\n\n\"At Paray the round arch is to be seen in harmony with the pointed arch\nwhich appears in the higher summits of the structure, announcing the\nadvent of a less plaintive phase of the soul, a tenderer and less harsh\nidea of Christ, who is preparing, and already revealing, the Mother's\nindulgent smile.\n\n\"But then,\" said Durtal, suddenly, to himself, \"if my theories are\ncorrect, the architecture which could, by itself alone, symbolize\nCatholicism as a whole, and represent the complete Bible in both\nTestaments, must be either Romanesque with the pointed arch, or a\ntransition style, half Romanesque and half Gothic.\n\n\"The deuce!\" thought he, thus led to an unforeseen conclusion. \"To be\nsure, it is not necessary perhaps that the church itself should offer so\ncomplete a parallel, or that the Old and New Testaments should be bound\nup in one volume; here, indeed, at Chartres the work, though integral,\nis in two separate volumes, since the crypt on which the Gothic church\nrests is Romanesque. Nay, it is thus even more symbolical, and it\nemphasizes the idea of the windows in which the prophets bear on their\nshoulders the four Evangelists; once more the Old Testament appears as\nthe base, the foundation of the New.\n\n\"What a fulcrum for dreams is this Romanesque!\" Durtal went on. \"Is it\nnot also the smoke-stained shrine, the gloomy retreat, constructed for\nblack Virgins? This seems all the less doubtful because all the\nMauresque Virgins are thick-set and heavy; they are not sylphs, like the\nfair Virgins of Gothic art. The Byzantine School conceived of Mary as\nswarthy, 'of the hue of polished brown ebony,' as the old historians\nsay; only, in opposition to the text in Canticles, it painted or carved\nHer as black, indeed, but not comely. Thus figured, She is truly a\ngloomy Virgin, eternally sorrowing, in harmony with the Romanesque\ncatacombs. Her presence naturally beseems the crypt of Chartres; but in\nthe Cathedral itself, on the pillar where She stands to this day, does\nShe not appear strange? For She is not in Her true home under the\nsoaring white vault.\"\n\n\"Well, our friend, you are dreaming!\"\n\nDurtal started like a man roused from sleep.\n\n\"Ah! It is you, Madame Bavoil?\"\n\n\"To be sure. I am going home from market, and from your lodgings.\"\n\n\"From my lodgings?\"\n\n\"Yes, to invite you to breakfast. The Abbe Plomb's housekeeper is to be\nout this afternoon, so he is coming to take his morning meal with us;\nand the Father thought it would be a good opportunity to make you\nacquainted.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to him; but I must go home and tell Mother Mesurat,\nthat she may not cook my cutlet.\"\n\n\"You need not do that, as I have just come from her; not finding you, I\nleft word and told Madame Mesurat. Are you still satisfied with her?\"\n\n\"Once upon a time,\" said he, laughing, \"I had, to manage my house in\nParis, one Sieur Rateau, a drunkard of the first class, who turned\neverything upside down, and led the furniture a life! Now I have this\nworthy woman, who sets to work on a different system, but the results\nare identically the same. She works by persuasion and gentle means; she\ndoes not overthrow the furniture, or bellow as she turns the mattress,\nor rush at the wall with a broom as if she were charging with fixed\nbayonet; no, she quietly collects the dust and stirs it round and ends\nby piling it in little heaps that she hides in the corners of the rooms;\nshe does not rummage the bed, but restricts herself to patting it with\nthe tip of her fingers, stroking the creases out of the sheets, puffing\nup the pillows and coaxing them out of their hollows. The man turned\neverything topsy-turvy; she moves nothing.\"\n\n\"Well, well; but she is a good woman!\"\n\n\"Yes, and in spite of it all, I am glad to have her.\"\n\nAs they talked they had reached the entrance to the Bishop's residence.\nThey went through a little gate by the lodge into a large forecourt\nstrewn with small river pebbles, in front of a vast building of the\nseventeenth century. There were no flowers of stone-work, no sculpture,\nno decorative doorways--nothing but a frontage of shabby brick and\nstone, a bare, uninviting structure evidently neglected, with tall\nwindows, behind which the shutters could be seen, painted grey. The\nentrance was on the level of the first floor; double outside steps led\nup to the door, and under the landing, in the arch below, there was a\nglass door, through which, framed in the square, could be seen the\ntrunks of trees beyond.\n\nThis courtyard was bordered with tall poplars, which the late Bishop,\nwho had frequented the Tuileries, used to speak of with a smile as his\nhundred guards.\n\nMadame Bavoil and Durtal crossed this forecourt, sloping to the left\ntowards a wing of the building, roofed with slate.\n\nThere, on the first floor, with only a loft above lighted by round\ndormers, lived the Abbe Gevresin.\n\nThey went up a narrow staircase with a rusty iron balustrade. The walls\nwere trickling with damp, they secreted drops, distilled spots like\nblack coffee; the steps were worn hollow, and thin at the ends like\nspoons; they led up to a door smeared yellow, with a cast-iron knob as\nblack as ink. A copper ring swung in the wind at the end of a bell-rope,\nknocking the chipped plaster of the wall. An indescribable smell of\nstale apples and stagnant water came up the middle of the staircase from\nthe little outer hall below, which was paved with rows of bricks set on\nedge, eaten into patterns like madrepores, while the ceiling looked like\na map, furrowed with seas that were traced in yellow by the soaking\nthrough of the rain.\n\nAnd the Abbe's little apartment, lately \"done up\" with a vile\nred-checked paper, reeked of the tomb. It was evident that under the\nshadow of the Cathedral that overhung this wing no sunshine ever dried\nthe walls, of which the skirting boards were rotting into powder like\nbrown sugar, crumbling slowly, on the icy cold polish of the floor.\n\n\"How sad to see an old man, a victim to rheumatism, housed here!\"\nthought Durtal.\n\nWhen he went into the Abbe's room, he found the chill somewhat taken off\nby a large coke fire; the priest was reading his breviary, wrapped in a\nwadded gown, close to the window, of which he had drawn back the blind\nto see a little better.\n\nThis room was furnished with a small iron bedstead hung with white\ncotton curtains looped back by bands of red cretonne; opposite the bed\nwere a table covered with a cloth, and on it a desk, and a prie-dieu\nbelow a Crucifix nailed to the wall; the remainder of the room was\nfitted with bookshelves up to the ceiling. Three arm-chairs, such as are\nnowhere to be seen nowadays but in religious houses or seminaries, made\nof walnut wood with straw bottoms like church chairs, were set round the\ntable, and two more, with round rush mats for the feet, stood one on\neach side of the fireplace. On the chimney-shelf was an Empire clock\nbetween two vases, and from these rose the faded stems of some dried\ngrasses stuck upright into sand.\n\n\"Come to the fire,\" said the Abbe, \"for in spite of the brazier it is\nfearfully cold.\"\n\nAnd in answer to Durtal, who spoke of his rheumatism, he resignedly\nshrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"All the residence is the same,\" said he. \"Monseigneur, who is almost a\ncripple, could not find a single dry room in the whole palace. Heaven\nforgive me, but I believe his rooms are even damper than mine. In point\nof fact there ought to be hot-air pipes all over the place, and it will\nnever be done for lack of money.\"\n\n\"But at any rate Monseigneur might have stoves put into the rooms, here\nand there.\"\n\n\"He!\" cried the Abbe, laughing, \"but he has no private means whatever.\nHe draws a stipend of ten thousand francs a year and not another penny;\nfor there is no endowment at Chartres, and the revenue from the fees on\nthe ecclesiastical Acts is nothing. In this rich, but irreligious town\nhe can hope for no assistance; the gardener and porter are paid by him;\nhe is obliged for economy's sake to employ Sisters from a convent as\ncook and linen-keeper. Add to that his inability to keep a carriage, so\nthat he has to hire a conveyance for his pastoral rounds. And how much\nthen do you suppose he has left to live on, if you deduct his charities?\nWhy, he is poorer than you or I!\"\n\n\"But then Chartres is the fag end of Church preferment, a mere raft for\nthe shipwrecked and starving.\"\n\n\"Thou hast said! Bishop, canons, priests, everybody here is\npoverty-stricken.\"\n\nThe bell rang, and Madame Bavoil showed in the Abbe Plomb. Durtal\nrecognized him. He looked even more scared than usual; he bowed, backing\naway, and did not know what to do with his hands, which he buried in his\nsleeves.\n\nBy the end of half an hour, when he was more at his ease, he expanded\ninto smiles, and at last he talked; Durtal, much surprised, saw that the\nAbbe Gevresin was right. This priest was highly intelligent and\nwell-informed, and what made the man even more attractive was his\nperfect freedom from the want of breeding, the narrow ideas, the goody\nnonsense which make intercourse so difficult with the ecclesiastics in\nliterary circles.\n\nThey had settled themselves in the dining-room, as dismal a room as the\nrest, but warmer, for an earthenware stove was roaring and puffing hot\ngusts from its open ventilators.\n\nWhen they had eaten their boiled eggs, the conversation, hitherto\ndiscursive as to subject, turned on the Cathedral.\n\n\"It is the fifth erection over a Druidical cave,\" said the Abbe Plomb.\n\"It has a strange history.\n\n\"The first, built at the time of the Apostles by Bishop Aventinus, was\nrazed to the ground. Rebuilt by another Bishop named Castor, it was\npartly burnt down by Hunaldus Duke of Aquitaine, then restored by\nGodessaldus; again injured by fire, by Hastings, the Norman chief;\nrepaired once more by Gislebert, and finally destroyed utterly by\nRichard Duke of Normandy when he sacked the city after the siege.\n\n\"We have no very authentic records of these two basilicas; at most are\nwe certain that the Roman Governor of the land of Chartres completely\ndestroyed the first and at the same time slaughtered a great number of\nChristians, among them his own daughter Modesta, throwing the corpses\ninto a well dug near the cave, and thence known as _le Puits des Saints\nForts_.\n\n\"A third fabric, built by Bishop Vulphardus, was burnt down in 1020,\nwhen Fulbert was Bishop, and he founded the fourth Cathedral. This was\nblasted by lightning in 1194; nothing remained but the two belfries and\nthe crypt.\n\n\"The fifth structure, finally, built in the reign of Philippe Auguste,\nwhen Regnault de Moucon was Bishop of Chartres, is that we still see; it\nwas consecrated on the 17th of October, 1260, in the presence of Saint\nLouis. This again has passed through the fire. In 1506 the northern\nspire was struck by lightning; the structure was of wood covered with\nlead; a terrific storm raged from six in the evening till four in the\nmorning, fanning the fire to such violence that the six bells were\nmelted like cakes of wax. The flames were, however kept within limits,\nand the church was refitted. But the scourge returned many times; in\n1539, in 1573, and in 1589 lightning fell on the new belfry. Then a\ncentury elapsed before the visitation was repeated; in 1701 the same\nspire was struck again.\n\n\"It then stood uninjured till 1825, when a thunder-bolt fell and shook\nit severely on Whit Monday while the _Magnificat_ was being chanted at\nVespers.\n\n\"Finally, on the 4th of June, 1836, a tremendous fire broke out, caused\nby the carelessness of two plumbers working under the roof. It lasted\neleven hours, and destroyed all the timbers, the whole forest that\nsupported the roof; it was by a miracle that the church was not entirely\nconsumed in this fury of fire.\"\n\n\"You must allow, Monsieur, that there is something strange in this\ndisaster without respite.\"\n\n\"Yes, and what is still more strange,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"Is the\npersistency of fire from heaven, bent on destroying it.\"\n\n\"How do you account for that?\" asked Durtal.\n\n\"Sebastien Rouillard, the author of _Parthenie_, believes that these\nvisitations were permitted as a punishment for certain sins, and he\ninsinuates that the conflagration of the third Cathedral was justified\nby the misconduct of some pilgrims who at that time slept in the nave,\nmen and women together. Others believe that the Devil, who can command\nthe lightning, was bent on suppressing this sanctuary at any cost.\"\n\n\"But why, then, did not the Virgin protect Her particular church more\neffectually?\"\n\n\"You may observe that She has several times preserved it from being\nutterly reduced to cinders; however, it is, all the same, very strange\nwhen we remember that Chartres is the first place where the Virgin was\nworshipped in France. It goes back to Messianic times, for, long before\nJoachim's daughter was born, the Druids had erected, in the cave which\nhas become our crypt, an altar to the Virgin who should bear a\nchild--_Virgini Pariturae_. They, by a sort of grace, had intuitive\nforeknowledge of a Saviour whose Mother should be spotless; thus it\nwould seem that at Chartres, above all places, there are very ancient\nbonds of affection with Mary. This makes it very natural that Satan\nshould be bent on breaking them.\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" said Durtal, \"that this grotto is prefigured in the Old\nTestament by a human structure of almost official character? In her\n\"Life of Our Lord,\" that exquisite visionary, Catherine Emmerich, tells\nus that there was, hard by Mount Carmel, a grotto with a well, near\nwhich Elias saw a Virgin; and it was to this spot, she says, that the\nJews who expected the Advent of the Redeemer made pilgrimages many times\na year.\n\n\"Is not this the prototype of the cave of Chartres and the well of the\nStrong Saints?\n\n\"Observe, too, on the other hand, the tendency of the thunder to fall,\nnot on the old belfry, but on the new one. No meteorological reason, I\nsuppose, can account for this preference; but on carefully considering\nthe two spires, I am struck by the delicate foliage, the slender\nlacework of the new spire, the elegant and coquettish grace of the whole\nof that side. The other, on the contrary, has no ornament, no carved\ntracery; it is simply carved in scallops like scale armour; it is sober,\nstern, stalwart and strong. It might really almost be thought that one\nis female and the other of the male sex. And then might we not conclude\nthat the first is symbolical of the Virgin and the second of Her Son? In\nthat case my inference would be akin to that offered to us by Monsieur\nl'Abbe: the fires are to be ascribed to Satan, who would wreak himself\non the image of Her who has the power to crush his head.\"\n\n\"Pray have a slice of beef, our friend,\" said Madame Bavoil, coming in\nwith a bottle in her hands.\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"And you, Monsieur l'Abbe?\"\n\nThe Abbe Plomb bowed, but declined.\n\n\"Why, you eat nothing!\"\n\n\"What! I? I may even confess that I am rather ashamed of having eaten so\nheartily, after reading this morning the life of Saint Laurence of\nDublin, who, by way of food, was content to dip his bread in the water\nclothes had been washed in.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, in order to be able to say with the Prophet-King that he fed on\nashes--since ashes are used for lye; that is a penitential banquet which\nis very unlike that we have just consumed,\" he added, laughing.\n\n\"Well, my dear Madame Bavoil, that puts even you to shame,\" said the\nAbbe Gevresin. \"You are not yet covetous of so meagre a feast; you are\nreally quite dainty! You must have milk or water to dip your sop in!\"\n\n\"Dear me,\" said Durtal, \"by way of high feeding I can improve on that. I\nremember reading in an old book the story of the Blessed Catherine of\nCardona, who, without using her hands, cropped the grass, on her knees,\namong the asses.\"\n\nIt had not struck Madame Bavoil that the friends were speaking in fun,\nand she replied quite humbly,--\n\n\"God Almighty has never yet required me to strew my bread with ashes or\nto graze the field--if He should give me the order, I should certainly\nobey it.--But it does not matter.\"\n\nAnd she was so far from enthusiastic that they all laughed.\n\n\"Then the Cathedral as a whole,\" said the Abbe Gevresin after a short\nsilence, \"dates from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, excepting, of\ncourse, the new spire and numerous details.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And the names of the architects are unknown?\"\n\n\"As are those of almost all the builders of great churches,\" replied the\nAbbe Plomb. \"It may, however, be safely assumed that during the twelfth\nand thirteenth centuries the Benedictines of the Abbey of Tiron directed\nthe building of our church, for that monastery had established a House\nat Chartres in 1117; we also know that this convent contained more than\nfive hundred Brothers practising all the arts, and that sculptors,\nimage-makers, stone-cutters, or workers in pierced stone, were numerous.\nIt would therefore seem very natural that these monks sent to live at\nChartres were the men who drew the plans of Notre Dame, and employed the\nhorde of artists whom we see represented in one of the old windows of\nthe apse--men in furred caps shaped like a jelly bag, who are busily\ncarving and polishing the statues of kings.\n\n\"Their work was finished at the beginning of the sixteenth century by\nJehan Le Texier, known as Jehan de Beauce, who erected the northern\nbelfry, called the New Belfry, and the decorative work inside the\nchurch, forming the niches for the groups on the walls of the\nchoir-aisles or ambulatory.\"\n\n\"And has no one ever been able to discover the name of any one of the\noriginal architects, sculptors, or glass-makers of this Cathedral?\"\n\n\"It has been the subject of much research, and I, personally, may say\nthat I have grudged neither time nor trouble, but all in vain.\n\n\"This much we know: At the top of the southern belfry, the Old Belfry as\nit is called, near the window-bay looking towards the New Belfry, this\nname was deciphered: 'Harman, 1164.' Is it that of an architect, of a\nworkman, or of a night watchman on the look-out at that time in the\ntower? We can but wonder. Didron, again, discovered on the pilaster of\nthe eastern porch, above the head of a butcher slaughtering an ox, the\nword 'Rogerus' in twelfth century characters. Was he the architect, the\nsculptor, the donor of this porch--or the butcher? Another signature,\n'Robir,' is to be seen on the pedestal of a statue in the north porch.\nWho was Robir? None can say.\n\n\"Langlois, too, mentions a glass-worker of the thirteenth century,\nClement of Chartres, whose signature he found on a window of the\nCathedral at Rouen--_Clement Vitrearius Carnutensis_; but it is a wide\nleap to infer, as some would do, that merely because this Clement was a\nnative of Chartres, he must have painted one or more of the glass\npictures in Notre Dame here. And at any rate we have no information as\nto his life or his works in this city. It may also be remarked that on a\npane in our church we read _Petrus Bal ...;_ is this the name, complete\nor defaced, of a donor or of a painter? Once more we must confess\nourselves ignorant.\n\n\"If I add to this that two of Jehan de Beauce's colleagues have been\ntraced: Thomas Le Vasseur, who assisted him in the building of the new\nspire, and one Sieur Bernier, whose name occurs in ancient accounts;\nthat from some old contracts, discovered by Monsieur Lecoq, we know that\nJehan Soulas, image-maker, of Paris, carved the finest of the groups\nthat are the glory of the choir-aisles, and can verify the names of\nother sculptors who succeeded this admirable artist, but who are less\ninteresting, since with them pagan art reappears and mediocrity is\nevident: Francois Marchant, image-maker, of Orleans, and Nicolas\nGuybert, of Chartres--we have mentioned almost all the records worthy of\npreservation as to the great artists who laboured at Chartres from the\ntwelfth till the close of the first half of the fifteenth century.\"\n\n\"And after that period the names that have been handed down to us\ndeserve nothing but execration. Thomas Boudin, Legros, Jean de Dieu,\nBerruer, Tuby, Simon Mazieres--these were the men that dared to carry on\nthe work begun by Soulas! Louis, the Duc d'Orleans' architect, who\ndebased and ravaged the choir, and the infamous Bridan, who, to the\ncontemptible delight of some of the Canons, erected his blatant and\nwretched presentment of the Assumption!\"\n\n\"Alas!\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"and they were Canons who thought fit to\nbreak two ancient windows in the choir and fill them with white panes,\nthe better to light that group of Bridan's!\"\n\n\"Will you eat nothing more?\" asked Madame Bavoil, who, at a negative\nfrom the guests, cleared away the cheese and preserves, and brought in\ncoffee.\n\n\"Since you are so much charmed by our Cathedral, I shall be most happy\nto take you over it and explain its details,\" said the Abbe Plomb to\nDurtal.\n\n\"I shall accept with pleasure, Monsieur l'Abbe, for it fairly haunts me,\nit possesses me--your Notre Dame! You know, no doubt, Quicherat's\ntheories of Gothic art?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I believe them to be correct. Like him, I am convinced that if\nthe essential character of the Romanesque is the substitution of the\nvaulted roof for the truss, the distinctive element and principle of the\nGothic is the buttress, and not the pointed arch.\n\n\"I reserve my opinion, indeed, as to the accuracy of Quicherat's\ndeclaration that 'the history of architecture in the middle ages is no\nmore than the history of the struggle of architects against the thrust\nand weight of vaulting,' for there is something in this art beyond\nmaterial industry and a problem of practice; at the same time he is\ncertainly right on almost every point.\n\n\"It may be added as a general principle, that in our use of the terms\nOgee and Gothic, we are misapplying words which have lost their original\nmeaning; since the Goths have nothing to do with the style of\narchitecture which has taken their name, and the word ogee or ogyve,\nwhich strictly means the semicircular form, is inaccurate as applied to\nthe arch with a double curve, which has for so long been regarded as the\nbasis, nay, as the characteristic stamp of a style.\"[1]\n\n\"After all,\" the Abbe went on, after a short silence, \"how can we judge\nof the works of a past age, but by such help as we may obtain from the\narcades pierced in shoring walls or from vaulting on round or pointed\narches? for they are all debased by centuries of repair, or left\nunfinished. Look at Chartres; Notre Dame was to have had nine spires,\nand it has but two! The cathedrals of Reims, of Paris, of Laon, and many\nmore, were to have had spires rising from their towers; and where are\nthey? We can form no exact idea of the effect their architects intended\nto produce. And then, again, these churches were meant to be seen in a\nsetting which has been destroyed, an environment that has ceased to\nexist; they were surrounded by houses of a character resembling their\nown; they are now in the midst of barracks five stories high, gloomy,\nignoble penitentiaries!--and we constantly see the ground about them\ncleared, when they were never intended to stand isolated on a square.\nLook where you will, there is a total misapprehension of the conditions\nin which they were placed, of the atmosphere in which they lived.\nCertain details, which seem to us inexplicable in some of these\nbuildings, were, no doubt, imperatively required by the position and\nneeds of the surroundings. In fact, we stumble, we feel our way--but we\nknow nothing--nothing!\"\n\n\"And at best,\" said Durtal, \"archaeology and architecture have only done\na secondary work; they have simply set before us the material organism,\nthe body of the cathedrals; who shall show us the soul?\"\n\n\"What do you mean by the word?\" said the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"I am not speaking of the soul of the building at the moment when man by\nDivine help had created it; we know nothing of that soul--not indeed as\nregards Chartres, for some invaluable documents still reveal it; but of\nthe soul of other churches, the soul they still have, and which we help\nto keep alive by our more or less regular presence, our more or less\nfrequent communion, our more or less fervent prayers.\n\n\"For instance, take Notre Dame at Paris; I know that it has been\nrestored and patched from end to end, that its sculpture is mended where\nit is not quite new; in spite of Hugo's rhetoric it is second-rate, but\nit has its nave and its wondrous transept; it is even endowed with an\nancient statue of the Virgin before which Monsieur Olier had knelt, and\nvery often. Well, an attempt was made to revive there the worship of Our\nLady, to incite a spirit of pilgrimage thither; but all is dead! That\nCathedral no longer has a soul; it is an inert corpse of stone; try\nattending Mass there, try to approach the Holy Table--you will feel an\nicy cloak fall on you and crush you. Is it the result of its emptiness,\nof its torpid services, of the froth of runs and trills they send up\nthere, of its being closed in a hurry in the evening and never open till\nso late in the morning, long after daybreak? Or has it something to do\nwith the permitted rush of tourists, of London gapers that I have seen\nthere talking at the top of their voice, sitting staring at the altar\nwhen the Holy Elements were being consecrated just in front of them? I\nknow not--but of one thing I am certain, the Virgin does not inhabit\nthere day and night and always, as she does Chartres.\n\n\"Look at Amiens, again, with its colourless windows and crude daylight,\nits chapels enclosed behind tall railings, its silence rarely broken by\nprayer, its solitude. There too is emptiness; and why I know not, but to\nme the place exhales a stale odour of Jansenism. I am not at large\nthere, and prayer is difficult; and yet the nave is magnificent, and the\nsculptures in the ambulatory, finer even than those of Chartres, may be\npronounced unique.\n\n\"But here, too, the soul is absent.\n\n\"It is the same with the Cathedral of Laon--bare, ice-bound, dead past\nhope; while some are in an intermediate state, dying, but not yet cold:\nReims, Rouen, Dijon, Tours, and Le Mans for instance; even in these\nthere is some refreshment; and Bourges, with its five porches opening on\na long perspective of aisles, and its vast deserted spaces; or Beauvais,\na melancholy fragment, having no more than a head and arms flung out in\ndespair like an appeal for ever ignored by Heaven, have still preserved\nsome of the aroma of olden days. Meditation is possible there; but\nnowhere, nowhere is there such comfort as there is here, nowhere is\nprayer so fervent as at Chartres!\"\n\n\"Those are heaven-sent words!\" cried Madame Bavoil. \"And you shall have\na glass of old black currant liqueur for your pains! Yes, indeed, he is\nquite right--our friend is right,\" she went on, addressing the priests,\nwho laughed. \"Everywhere else, excepting at Notre Dame des Victoires in\nParis and, more especially, Notre Dame de Fourviere at Lyon, when you go\nto meet Her, you wait and wait; and often enough She does not come.\nWhereas in our Cathedral She receives you at once, just as She is. And I\nhave told him, told our friend, that he should attend the first morning\nMass in the crypt, and he will see what a welcome our Mother gives her\nvisitors.\"\n\n\"Chartres is a marvellous place,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"with its two\nblack Madonnas--Notre Dame of the Pillar, above in the body of the\nchurch, and Notre Dame de Sous-Terre below, in the vault over which the\nbasilica is built. No other sanctuary, I believe, possesses the\nmiraculous images of Mary, to say nothing of the antique relic known as\nthe Shift or Tunic of the Virgin.\"\n\n\"And what in your opinion constitutes the soul of Chartres?\" asked the\nAbbe Plomb.\n\n\"Certainly not the souls of the citizens' wives and the church servants\nthat are poured out there,\" replied Durtal. \"No, its vitality comes from\nthe Sisterhoods, the peasant women, the pious schools, the pupils of the\nSeminary, and perhaps more especially from the children of the choir,\nwho crowd to kiss the Pillar and kneel before the Black Virgin. As for\nthe devotion of the respectable classes! It would scare away the\nangels!\"\n\n\"With a few rare exceptions the fine flower of female Pharisaism is no\ndoubt the outcome of that class,\" said the Abbe Plomb, and he added in a\nhalf jesting, half sorrowful tone,--\n\n\"And I, here at Chartres, am the distressful gardener of these souls!\"\n\n\"To return to our starting point,\" said the Abbe Gevresin: \"what was the\nbirthplace of the Gothic?\"\n\n\"France: so Lecoy de la Marche emphatically asserts. 'The buttress made\nits appearance as the essential basis of a style in the early years of\nLouis le Gros, in the district lying between the Seine and the Aisne.'\nIn his opinion the first practice of this form was in the Cathedral of\nLaon; other authorities regard it as merely supplementary to earlier\nbasilicas, instancing Saint-Front at Perigueux, Vezelay, Saint-Denis,\nNoyon, and the ancient college chapel at Poissy; but no two agree. One\nthing is certain, Gothic art is the art of the North; it made its way\ninto Normandy, and from thence into England. Then it spread to the Rhine\nin the twelfth century, and to Spain by the beginning of the thirteenth.\nGothic churches in the South are but an importation, evidently\nill-assorted with the men and women who frequent them, and the merciless\nblue sky which spoils them.\"\n\n\"And observe,\" said Durtal, \"that in our country that aspect of\nmysticism is discordant with the rest.\"\n\n\"How is that?\"\n\n\"Well, you see, in the distribution of the sacred arts France received\narchitecture only. Consider the pre-Raphaelite painters. All the early\npainters were Italians, Spaniards, Flemings, or Germans. Those whom some\nwriters try to represent as our fellow-countrymen are Flemings\ntransplanted to Burgundy, or docile Frenchmen whose imitative work bears\nan unmistakable Flemish stamp. Look in the Louvre at our primitive\nartists; look at Dijon, especially at what remains from the time when\nnorthern art was introduced by Philippe le Hardi into his own province.\nIt is impossible to feel a doubt. Everything came from Flanders--Jean\nPerreal, Bourdichon, even Fouquet are whatever you please, only not the\ninventors of an original Gallic art.\n\n\"It is the same with the mystic writers. Of what use would it be to\nmention the nationalities to which they belong? They too are Spanish,\nItalian, German, Flemish--not one is French.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, our friend!\" cried Madame Bavoil, \"there was the\nVenerable Jeanne de Matel, who was born at Roanne.\"\n\n\"Yes, but she was the daughter of an Italian father who was born at\nFlorence,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, who, hearing the bell ring for Nones,\nnow folded up his table napkin. They all stood up and said grace, and\nDurtal made an appointment with the Abbe Plomb to visit the Cathedral.\nThen he went home, meditating, as he walked, on this strange division of\nart in the middle ages, and the supremacy given to France in\narchitecture, when as yet she was so inferior in every other art.\n\n\"And it must be owned,\" he concluded, \"that she has now lost this\nsuperiority; for it is long indeed since she produced an architect. The\nmen who assume the name are mere thieving bunglers, builders devoid of\nall individuality and learning. They are not even able to pilfer\nskilfully from their precursors. What are they nowadays? Patchers up of\nchapels, church cobblers, botchers and blunderers!\"\n\n\n  [1] The English use of the word Ogee is thus defined: \"An arch\n  or moulding which displays sectionally contrasted curves similar\n  to that of the _cyma reversa_.\" FAIRHOLT, \"Dict. of Terms used in\n  Art;\" and PARKER, \"A Concise Glossary of Terms used in\n  Architecture.\"--[_Translator_.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nMadame Bavoil was right; to understand the welcome the Virgin could\nbestow on Her visitors, the early Mass in the crypt must be attended;\nabove all, the Communion should be received.\n\nDurtal made the experiment; one day when the Abbe Gevresin enjoined on\nhim to approach the Table, he followed the housekeeper's advice and went\nto the crypt at early dawn.\n\nThe way down was by a cellar-stair lighted by a small lamp with a\nsputtering wick darkening the chimney with smoke; having safely reached\nthe bottom, he turned to the left in the darkness; here and there, at an\nangle, a floating wick threw a ruddy light on the circuit which he made\nin alternate light and shade, till at last he had some notion of the\ngeneral outline of the crypt. Its plan would be fairly represented by\nthe nave of a wheel whence the spokes radiated in every direction,\njoining the outer circle or tyre. From the circular path in which he\nfound himself passages diverged like the sticks of a fan, and at the end\nlittle fogged glass windows were visible, looking almost bright in the\nopaque blackness of the walls.\n\nAnd by following the curve of the corridor, Durtal came to a green baize\ndoor which he pushed open. He found himself in the side aisle of a nave\nending in a semicircle, where there was a high altar. To the right and\nleft two little recesses formed the arms or transept of a small cross.\nThe centre aisle, forming a low nave, had chairs on either side, leaving\na narrow space to give access to the altar.\n\nIt was scarcely possible to see; the sanctuary was lighted only by tiny\nlamps from the roof in little saucers of lurid orange or dull gold. An\nextraordinarily mild atmosphere prevailed in this underground structure,\nwhich was also full of a singular perfume in which a musty odour of hot\nwax mingled with a suggestion of damp earth. But this was only the\nbackground, the canvas, so to speak, of the perfume, and was lost under\nthe embroidery of fragrance which covered it, the faded gold, as it\nwere, of oil in which long kept aromatic herbs had been steeped, and\nold, old incense powder dissolved. It was a weird and mysterious vapour,\nas strange as the crypt itself, which, with its furtive lights and\nbreadths of shadow, was at once penitential and soothing.\n\nDurtal went up the broader aisle to the left arm of the cross and sat\ndown; the tiny transept had its little altar, with a Greek cross in\nrelief against a purple disk. Overhead the enormous curve of the\nvaulting hung heavy, and so low that a man could touch it by stretching\nan arm; it was as black as the mouth of a chimney, and scorched by the\nfires that had consumed the cathedrals built above it.\n\nPresently the clap-clap of sabots became audible, and then the smothered\nfootfall of nuns; there was silence but for sneezing and nose-blowing\nstifled by pocket-handkerchiefs, and then all was still.\n\nA sacristan came in through a little door opening into the other\ntransept, and lighted the tapers on the high altar; then strings of\nsilver-gilt hearts became visible in the semicircle all along the walls,\nreflecting the blaze of flames, and forming a glory for a statue of the\nVirgin sitting, stiff and dark, with a Child on Her knees. This was the\nfamous Virgin of the Cavern, or rather a copy of it, for the original\nwas burnt in 1793 in front of the great porch of the Cathedral, amid the\ndelirious raving of _sans-culottes_.\n\nA choir-boy came in, followed by an old priest; and then, for the first\ntime, Durtal saw the Mass really as a service, and understood the\nwonderful beauty that lies inherent in a devout commemoration of the\nSacrifice.\n\nThe boy on his knees, his soul aspiring and his hands clasped, spoke\naloud and slowly, rehearsing the responses of the Psalm with such deep\nattention and respect, that the meaning of this noble liturgy, which has\nceased to amaze us, because we are so used to hearing it stammered out\nin hot haste, was suddenly revealed to Durtal.\n\nAnd the priest himself, unconsciously, whether he would or no, took up\nthe child's tone, imitating him, speaking slowly, not merely tripping\nthe verses off the tip of his tongue, but absorbed in the words he had\nto repeat; and he seemed overwhelmed, as though it were his first Mass,\nby the grandeur of the rite of which he was to be the instrument.\n\nIn fact, Durtal heard the celebrant's voice tremble when standing before\nthe altar in the presence of the Father, like the Son Himself whom he\nrepresented, and imploring forgiveness for all the sins of the world\nwhich He bore on His shoulders, supported in his grief and hope by the\ninnocence of the child whose loving care was less mature and less lively\nthan the man's.\n\nAnd as he spoke the despairing words, \"My God, my God, wherefore is my\nspirit heavy, and why dost Thou afflict me?\" the priest was indeed the\nimage of Jesus suffering on the hill of Calvary, but the man remained in\nthe celebrant--the man, conscious of himself, and himself experiencing,\nin behoof of his personal sins and his own shortcomings, the impressions\nof sorrow contained in the inspired text.\n\nMeanwhile his little acolyte had words of comfort, bid him hope; and\nafter repeating the _Confiteor_ in the face of the congregation, who on\ntheir part purified their souls by the same ablution of confession, the\npriest with revived assurance went up the altar steps and began the\nMass.\n\nPositively, in this atmosphere of prayers crushed in by the heavy roof,\nDurtal, in the midst of kneeling Sisters and women, was struck with a\nsense as of some early Christian rite buried in the catacombs. Here were\nthe same ecstatic tenderness, the same faith; and it was possible even\nto imagine some apprehension of surprise, and some eagerness to profess\nthe faith in the face of danger. And thus, as in a vague image, this\nsacred cellar held the dim picture of the neophytes assembled so long\nsince in the underground caverns of Rome.\n\nThe service proceeded before Durtal's eyes, and he was amazed to watch\nthe boy, who, with half closed eyes and the reserve of timid emotion,\nkissed the flagons of wine and of water before presenting them to the\npriest.\n\nDurtal would look no more; he tried to concentrate his mind while the\npriest was wiping his hands, for the only prayers he could honestly\noffer up to God were verses and texts repeated in an undertone.\n\nThis only had he in his favour, but this he had: that he passionately\nloved mysticism and the liturgy, plain-song and cathedrals. Without\nfalsehood or self-delusion, he could in all truth exclaim, \"Lord, I have\nloved the habitation of Thy house, and the place where Thine honour\ndwelleth.\" This was all he had to offer to the Father in expiation of\nhis contumely and refractoriness, his errors and his falls.\n\n\"Oh!\" thought he, \"how could I dare to pour out the ready-made collects\nof which the prayer-books are full, how say to God, while addressing Him\nas 'Lovely Jesus,' that He is the beloved of my heart, that I solemnly\nvow never to love anything but Him, that I would die rather than ever\ndisplease Him?\n\n\"Love none but Him!--If I were a monk and alone, possibly; but living in\nthe world!--And then who but the Saints would prefer death to the\nsmallest sin? Why then humbug Him with these feints and grimaces?\n\n\"No,\" said Durtal, \"apart from the personal outpourings, the secret\nintimacy in which we are bold to tell Him everything that comes into our\nhead, the prayers of the liturgy alone can be uttered with impunity by\nany man, for it is the peculiarity of these inspirations that they adapt\nthemselves in all ages to every state of the mind and every phase of\nlife. And with the exception of the time-honoured prayers of certain\nSaints, which are as a rule either supplications for pity or for help,\nappeals to God's mercy or laments, all other prayers sent forth from the\ncold insipid sacristies of the seventeenth century, or, worse still,\ncomposed in our own day by the piety-mongers who insert in our books of\nprayer the pious cant of the Rue Bonaparte--all these inflated and\npretentious petitions should be avoided by sinners who, in default of\nevery other virtue, at least wish to be sincere.\n\n\"Only that wonderful child could thus address the Lord without\nhypocrisy,\" he went on, looking at the little acolyte, and understanding\ntruly for the first time what innocent childhood meant--the little\nsinless soul, purely white.\n\n\"The Church, which tries to find beings absolutely ingenuous and\nimmaculate to wait upon the altar, had succeeded at Chartres in moulding\nsouls and transforming ordinary boys on their admission to the sanctuary\ninto exquisite angels. There must certainly be, above and besides their\nspecial training, some blessing and goodwill from Our Lady, to mould\nthese little rogues to the service, to make them so unlike others, and\nendow them in the middle of the nineteenth century with the fire of\nchastity and primitive fervour of the middle age.\"\n\nThe service proceeded slowly, soaking into the abject silence of the\nworshippers, and the child, more reverent and attentive than ever, rang\nthe bell; it was like a shower of sparks tinkling under the smoky vault,\nand the silence seemed deeper than ever behind the kneeling boy,\nupholding with one hand the chasuble of the celebrant, who bowed over\nthe altar. The Host was elevated amid the shower of silver sound; and\nthen, above the prostrate heads, in the clear sparkle of bells, the\ngolden tulip of a chalice flashed out till, to a final hurried peal, the\ngilded flower was lowered, and the prostrate worshippers looked up.\n\nAnd Durtal was thinking,--\n\n\"If only He to whom we refused shelter when the Mother who bore Him was\nin travail, could find a loving refuge in our souls to-day! But alas!\napart from these nuns, these children, these priests, and these peasant\nwomen who cherish Him so truly, how many here present are, like me,\nembarrassed by His presence, and at all times incapable of making ready\nthe chamber He requires, of receiving Him in a room swept and garnished?\n\n\"Alas! to think that things are always the same, always going back to\nthe beginning! Our souls are still the crafty synagogues who betrayed\nHim, and the vile Caiaphas that lurks within us rises up at the very\nmoment when we fain would be humble and love Him while we pray! My God!\nMy God! Would it not be better to depart than to drag myself thus, with\nsuch a bad grace, into Thy presence? For, after all, it is all very well\nfor the Abbe Gevresin to insist that I should communicate, he is not\nI--he is not in me; he does not know the wild doings in my hidden lairs,\nor the turmoil in my ruins. He believes it to be mere nervelessness,\nindolence. Alas! That is not all. There is a dryness, a coldness, which\nare not altogether free from a certain amount of irritation and\nrebelliousness against the rules he insists on.\"\n\nThe moment of Communion was at hand. The little boy had gently thrown\nthe white napkin back on the table; the nuns and poor women and peasants\nwent forward, all with clasped hands and bowed heads, and the child took\na taper and passed in front of the priest, his eyes almost shut for fear\nof seeing the Host.\n\nThere was in this little creature such a glow of love and reverence that\nDurtal gazed with admiration and trembled with awe. Without in the least\nknowing why, in the midst of the darkness that fell on his soul, of the\nimpotent and wavering feeling that thrilled it without there being any\nword to describe them, he felt a tide bearing him to the Saviour, and\nthen a recoil.\n\nThe comparison was inevitably forced upon him between that child's soul\nand his own. \"Why, it is he, not I, who should take the Sacrament!\"\ncried he to himself; and he crouched there inert, his hands folded, not\nknowing how to decide, in a frame at once beseeching and terrified, when\nhe felt himself gently drawn to the table and received the Sacrament.\nAnd meanwhile he was trying to collect himself, and to pray, and at the\nsame time, at the same instant, was in the discomfort of the shuddering\nfears that surge up within us, and that find expression physically in a\ncraving for air, and in that peculiar condition when the head feels as\nif it were empty, as if the brain had ceased to act, and all vitality\nwas driven back on the heart, which swells to choking; when it seems, in\nthe spiritual sense, that as energy returns so far as to allow of\nself-command once more, of introspection, we peer down in appalling\nsilence into a black void.\n\nHe painfully rose and returned to his place, not without stumbling.\nNever, not even at Chartres, had he been able to hinder the torpor that\noverpowered him at the moment of receiving the Sacrament. His powers\nwere benumbed, his faculties arrested.\n\nIn Paris, at the core of his soul, which seemed rolled up in itself like\na chrysalis, there had always been a sort of restraint, an awkwardness\nin waiting, and in approaching Christ, and then an apathy which nothing\ncould shake off. And this state was prolonged in a sort of cold,\nenveloping mist, or rather in a vacuum all round the soul, deserted and\nswooning on its couch.\n\nAt Chartres this state of collapse was still present, but some indulgent\ntenderness presently enwrapped and warmed the spirit. The soul as it\nrecovered was no longer alone; it was encouraged and perceptibly helped\nby the Virgin, who revived it. And this impression, peculiar to this\ncrypt, permeated the body too; it was no longer a feeling of suffocation\nfor lack of air; on the contrary, it was the oppression of inflation, of\nover-fulness, which would be mitigated by degrees, allowing of easy\nbreathing at last.\n\nDurtal, comforted and relieved, rose to go. By this time the crypt had\nbecome a little lighter from the growing dawn; the passages, ending in\naltars backing against the windows, were still dark, as a result of the\nground plan, but in the perspective of each a moving gold cross was to\nbe seen almost distinctly, rising and falling with a priest's back,\nbetween two pale stars twinkling one on each side above the tabernacle;\nwhile a third, lower and with redder flame, lighted up the book and the\nwhite napery.\n\nDurtal wandered away to meditate in the Bishop's garden, where he had\npermission to walk whenever he pleased.\n\nThe garden was perfectly still, with tomb-like avenues, pollard poplars,\nand trampled lawns--half dead. There was not a flower, for the Cathedral\nkilled everything under its shadow. Its vast deserted apse, without a\nstatue, rose amid a flight of buttresses flung out like huge ribs,\ninflated as it were by the breath of incessant prayer within; shade and\ndamp always clung round the spot; in this funereal Close, where the\ntrees were green only in proportion as they were distant from the\nchurch, lay two microscopic ponds like the mouths of two wells; one\ncovered to the brim with yellow-green duck-weed, the other full of\nbrackish water of inky blackness, in which three goldfish lay as in\npickle.\n\nDurtal was fond of this neglected spot, with its reek of the grave and\nthe salt marsh, and the mouldy smell, that earthy scent that comes up\nfrom a rotting soil of wet leaves.\n\nHe paced the alleys, where the Bishop never came, and where the children\nof the household, rushing about at play, destroyed the fragments of\ngrass-plots spared by the Cathedral. Slates cracked underfoot, flung\ndown from the roofs by the wind, and the jackdaws croaked in answer to\neach other across the silent park.\n\nDurtal came out on a terrace overlooking the city, and he rested his\nelbows on a parapet of grey time-eaten stone, as dry as pumice and\npatterned with orange and sulphur-coloured lichens.\n\nBeneath him spread a valley crowded with smoking chimneys and roofs,\nveiling this upper part of the town in a tangle of blue. Further down\nall was still and lifeless; the houses were asleep, not so far awake\neven as to show the transient flash of glass when a window is thrown\nopen, nor was there such a spot of red as is often seen in a country\nstreet when an eider-down quilt hangs out to air across the bar of a\nbalcony; everything was closed and dull and soundless; there was not\neven the hive-like hum that hangs over inhabited places. But for the\ndistant rumble of a cart, the crack of a whip, the bark of a dog, all\nwas still: it was a town asleep, a land of the dead.\n\nAnd beyond the valley, on the further bank, the scene was still more\nsullen and silent; the plains of La Beauce stretched away as far as the\neye could reach, mute and melancholy, without a smile, under a heartless\nsky divided by an ignoble barrack facing the Cathedral.\n\nThe dreariness of these plains, an endless level without a mound,\nwithout a tree! And you felt that even beyond the horizon they still\nstretched away as flat as ever; only the monotony of the landscape was\nemphasized by the raging fury of the tempestuous winds, sweeping the\nhillside, levelling the tree-tops, and wreaking themselves on this\nbasilica, which, perched on high, had for centuries defied their\nefforts. To uproot it the lightning had been needed to help, firing its\ntowers, and even the combined attacks of the hurricane and the flames\nhad been unable to destroy the original stock, which, replanted after\neach disaster, had always sprouted in fresh verdure with reinvigorated\ngrowth.\n\nThat morning, in the dawn of a rainy autumn day, lashed by a bitter\nnorth wind, Durtal, shivering and ill at ease, left the terrace and took\nrefuge in the more sheltered walks, going down presently into a\ngarden-slope where the brushwood afforded some little protection from\nthe wind; these shrubberies wandered at random down the hill, and an\ninextricable tangle of blackberries clung with the cat's-claws of their\nlong shoots to the saplings that were scattered about.\n\nIt was evident that since some immemorial time the Bishops, for lack of\nfunds, had neglected these grounds. Of all the old kitchen garden,\novergrown by brambles, only one plot was more or less weeded, and rows\nof spinach and carrots alternated with the frosted balls of cabbages.\n\nDurtal sat down on a stump that had once supported a bench, and tried to\nlook into his own soul; but he found within, look where he might, only a\nspiritual Beauce; it seemed to him to mirror the cold and monotonous\nlandscape; only it was not a mighty wind that blew through his being;\nbut a sharp, drying little blast. He knew that he was cross-grained and\ncould not make his observations calmly; his conscience harassed him and\ninsisted on vexatious argument.\n\n\"Pride! Ah, how is it to be kept under till the day shall come when it\nshall be quelled? It insinuates itself so stealthily, so noiselessly,\nthat it has ensnared and bound me before I can suspect its presence; and\nmy case too is somewhat peculiar, and hard to cure by the religious\ntreatment commonly prescribed in such cases. For in fact,\" said he to\nhimself, \"my pride is not of the artless and overweening kind, elated,\naudacious, boldly displaying, and proclaiming itself to the world; no,\nmine is in a latent state, what was called vain-glory in the simplicity\nof the Middle Ages, an essence of pride diluted with vanity and\nevaporating within me in transient thoughts and unexpressed conceit. I\nhave not even the opportunity afforded by swaggering pride for being on\nmy guard and compelling myself to keep silence. Yes, that is very true;\ntalk leads to specious boasting and invites subtle praise; one is\npresently aware of it, and then, with patience and determination, it is\nin one's power to check and muzzle oneself. But my vice of pride is\nwordless and underground; it does not come forth. I neither see nor hear\nit. It wriggles and creeps in without a sound, and clutches me without\nmy having heard its approach!\n\n\"And the good Abbe answers: 'Be watchful and pray;' well, I am more than\nwilling, but the remedy is ineffectual, for aridity and outside\ninfluences deprive it of its efficacy!\n\n\"As for outside suggestions--they never seem to come to me but in\nprayer. It is enough that I kneel down and try to collect my thoughts,\nthey are at once dissipated. The mere purpose of prayer is like a stone\nflung into a pool; everything is stirred up and comes to the top!\n\n\"And people who have not habits of religious practice fancy that there\nis nothing easier than prayer. I should like to see them try. They could\nthen bear witness that profane imaginings, which leave them in peace at\nall other times, always surge up unexpectedly, during prayer.\n\n\"Besides, what use is therein disputing the fact? Merely looking at a\nsleeping vice is enough to wake it.\"\n\nAnd his thoughts went back to that warm crypt. \"Yes, no doubt, like all\nthe buildings of the Romanesque period, it is symbolical of the Old\nTestament; but it is not simply gloomy and sad, for it is enveloping and\ncomforting, warm and tender! Admitting even that it is the figure in\nstone of the older Dispensation, would it not seem that it symbolizes it\nless as a whole, than as embodying more especially a select group of the\nHoly Women who prefigured the Virgin in the earlier Scriptures? Is it\nnot the expression in stone of those passages in which the illustrious\nwomen of the Bible are most conspicuous, who were, in a way, prophetic\nincarnations of the New Eve?\n\n\"Hence this crypt would reproduce the most consoling and the most heroic\npassages of the Sacred Book, for the Virgin is supreme in this\nunderground sanctuary; it is Hers rather than the terrible Adonai's, if\none may dare say so.\n\n\"And again, She is a very singular Virgin, who has inevitably remained\nin harmony with Her surroundings: a Virgin black and rugged, and\nstunted, like the rough-hewn shrine She inhabits.\n\n\"She is therefore, no doubt, the outcome of the same idea that conceived\nof Christ as black and ugly because He had assumed the burthen of all\nthe sins of the world, the Christ of the first ages of the Church, who\nin His humility put on the vilest aspect. In that case Mary would have\nconceived Her Son in Her own image; She too had chosen to be ugly and\nobscure, out of humility and loving-kindness, that She might the better\nconsole the disfigured and despised creatures whose image She had\nborrowed.\"\n\nAnd Durtal went on:--\n\n\"What a crypt is this where, in the course of so many centuries, kings\nand queens have come to worship!\n\n\"Philip Augustus and Isabella of Hainault, Blanche of Castille and Saint\nLouis, Philippe de Valois, Jean le Bon, Charles V., Charles VI., Charles\nVII., Charles VIII. and Anne de Bretagne; then Francois I., Henri III.\nand Louise de Vaudemont, Catherine de' Medici; Henri IV., who was\ncrowned in this Cathedral, Anne of Austria, Louis XIV., Maria Leczinska,\nand so many others--all the nobility of France; and Ferdinand of Spain,\nand Leon de Lusignan, the last King of Armenia, and Pierre de Courtenay,\nEmperor of Constantinople--all kneeling like the poor folks of to-day,\nand like them beseeching Notre Dame de Sous-Terre.\"\n\nAnd what was more interesting still was that the Virgin had wrought many\nmiracles on this spot. She had saved children who had fallen into the\nwell of the Strong Saints, had preserved the guardians who had charge of\nthe relic of Her garment when the edifice was blazing above them, and\nhad cured crowds, half maddened by the Burning plague in the Middle\nAges, shedding Her benefits with a lavish hand.\n\nTimes were changed indeed, but fervent worshippers had knelt before the\nImage, had relinked the bonds broken in the course of years, had, so to\nspeak, recaptured the Virgin in a net of prayer; and so, instead of\ndeparting, as She had done elsewhere, She had remained at Chartres.\n\nBy some incredible effect of clemency She had endured the insult of the\ntenth-day festivals and the outrage of seeing the Goddess of Reason\ninstalled in her place on the altar, had suffered the infamous liturgy\nof obscene canticles rising with the thundering incense of gunpowder.\nAnd She had forgiven it all, no doubt for the sake of the love shown Her\nby preceding generations, and the awed, but real affection of the humble\nbelievers who had come back to Her when the storm was over.\n\nThis cavern was crowded with memories. The coating of those walls had\nbeen formed of the vapours of the soul, of the exhalations of\naccumulated desires and regrets, even more than of the smoke of tapers;\nhow foolish it was then to have painted this crypt in squalid imitation\nof the catacombs, to have defaced the glorious darkness of these stones\nwith colours which were indeed fast vanishing, leaving only traces as of\npalette scrapings in the consecrated soot on the roof!\n\nDurtal was expatiating on these reflections as he went out of the\ngarden, when he met the Abbe Gevresin walking along and reading his\nbreviary. He asked whether Durtal had taken the Sacrament. And\nperceiving that his penitent always came back to his shame of the inert\nand torpid grief that came over him in contemplation of the Holy\nSacrament, the old priest said to him,--\n\n\"That is no concern of yours; all you have to do is to pray to the best\nof your power. The rest is my concern--if the far from triumphant state\nof your soul only makes you a little humble, that is all I ask of you.\"\n\n\"Humble! I am like a water cooler; my vanity sweats out at every pore as\nthe water oozes from the clay.\"\n\n\"It is some consolation to me that you perceive it,\" said the Abbe,\nsmiling. \"It would be far worse if you did not know yourself, if you\nwere so proud as to believe that you had no pride.\"\n\n\"But how then am I to set to work? You advise me to pray; but teach me\nat least how not to dissipate myself in every direction, for as soon as\nI try to collect myself I go to pieces; I live in a perpetual state of\ndissolution. It is like a thing arranged on purpose; as soon as I try to\nshut the cage all my thoughts fly off--they deafen me with their\nchirping.\"\n\nThe Abbe was thinking.\n\n\"I know,\" said he; \"nothing is more difficult than to free the spirit\nfrom the images that take possession of it. Still, and in spite of all,\nyou may achieve concentration of mind if you observe these three rules:\n\n\"In the first place you must humble yourself, by owning the frailty of\nyour mind, unable to preserve itself from wandering in the presence of\nGod; next you must not be impatient or restless, for that would only\nstir up the dregs and bring other objects of frivolity to the surface;\nfinally, it is well not to investigate the nature of the distractions\nthat trouble your prayers till they are over. This only prolongs the\ndisturbance, and in a way recognizes its existence. You thus run the\nrisk, in virtue of the law of association of ideas, of inviting new\ndiversions, and there would be no way of escape.\n\n\"After prayer you may examine yourself with benefit; follow my advice,\nand you will find the advantage of it.\"\n\n\"That is all very fine,\" thought Durtal, \"but when it comes to putting\nthe advice into practice it is quite another thing. Are not these mere\nold women's remedies, precious ointments, quack medicines, for which the\npious and virtuous have a weakness?\"\n\nThey walked on in silence across the forecourt of the palace to the\npriest's rooms. As they went in, they found Madame Bavoil at the foot of\nthe stairs, her arms in a tub full of soap-suds. As she rubbed the\nclothes, she turned to look at Durtal, and, as if she could read his\nthoughts, she mildly asked,--\n\n\"Why, our friend, wear such a graveyard face when you took the Sacrament\nthis morning?\"\n\n\"So you heard I had been to Communion?\"\n\n\"Yes, I went into the crypt while Mass was going forward, and saw you go\nup to the Holy Table. Well, shall I tell you the truth? You do not know\nhow to address our Holy Mother.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"No. You are shy when She is doing her best to put you at your ease; you\ncreep close to the wall when you ought to walk boldly up the middle\naisle to face Her. That is not the way to approach Her!\"\n\n\"But if I have nothing to say to Her?\"\n\n\"Then you simply chatter to Her like a child; some pretty speech, and\nShe is satisfied. Oh, these men! How little they know how to pay their\ncourt, how greatly they lack little coaxing ways, and even honest\nartfulness! If you can invent nothing on your own part, borrow from\nanother. Repeat after the Venerable Jeanne de Matel:\n\n\"'Holy Virgin, this abyss of iniquity and vileness invokes the abyss of\nstrength and splendour to praise Thy preeminent Glory.' Well, is that\npretty well expressed, our friend? Try; recite that to Our Lady and She\nwill unbind you; then prayer will come of itself. Such little ways are\npermitted by Her, and we must be humble enough not to presume to do\nwithout them.\"\n\nDurtal could not help laughing.\n\n\"You want me to become a trickster, a sneak in spiritual life!\" said he.\n\n\"Well, where would be the harm? Does not the Lord know when we mean\nwell? Does not He take note of our intentions? Would you, yourself,\nrepulse anyone who paid you a compliment, however clumsily, if you\nthought he meant to please you by it? No, of course not.\"\n\n\"Here is another thing,\" said the Abbe, laughing. \"Madame Bavoil, I saw\nMonseigneur this morning; he grants your petition and authorizes you to\ndig in as many parts of the garden as you choose.\"\n\n\"Aha!\" and amused by Durtal's surprise she went on: \"You must have seen\nfor yourself that excepting a little plot of ground where the gardener\nplants a few carrots and cabbages for the Bishop's table, the whole of\nthe garden is left to run wild; it is sheer waste and of no use to\nanybody. Now instead of buying vegetables, I mean to grow some, since\nMonseigneur gives me leave to turn over his ground, and by the same\ntoken I will give some to your housekeeper.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Then do you understand gardening?\"\n\n\"I? Why, am I not a peasant? I have lived in the country all my life,\nand a kitchen garden is just my business! Besides, if I were in\ndifficulties, would not my Friends Above come to advise me?\"\n\n\"You are a wonderful woman, Madame Bavoil,\" said Durtal, somewhat\ndisconcerted in spite of himself by the answers of a cook who so calmly\nasserted that she was on intimate terms with the divine Beyond.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nIt rained without ceasing. Durtal breakfasted under the assiduous\nwatchfulness of his servant, Madame Mesurat. She was one of those women\nwhose stalwart build and masculine presence would allow of their\ndressing in men's clothes without attracting attention. She had a\npear-shaped head, cheeks that hung flabby as if they had been emptied of\nair, a pompous nose that drooped till it very nearly touched a\nprojecting underlip like a bracket, giving her an expression of\ndetermined contempt which she very certainly had never felt. In short,\nshe suggested the absurd idea of a solemn, gawky Marlborough disguised\nas a cook.\n\nShe served unvarying meats with inglorious sauces; and as soon as the\ndish was on the table she stood at attention, waiting to know whether it\nwas good. She was imposing and devoted--quite insufferable. Durtal, on\nedge with irritation, found it all he could do not to dismiss her to the\nkitchen, and finally buried his nose in a book that he might not have to\nanswer her, might not see her.\n\nThis day, provoked by his silence, Madame Mesurat lifted the window\ncurtain, and for the sake of saying something, exclaimed,--\n\n\"Good heavens! What weather! Impossible!\"\n\nAnd in fact the sky offered no hope of consolation. It was all in tears.\nThe rain fell in uninterrupted streams, unwinding endless skeins of\nwater. The Cathedral was standing in a pool of mud lashed into leaping\ndrops by the falling torrent, and the two spires looked drawn together,\nalmost close, linked by loose threads of water. This indeed was the\nprevailing impression--a briny atmosphere full of strings holding the\nsky and earth together as if tacked with long stitches, but they would\nnot hold; a gust of wind snapped all these endless threads, which were\nwhirled in every direction.\n\n\"My arrangement to meet the Abbe Plomb to go over the Cathedral is\nevidently at an end,\" said Durtal to himself. \"The Abbe will certainly\nnot turn out in such weather.\"\n\nHe went into his study; this was his usual place of refuge. He had his\ndivan there, his pictures, the old furniture he had brought from Paris;\nand against the walls, shelves, painted black, held thousands of books.\nThere he lived, looking out on the towers, hearing nothing but the\ncawing of the rooks and the strokes of the hours as they fell one by one\non the silence of the deserted square. He had placed his table in front\nof a window, and there he sat dreaming, praying, meditating, making\nnotes.\n\nThe balance of his personal account was struck by internal damage and\nmental disputations; if the soul was bruised and ice-bound, the mind was\nno less afflicted, no less fagged. It seemed to have grown dull since\nhis residence at Chartres. The biographies of Saints which Durtal had\nintended to write, remained in the stage of charcoal sketches; they blew\noff before he could fix them. In reality he had ceased to care for\nanything but the Cathedral; it had taken possession of him.\n\nAnd besides, the lives of the Saints as they were written by the\ninferior Bollandists were enough to disgust anybody with saintliness.\nOffered to publisher after publisher, carted from the Paris libraries to\nthe provincial workshops, this barrow of books had at first been hauled\nby a single nag, Father Giry; then a second horse had been added, the\nAbbe Guerin, and, harnessed to the same shafts, these two men pulled\ntheir heavy truck over the broken road of souls.\n\nHe had only to open a bale of this prosy dulness, taking down a volume\nat random, to light on sentences of this quality:\n\n\"Such an one was born of parents not less remarkable for their rank than\nfor their piety;\" or, on the other hand, \"His parents were not of\nillustrious birth, but in them might be seen the distinction of all the\nvirtues which are so far above rank.\"\n\nAnd then the dreadful style of the Pont Neuf: \"His historian does not\nhesitate to say he would have been mistaken for an angel if the maladies\nwith which God afflicted him had not shown that he was a man.\"--\"The\nDevil, not enduring to see him advancing by rapid leaps on the way of\nperfection, adopted various means of hindering him in the happy progress\nof his career.\"\n\nAnd on turning over to a fresh page he came upon a passage in the life\nof one of the Elect who was mourning for his mother, excusing him in\nthis solemn rigmarole: \"After granting to the feelings of nature such\nrelief as grace cannot forbid on these occasions--\"\n\nOr again, here and there were such pompous and ridiculous definitions as\nthis, which occurs in the life of Cesar de Bus: \"After a visit to Paris,\nwhich is not less the throne of vice than the capital of the kingdom--\"\nAnd this went on in meagre language through twelve to fifteen volumes,\nending by the erection of a row of uniform virtue, a barrack of pious\nidiotcy. Now and again the two poor nags seemed to wake up and trot for\na little space, though gasping for breath, when they had some detail to\nrecord which no doubt moved them to rapture; they expatiated\ncomplacently on the virtues of Catherine of Sweden or Robert de la\nChaise-Dieu, who as soon as they were born cried for sinless wet-nurses,\nand would suck none but pious breasts; or they spoke with ravishment of\nthe chastity of Jean the Taciturn, who never took a bath, that he might\nnot shock \"his modest eyes,\" as the text says, by seeing himself; and\nthe bashful purity of San Luis de Gonzagua, who had such a terror of\nwomen that he dared not look at his mother for fear of evil thoughts!\n\nIn consternation at the poverty of these distressing non-sequiturs,\nDurtal turned to the less familiar biographies of the Blessed Women; but\nhere again, what a farrago of the commonplace, what glutinous unction,\nwhat a hash by way of style! There was certainly some curse from Heaven\non the old women of the Sacristy who dared take up a pen. Their ink at\nonce turned to stickiness, to bird-lime, to pitch, which smeared all it\ntouched. Oh, the poor Saints! the hapless Blessed Women!\n\nHis meditations were interrupted by a ring at the bell:\n\n\"Why, has the Abbe Plomb really come out in spite of the gale?\"\n\nIt was indeed the priest that Madame Mesurat showed in.\n\n\"Oh,\" said he to Durtal, who lamented over the rain, \"the weather will\nclear up all in good time; at any rate, as you had not put me off I was\ndetermined not to keep you waiting.\"\n\nThey sat chatting by the fire; and the room took the Abbe's fancy, no\ndoubt, for he settled himself at his ease. He threw himself back in an\narm-chair, tucking his hands into his cincture. And when, in answer to\nhis question as to whether Durtal were not too dull at Chartres, the\nParisian replied, \"It seems to me that I live more slowly, and yet am\nnot such a burthen to myself,\" the Abbe went on,--\n\n\"What you must feel painfully is the lack of intellectual society; you,\nwho in Paris lived in the world of letters--how can you endure the\natmosphere of this provincial town?\"\n\nDurtal laughed.\n\n\"The world of letters! No, Monsieur l'Abbe, I should not be likely to\nregret that, for I had given it up many years before I came to live\nhere; and besides, I assure you it is impossible to be intimate with\nthose train-bands of literature and remain decent. A man must\nchoose--them or honest folks; slander or silence; for their speciality\nis to eliminate every charitable idea, and above all to cure a man of\nfriendship in the winking of an eye.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Yes, by adopting a homoeopathic pharmacopoeia which still makes use\nof the foulest matter--the extract of wood-lice, the venom of snakes,\nthe poison of the cockchafer, the secretions of the skunk and the matter\nfrom pustules, all disguised in sugar of milk to conceal their taste and\nappearance; the world of letters, in the same way, triturates the most\ndisgusting things to get them swallowed without raising your gorge.\nThere is an incessant manipulation of neighbours' gossip and play-box\ntittle-tattle, all wrapped up in perfidious good taste to mask their\nflavour and smell.\n\n\"These pills of foulness, exhibited in the required doses, act like\ndetergents on the soul, which they almost immediately purge of all\ntrustfulness. I had enough of this regimen, which acted on me only too\nsuccessfully, and I thought it well to escape from it.\"\n\n\"But the pious world, too, is not absolutely free from gossip,\" said the\nAbbe, smiling.\n\n\"No doubt, and I am well aware that devotion does not always sweeten the\nmind, but--\n\n\"The truth is,\" said he after reflection, \"that the assiduous practice\nof religion generally results in some intense effects on the soul. Only\nthey may be of two kinds. Either it develops the soul's taint and\nevolves in it the final ferments which putrefy it once for all, or it\npurifies the spirit and makes it clean and clear and exquisite. It may\nproduce hypocrites or good and saintly people; there is really no\nmedium.\n\n\"But when such divine husbandry has completely cleansed souls, how\nguileless and how pure they may be! Nor am I speaking of the Elect, such\nas I saw at La Trappe--merely of young novices, little priestlings whom\nI have known. They had eyes like clear glass, undimmed by the haze of a\nsingle sin; and, looking into them, behind those eyes you would have\nseen their open soul burning like a soaring crown of fire framing the\nsmiling face in a halo of white name.\n\n\"In fact, Jesus simply fills up all the room in their soul. Do not you\nthink, Monsieur l'Abbe, that these youths occupy their bodies just\nenough for suffering and to expiate the sins of others? Without knowing\nit, they have been sent into the world to be safe tenements of the Lord,\nthe resting-place where Jesus finds a home after wandering over the\nfrozen steppes of other souls.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Abbe, taking off his spectacles to wipe them on his\nbandana, \"but to acquire so fine a strain of being, how much\nmortification, penance, and prayer have been needed in the generations\nthat have ended by giving them birth! The spirits of whom you speak are\nthe flower of a stem long nourished in a pious soil. The Spirit, of\ncourse, bloweth where it listeth, and may find a saint in the heart of a\nlistless family; but this mode of operation must always be an exception.\nThe novices you have known must certainly have had grandmothers and\nmothers who frequently incited them to kneel and pray by their side.\"\n\n\"I do not know--I knew nothing of the origin of these lads--but I feel\nthat you are right. It is obvious, indeed, that children, slowly brought\nup from their earliest years, and sheltered from the world under the\nshadow of such a sanctuary as this at Chartres, must end in the\nblossoming of an unique flower.\"\n\nAnd when Durtal told him of the impression made on him by the angelic\nservice of the Mass, the Abbe smiled.\n\n\"Though our boys are not unique, they are no doubt rare. Here, the\nVirgin Herself trains them, and note, the little lad you saw is neither\nmore diligent nor more conscientious than his fellows; they are all\nalike. Dedicated to the priesthood from the time when they can first\nunderstand, they learn quite naturally to lead a spiritual life from\ntheir constant intimacy with the services.\"\n\n\"What then is the system of this Institution?\"\n\n\"The Foundation of the Clerks of Our Lady dates from 1853, or rather it\nwas reconstituted in that year--for it existed in the Middle Ages--by\nthe Abbe Ychard. Its purpose is to increase the number of priests by\nadmitting poor boys to begin their studies. It receives intelligent and\npious children of every nationality, if they are supposed to show any\nvocation for Holy Orders. They remain in the choir school till they are\nin the third class, and are then transferred to the Seminary.\n\n\"Its funds?--are, humanly speaking, nothing, based on trust in\nProvidence, for it has altogether, for the maintenance of eighty pupils,\nnothing but the pay earned by these children for various duties in the\nCathedral, and the profits from a little monthly magazine called 'The\nVoice of the Virgin,' and finally and chiefly the charity of the\nfaithful. All this does not amount to a very substantial income; and\nyet, to this day, money has never been lacking.\"\n\nThe Abbe rose and went to the window.\n\n\"Oh, the rain will not cease,\" said Durtal. \"I am very much afraid,\nMonsieur l'Abbe, that we cannot examine the Cathedral porches to-day.\"\n\n\"There is no hurry. Before going into the details of Notre Dame, would\nit not be well to contemplate it as a whole, and let its general purpose\nsoak into the mind before studying each page of its parts?\n\n\"Everything lies contained in that building,\" he went on, waving his\nhand to designate the church; \"the scriptures, theology, the history of\nthe human race, set forth in broad outline. Thanks to the science of\nsymbolism a pile of stones may be a macrocosm.\n\n\"I repeat it, everything exists within this structure, even our material\nand moral life, our virtues and our vices. The architect takes us up at\nthe creation of Adam to carry us on to the end of time. Notre Dame of\nChartres is the most colossal depository existing of heaven and earth,\nof God and man. Each of its images is a word; all those groups are\nphrases--the difficulty is to read them.\"\n\n\"But it can be done?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. That there may be some contradictions in our\ninterpretations I admit, but still the palimpsest can be deciphered. The\nkey needed is a knowledge of symbolism.\"\n\nAnd seeing that Durtal was listening to him with interest, the Abbe came\nback to his seat, and said,--\n\n\"What is a symbol? According to Littre it is a 'figure or image used as\na sign of something else;' and we Catholics narrow the definition by\nsaying with Hugues de Saint Victor that a symbol is an allegorical\nrepresentation of a Christian principle under a tangible image.\n\n\"Now symbolism has existed ever since the beginning of the world. Every\nreligion adopted it, and in ours it came into being with the Tree of the\nKnowledge of Good and Evil in the first chapter of Genesis, while it\nstill is in full splendour in the last chapter of the Apocalypse.\n\n\"The Old Testament is an anticipatory figure of all the New Testament\ntells us. The Mosaic dispensation contains, as in an allegory, what the\nChristian religion shows us in reality; the history of the People of\nGod, its principal personages, its sayings and doings, the very\naccessories round about it, are a series of images; everything came to\nthe Hebrews under a figure, Saint Paul tells us. Our Lord took the\ntrouble to remind His disciples of this on various occasions, and He\nHimself, when addressing the multitude, almost always spoke in parables\nas a means of conveying one thing by an illustration from another.\n\n\"Symbols, then, have a divine origin; it may be added that from the\nhuman point of view this form of teaching answers to one of the least\ndisputable cravings of the human mind. Man feels a certain enjoyment in\ngiving proof of his intelligence, in guessing the riddle thus presented\nto him, and likewise in preserving the hidden truth summed up in a\nvisible formula, a perdurable form. Saint Augustine expressly says:\n'Anything that is set forth in an allegory is certainly more emphatic,\nmore pleasing, more impressive, than when it is formulated in technical\nwords.'\"\n\n\"That is Mallarme's idea too,\" thought Durtal, \"and this coincidence in\nthe views of the saint and the poet, on grounds at once analogous and\ndifferent, is whimsical, to say the least.\"\n\n\"Thus in all ages,\" the Abbe went on, \"men have taken inanimate objects,\nor animals and plants, to typify the soul and its attributes, its joys\nand sorrows, its virtues and its vices; thought has been materialized to\nfix it more securely in the memory, to make it less fugitive, more near\nto us, more real, almost tangible.\n\n\"Hence the emblems of cruelty and craft, of courtesy and charity,\nembodied by certain creatures, personified by certain plants; hence the\nspiritual meanings attributed to precious stones, and to colours. And it\nmay be added that in times of persecution, in the early Christian times,\nthis hidden language enabled the initiated to hold communication, to\ngive each other some token of kinship, some password which the enemy\ncould not interpret. Thus, in the paintings discovered in catacombs, the\nLamb, the Pelican, the Lion, the Shepherd, all meant the Son; the Fish\n_Ichthys_, of which the characters express the Greek formula: 'Jesus,\nSon of God, Saviour,' figures, in a secondary sense, the believer, the\nrescued soul, fished out from the sea of Paganism; the Redeemer having\ntold two of His Apostles that they should be fishers of men.\n\n\"And of course the period when human beings lived in closest intercourse\nwith God--the Middle Ages--was certain to follow the revealed tradition\nof Christ, and express itself in symbolical language, especially in\nspeaking of that Spirit, that essence, that incomprehensible and\nnameless Being who to us is God. At the same time it had at its command\na practical means of making itself understood. It wrote a book, as it\nwere, intelligible to the humblest, superseding the text by images, and\nso instructing the ignorant. This indeed was the idea put into words by\nthe Synod of Arras in 1025: 'That which the illiterate cannot apprehend\nfrom writing shall be shown to them in pictures.'\n\n\"The Middle Ages, in short, translated the Bible and Theology, the\nlives of the Saints, the apocryphal and legendary Gospels into carved or\npainted images, bringing them within reach of all, and epitomizing them\nin figures which remained as the permanent marrow, the concentrated\nextract of all its teaching.\"\n\n\"It taught the grown-up children the catechism by means of the stone\nsentences of the porches,\" exclaimed Durtal.\n\n\"Yes, it did that too. But now,\" the Abbe went on, after a pause,\n\"before entering on the subject of architectural symbolism, we must\nfirst establish a distinct notion of what Our Lord Himself did in\ncreating it, when, in the second chapter of the Gospel according to\nSaint John, He speaks of the Temple at Jerusalem, and says that if the\nJews destroy it He will rebuild it in three days, expressly prefiguring\nby that parable His own Body. This set forth to all generations the form\nwhich the new temples were thenceforth to take after His death on the\nCross.\n\n\"This sufficiently accounts for the cruciform plan of our churches. But\nwe will study the inside of the church later; for the present we must\nconsider the meanings of the external parts of a cathedral.\n\n\"The towers and belfries, according to the theory of Durand, Archbishop\nof Mende in the thirteenth century, are to be regarded as preachers and\nprelates, and the lofty spire is symbolical of the perfection to which\ntheir souls strive to rise. According to other interpreters of the same\nperiod, such as Saint Melito, Bishop of Sardis, and Cardinal Pietro of\nCapua, the towers represent the Virgin Mary, or the Church watching over\nthe salvation of the Flock.\n\n\"It is a certain fact,\" the Abbe went on, \"that the position of the\ntowers was never rigidly laid down once for all in mediaeval times; thus\ndifferent interpretations are admissible according to their position in\nthe structure. Still, perhaps the most ingeniously refined, the most\nexquisite idea is that which occurred to the architects of Saint Maclou\nat Rouen, of Notre Dame at Dijon, and of the Cathedral at Laon, for\nexample, who built rising from the centre of the transepts--that is\nabove the very spot where, on the Cross, the breast of Christ would lie,\na lantern higher than the rest of the roof, often finishing outside in a\ntall and slender spire, starting as it were from the Heart of Christ to\nleap with one spring to the Father, to soar as if shot up from the bow\nof the vaulting in a sharp dart to reach the sky.\n\n\"The towers, like the buildings they overshadow, are almost always\nplaced on a height that commands the town, and they shed around them\nlike seed into the soil of the soul, the swarming notes of their bells,\nreminding all Christians by this aerial proclamation, this bead-telling\nof sound, of the prayers they are commanded to use and the duties they\nmust fulfil; nay, at need, they may atone before God for man's apathy by\ntestifying that at least they have not forgotten Him, beseeching Him\nwith uplifted arms and brazen tongues, taking the place as best they may\nof so many human prayers, more vocal perhaps than they.\"\n\n\"With its ship-like character,\" said Durtal, who had thoughtfully\napproached the window, \"this Cathedral strikes me as amazingly like a\nmotionless vessel with spires for masts and the clouds for sails, spread\nor furled by the wind as the weather changes; it remains the eternal\nimage of Peter's boat which Jesus guided through the storm.\"\n\n\"And likewise of Noah's Ark--the Ark outside which there is no safety,\"\nadded the Abbe.\n\n\"Now consider the church in all its parts. Its roof is the symbol of\nCharity, which covereth a multitude of sins; its slates or tiles are the\nsoldiers and knights who defend the sanctuary against the heathen,\nrepresented by the storm, its stones, all joined, are, according to\nSaint Nilus, emblematic of the union of souls, or, as the _Rationale_ of\nDurand of Mende has it, of the multitude of the faithful; the stronger\nstones figuring the souls that are most advanced in the way of\nperfection and hinder the weaker brethren, represented by the smaller\nstones, from slipping and falling. However, to Hugues de Saint Victor, a\nmonk of the abbey of that name in the twelfth century, this collection\nof stones is merely the mingled assembly of the clerks and the laity.\n\n\"Again, these blocks of stone of various shapes are bound and held\ntogether by mortar, of which Durand of Mende will tell you the meaning.\n'Mortar,' saith he, 'is compounded of lime and sand and water; lime is\nthe burning quality of charity, and it combines by the aid of water,\nwhich is the Spirit, with the sand, of the earth earthy.'\n\n\"Thus these united stones form the four walls of the church, which\nPrudentius of Troyes tells us are the four evangelists; or, according\nto other interpreters, they represent in stone the cardinal virtues of\nreligion: Justice, Fortitude, Prudence, and Temperance, already\nprefigured by the walls of the City of God in the Apocalypse.\n\n\"Thus you see each part may be regarded as having more than one meaning,\nbut all included in one general idea common to all.\"\n\n\"And the windows?\" asked Durtal.\n\n\"I am coming to them; they are emblematic of our senses, which are to be\nclosed to the vanities of the world and open to the gifts of Heaven;\nthey are also provided with glass, giving passage to the beams of the\ntrue Sun, which is God. But Dom Villette has most clearly set forth\ntheir symbolical meaning: 'They are,' says he, 'the Scriptures, which\nreceive the glory of the sun and keep out the wind, the hail and the\nsnow, the images of false doctrine and heresies.'\n\n\"As to the buttresses, they symbolize the moral force that sustains us\nagainst temptation; they are likewise the hope which upholds the soul\nand strengthens it; others see in them the image of the temporal powers\nwho are called upon to defend the power of the Church; and others again,\nregarding more especially the flying buttresses which resist the thrust\nof the span, say that they are imploring arms clinging to the\nsafe-keeping of the Ark in time of danger.\n\n\"The principal entrance, the great portal of so many churches, such as\nthose of Vezelay, Paray-le-Monial and Saint German l'Auxerrois, in\nParis, was approached through a covered vestibule, often very deep and\nintentionally dark, called the Narthex. The baptismal pool was in this\nporch. It was a place for probation and forgiveness, emblematical of\nPurgatory, an ante-room to Heaven, where, before being permitted access\nto the sanctuary, penitents and neophytes had their place.\n\n\"Such, briefly, is the allegorical meaning of the parts. If we now\nregard it again as a whole, we may observe that the cathedral, built\nover a crypt symbolical of the contemplative life, and also of the tomb\nin which Christ was laid, was naturally obliged to have its apse towards\nthat point of the heavens where the sun rises at the equinox, so as to\nconvey, says the Bishop of Mende, that it is the Church's mission to\nshow moderation in its triumphs as in its reverses. All the liturgical\ncommentators are agreed that the high altar must be placed at the\neastern end, so that the worshippers, as they pray, may turn their eyes\ntowards the cradle of the Faith; and this rule was held absolute, and so\nwell approved by God that He confirmed it by a miracle. The Bollandists\nin fact have a legend that Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury, seeing a\nchurch that had been built on another axis, made it turn to the East by\na push with his shoulder, thus placing it in its right position.\n\n\"The church has generally three doors, in honour of the Holy Trinity;\nand the portal in the middle, called the Royal Porch, is divided by a\npier and a pillar surmounted by a statue of Our Lord, who says of\nHimself in the Gospel, 'I am the door,' or of the Virgin, if the Church\nis consecrated to Her, or even of the patron Saint in whose name it is\ndedicated. The door, thus divided, typifies the two roads which man is\nfree to follow. Indeed, in most cathedrals this symbol is emphasized by\na representation of the Last Judgment placed above the entrance.\n\n\"This is the case in Paris, at Amiens, and at Bourges. At Chartres, on\nthe contrary, the Judgment of Souls is relegated, as at Reims, to the\ntympanum of the northern porch; but here it is to be seen in the\nrose-window over the western portal, in contradiction to the system\nusual in the Middle Ages of treating in the windows above the doors the\nsubject carved in the porch; thus presenting on the same side a\nrepetition of the same symbols, in glass as seen from within, and in\nstone without.\"\n\n\"Good; but how then can you account, by the ternary rule so universally\nadopted, for that marvellous cathedral at Bourges, where, instead of\nthree porches and three aisles, we find five?\"\n\n\"Nothing can be simpler--we cannot account for it. At most can we\nsuppose that the architect of Bourges intended by those five doors to\nfigure the five wounds of Christ. Even then we should be left to wonder\nwhy he placed all the wounds in a single line; for that church has no\ntransept, no arms at the end of which the holes in the hands may be\nsymbolized by doors, which is the usual course.\"\n\n\"And the cathedral at Antwerp, which has two more aisles?\"\n\n\"They no doubt typify the seven avenues, the seven gifts of the\nParaclete. This question of number leads me to speak of theological\nenumeration, a peculiar element which plays a part in the varied subject\nof symbolism,\" the Abbe went on. \"The allegorical science of numbers is\na very old one. Saint Isidor of Seville, and Saint Augustine studied it.\nMichelet, who talks nonsense as soon as he has to do with a cathedral,\nis hard on the mediaeval architects for their belief in the meaning of\nfigures. He accuses them of having observed mystic rules in the\narrangement of certain parts of the buildings; of having, for instance,\nrestricted the number of windows, or arranged pillars and bays in\naccordance with some arithmetical combination. Not understanding that\neach detail of a church had a meaning and was a symbol, he could not\nunderstand that it was important to calculate each, since its meaning\nmight be modified or even completely altered. Thus a pillar by itself\nmay not necessarily typify an Apostle, but if there should be twelve,\nthey evidently show the meaning attributed to them by the builder, since\nthey recall the exact number of Christ's disciples. Sometimes, indeed,\nto prevent any mistake, the answer is supplied with the problem; as in\nan old church at Etampes, where I read, inscribed on the twelve\nRomanesque shafts, the names of the Apostles in relief, in the\ntraditional setting of a Greek cross.\n\n\"At Chartres they had adopted a still better plan: statues of the twelve\nApostles were placed in front of the pillars of the nave: but the\nRevolution took offence at these figures, overthrew and destroyed them.\n\n\"In considering the system of symbolism it is necessary to study the\nsignificance of numbers. The secrets of church building can only be\ndiscerned by recognizing the mysterious idea of the unity of the figure\nI., which is the image of God Himself. The suggestion of II., which\nfigures the two natures of the Son, the two dispensations, and,\naccording to Saint Gregory the Great, the two-fold law of love of God\nand man. Three is the number of the Persons of the Trinity, and of the\ntheological virtues. Four typifies the cardinal virtues, the four\nGreater Prophets, the Gospels and the elements. Five is the number of\nChrist's wounds, and of our senses, whose sins He expiated by a\ncorresponding number of wounds. Six records the days devoted by God to\nthe creation, determines the number of the Commandments promulgated by\nthe Church, and, according to Saint Melito, symbolizes the perfection of\nthe active life. Seven is the sacred number of the Mosaic law; it is the\nnumber of the gifts of the Holy Ghost, of the Sacraments, of the words\nof Jesus on the Cross, of the canonical hours, and of the successive\norders of priesthood. Eight, says Saint Ambrose, is the symbol of\nregeneration, Saint Augustine says of the Resurrection, and it recalls\nthe idea of the eight Beatitudes. Nine is the number of the angelic\nhierarchy, of the special gifts of the Spirit as enumerated by Saint\nPaul; and it was at the ninth hour that Christ died. Ten is the number\nof laws given by Jehovah, the law of fear; but Saint Augustine explains\nit otherwise, saying that it includes the knowledge of God, since it may\nbe decomposed into three, the symbol of a triune God, and seven,\nfiguring the day of rest after the Creation. Eleven, the same saint\nexplains as an image of transgressing the law and an emblem of sin; and\nTwelve is the great mystic number, the tale of the patriarchs and the\nApostles, of the tribes, the minor prophets, the virtues, the fruits of\nthe Holy Ghost, and the articles of faith embodied in the _Credo_. And\nthis might be repeated to infinity. Hence it is quite evident that the\nartists of the Middle Ages added to the meaning they assigned to certain\ncreatures and certain things, that of quantity, supporting one by the\nother, emphasizing or moderating a suggestion by this added-means,\nworking back sometimes on a former idea, and expressing this duplication\nin a different form or concentrating it in the energetic conciseness of\na cipher. They thus produced a whole at once speaking to the eye and, at\nthe same time, giving synthetical expression to the complete text of a\ndogma in a compact allegory.\"\n\n\"But what hermetic concentration!\" exclaimed Durtal.\n\n\"Very true; these various meanings of persons and objects, resulting\nfrom numerical differences, are at first very puzzling.\"\n\n\"And do you suppose that, on the whole, the height, breadth, and length\nof a cathedral reveal a specialized idea, a particular purpose on the\npart of the architect?\"\n\n\"Yes; but I must at once confess that the key to these religious\ncalculations is lost. Those archaeologists who have racked their brains\nto find it have vainly added together the measurements of naves and\nclerestories; they have not yet succeeded in formulating the idea they\nexpected to see emerge from the sums total.\n\n\"In this matter we must confess ourselves ignorant. Besides, have not\nthe standards of measurement been different at different times? As with\nthe value of coins in the Middle Ages, we know nothing about them. So,\nin spite of some very interesting investigations carried out from this\npoint of view by the Abbe Crosnier at the Priory of Saint Gilles, and\nthe Abbe Devoucoux at the Cathedral of Autun, I remain sceptical as to\ntheir conclusions, which I regard as very ingenious, but far from\ntrustworthy.\n\n\"The method of numbers is to be seen in perfection only in the details,\nsuch as the pillars of which I spoke just now; it is no less evident\nwhen we find the same number prevailing throughout the edifice, as for\ninstance at Paray-le-Monial, where all things are in threes. There the\ndesigner has not been content to reproduce the sacred number in the\ngeneral scheme of the structure; he has applied it in every part. The\nchurch has, in fact, three aisles; each aisle has three compartments;\neach compartment is formed by three arches surmounted by three windows.\nIn short, it is the principle of the Trinity, the primary Three, applied\nto every part.\"\n\n\"Well, but do you not think, Monsieur l'Abbe, that, apart from such\ninstances of indisputable meaning, there are in such symbolism some very\nfine-drawn and obscure similitudes?\"\n\nThe Abbe smiled.\n\n\"Do you know,\" said he, \"the theories of Honorius of Autun as to the\nsymbolism of the censer?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, then, after having pointed out the natural and very proper\ninterpretation that may be applied to this vessel, as representing the\nBody of Our Lord, while the incense signifies His Divinity, and the fire\nis the Holy Spirit within Him; and after having defined the various\ninterpretations of the metal of which it is made--if of gold, it answers\nto the perfection of His Divinity; if of silver, to the matchless\nexcellence of His Humility; if of copper, to the frailty of the flesh He\nassumed for our salvation; if of iron, to the Resurrection of that Body\nwhich conquered death--the scholiast comes to the chains.\n\n\"And then, indeed, his elucidation becomes somewhat thin and fine-drawn.\n\n\"If there are four chains, he says, they represent the four cardinal\nvirtues of the Lord, and the chain by which the cover is lifted from the\nvessel answers to the Soul of Christ quitting His Body. If, on the other\nhand, there are but three chains, it is because the Person of the\nSaviour includes three elements: a human organism, a soul, and the\nGodhead of the Word. And Honorius adds: 'the ring through which the\nchains run represents the Infinite in which all these things are\nincluded.'\"\n\n\"That is subtle, with a vengeance!\"\n\n\"Less so than Durand de Mende when he speaks of the snuffers,\" replied\nthe Abbe; \"after that, we will kick away that ladder.\n\n\"The snuffers for trimming the lamps are, he asserts, 'the divine words\noff which we cut the letter of the law, and by so doing reveal the\nSpirit which giveth light.' And he adds, 'the pots in which the snuff is\nextinguished are the hearts of the faithful who observe the law\nliterally.'\"\n\n\"It is the very madness of Symbolism!\" cried Durtal.\n\n\"At least, it is a too curious excess of it; but if this interpretation\nof the snuffers is certainly grotesque, if even the theory of the censer\nseems beaten somewhat thin on the whole, you must admit that it is\nfascinating and exact so far as it is applied to the chain which lifts\nthe upper part of the vessel in a cloud of fragrance, and thus\nsymbolizes the ascent of Our Lord into Heaven.\n\n\"That certain exaggerations should creep in through this use of parables\nwas difficult to prevent; but, on the other hand, what marvels of\nanalogy, and what purely mystical notions are revealed through the\nmeanings given by the liturgy to certain objects used in the services.\n\n\"To the tapers, for instance, when Pierre d'Esquilin explains the\npurport of the three component parts: the wax, which is the spotless\nBody of the Saviour born of a Virgin; the wick, which, enclosed in the\nwax, is His most Holy Soul hidden in the veil of the flesh; and the\nlight, which is emblematic of His Godhead.\n\n\"Or, again, take the substances used by the Church in certain\nceremonies: water, wine, ashes, salt, oil, balsam, incense. Incense,\nbesides representing the divinity of the Son, is likewise the symbol of\nprayer, '_thus devotio orationis_' as it is described by Raban Maur,\nArchbishop of Mayence in the ninth century. I happen to remember also,\n_a propos_ of this resin and the censer in which it is burnt, a verse I\nread long since in the 'Monastic Distinctions' of the anonymous English\nwriter of the thirteenth century, which sums up their signification more\nneatly than I can:\n\n    '_vas notatur,\n    Mens pia; thure preces; igne supernus amor._'\n\nThe vase is the spirit of piety; the incense, prayer; the fire, divine\nlove.\n\n\"As to water, wine, ashes, and salt, they are used in compounding a\nprecious ointment used by the bishop when consecrating a church. They\nare mingled to sign the altar with the cross, and to sprinkle the\naisles: the water and wine symbolize the two natures united in Our Lord;\nthe salt is divine wisdom; the ashes are in memory of His Passion.\n\n\"Balsam, as you know, is emblematical of virtue and good repute, and is\ncombined with oil, signifying peace and wisdom, to compose the\nsacramental ointment.\n\n\"Think, too,\" the priest went on, \"of the pyx, in which the\ntransubstantiated elements are preserved, the consecrated oblations, and\nnote that in the Middle Ages these little cases were formed in the\nfigure of a dove and contained the Host in the very image of the\nParaclete and the Virgin; this was well done, but here is something\nbetter. The jewellers of the time carved ivory and gave these little\nshrines the form of a tower. Is not the sentiment exquisite of our Lord\ndwelling in the heart of the Virgin, the Ivory Tower of the Canticles?\nIs not ivory indeed the most admirable material to serve as a sanctum\nfor the most pure white flesh of the Sacrament?\"\n\n\"It is certainly mystical, and far more appropriate than the vessels of\nevery form, the _ciboria_ of silver-gilt, of aluminum, of silver of\nthese days.\"\n\n\"And need I remind you that the liturgy assigns a meaning to each\nvestment, each ornament of the Church, according to its use and form?\n\n\"Thus, for instance, the surplice and alb signify innocence; the cord\nthat serves as a girdle is an emblem of chastity and modesty; the amice,\nof purity of heart and body--the helmet of salvation mentioned by Saint\nPaul. The maniple, of good works, vigilance, and the tears and sweat\npoured out by the priest to win and save souls; the stole, of obedience,\nthe clothing on of immortality given to us in baptism; the dalmatic, of\njustice, of which we must give proof in our ministrations; the chasuble,\nof the unity of the faith, and also of the yoke of Christ.\n\n\"But the rain has not ceased, and I must nevertheless be gone, for I\nhave a penitent waiting for me,\" exclaimed the Abbe, looking at his\nwatch. \"Will you come the day after to-morrow at about two o'clock? We\nwill hope it may be fine enough to examine the outside of the\nCathedral.\"\n\n\"And if it still rains?\"\n\n\"Come all the same. But I must fly.\"\n\nHe pressed Durtal's hand and was gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n\"Yes, I know when I confessed in her presence that I did not yet know of\nwhich Saint I might write the history, Madame Bavoil--dear Madame\nBavoil, as the Abbe Gevresin calls her--exclaimed: 'The life of Jeanne\nde Matel! Why not?'\n\n\"But it is a biography that is not easy to deal with or that can be\nlightly handled,\" said Durtal to himself, as he arranged the notes he\nhad collected by degrees as bearing on this Venerable woman.\n\nAnd he sat meditating.\n\n\"What is quite unintelligible,\" said he to himself, \"is the\ndisproportion between the promises made to her by Jesus and the results\nachieved. Never, I really believe, have so many tribulations and\nhindrances, or so much ill-fortune attended the founding of a new Order.\nJeanne spent her days on the high roads, running from one monastery to\nanother, and toil as she would to dig up the conventual soil, nothing\nwould grow. She could not even assume the habit of her Institution, or\nat any rate only a few minutes before her death, for, in order to travel\nwith greater ease all over France, she wore the livery of a world she\nabominated, and to which she appealed in vain in the name of the Lord to\ntake an interest in the formation of her cloister. Unhappy woman! She\nwent to Court--as her confessor Father de Gibalin bears witness, while\nhe testifies that he had never known a humbler soul--as others go to the\nstake.\n\n\"And yet the Lord certainly commanded her to found this Order of the\nIncarnate Word. He sketched the scheme, laid down the rule, and\nprescribed the costume, explaining its symbolism, declaring that the\nwhite robe of its maidens would do honour to that with which He was\nmockingly invested in Herod's palace; that their red cloak would keep\nin memory that which was cast over Him in the house of Pilate; that\ntheir crimson scapulary and girdle would preserve the remembrance of the\nstake and the cords dyed in His blood. And He seems to have mocked her.\n\n\"He solemnly assured her that after sorrowful trials the seed she had\nsown should bring forth an abundant harvest of nuns. He expressly told\nher that she would rank as the sister of Saint Theresa and Saint Clare;\nthose holy women appeared to ratify these promises by their presence,\nand when nothing would come of it, nothing would work, when, quite worn\nout, she burst into tears, the Lord calmly bade her be still and take\npatience.\n\n\"Meanwhile, she was living amid a howling storm of recrimination and\nthreats. The clergy persecute her, the Archbishop of Lyon, the Cardinal\nde Richelieu, aims only at hindering the completion of her abbeys on his\nlands; she cannot even manage her Sisterhood, since we find her\nwandering in search of a protector or an assistant; they are torn by\ndivisions, and their insubordination is such that at length she is\ncompelled to return in hot haste, and, with many tears, expel the\ncontumacious sisters from the cloister.\n\n\"It really seems as though no sooner had she built up a monastic wall\nthan it split and fell; nothing would hold. In short, the Order of the\nIncarnate Word was born rickety and died a dwarf. It lingered in the\nmidst of universal apathy, and survived till 1790, when it was buried.\nIn 1811 one Abbe Denis revived it at Azerables in la Creuse, and since\nthen it has struggled on for better for worse, scattered through about\nfifteen houses, one of these at Texas in the New World.\n\n\"There is no doubt of it,\" Durtal concluded; \"we are far enough from the\nstrong sap which Saint Theresa and Saint Clare could infuse into the\ncentennial growth of their mighty trees!\n\n\"To say nothing of the fact that Jeanne de Matel, who has never been\ncanonized like her two sisters, and whose name remains unknown to most\nCatholics, intended to found an order of men as well as women; she did\nnot succeed, and the attempts since made in our day by the Abbe Combalot\nto carry her plan into effect have been equally vain!\n\n\"Now, what is the reason? Is it because there are too many and various\ncommunities in the Church? Why, new foundations are set on foot and\nflourish every day! Is it by reason of the poverty of the monasteries?\nNay, for indigence is the great test of success, and experience shows\nthat God only blesses the most destitute convents and abandons the\nothers! Is it, then, the austerity of the rule? But this was very mild;\nit was that of Saint Augustine, which yields to every compromise, and at\nneed accepts every shade of practice. The sisters rose at five in the\nmorning; the diet was not restricted to Lenten fare excepting at the\nPaschal season, but one fast day was enjoined in the week, and even that\nwas compulsory only to the Sisters who were strong enough to bear it.\nThus there is nothing to account for such persistent failure.\n\n\"And Jeanne de Matel was a saint endowed with remarkable energy and\nreally moulded by the Saviour! In her writings she is an eloquent and\nsubtle theologian, an ardent and rapturous mystic, dealing in metaphors\nand hyperbole, in tangible parallels, passionate questionings, and\napostrophes; she resembles both Saint Denys the Areopagite and Saint\nMaddalena dei Pazzi; Saint Denys in matter, Saint Maddalena in manner.\nAs a writer, no doubt she is not supreme, and the poverty of her\nborrowed style is sometimes painful; still, considering that she lived\nin the seventeenth century, she was at any rate not a mere scribbler of\nvapid aspirations, like most of the prosy pietists of the time.\n\n\"And her works have met with the same fate as her foundations. They\nremain for the most part unpublished. Hello, who was familiar with them,\nonly extracted a very mediocre _cento_; some others, as Prince Galitzin\nand the Abbe Penaud, have explored her writings with better results and\nprinted some loftier and more impassioned passages.\n\n\"And this Abbess wrote some of genuine inspiration.\n\n\"Yes, but all this does not alter the fact that I do not see the book I\ncould write about her,\" muttered Durtal. \"In spite of my wish to be\nagreeable to dear Madame Bavoil, no--I have no inclination to undertake\nthe task.\n\n\"All things considered, if I did not so heartily hate a move, if I had\nenergy enough to go back to Holland, I would try to do honour in loving\nand respectful terms to the worshipful Lidwina, who is of all the\nfemale saints one whose life I should best love to write; but merely to\nattempt to reconstruct the surroundings amid which she lived, I should\nhave to settle in the town where she dwelt, _Schiedam_.\n\n\"If God grants me life, no doubt I shall one day do this; but the plan\nis not yet ripe. Put that aside, then, and since on the other hand\nJeanne de Matel does not captivate me, perhaps I had better think of\nanother abbess even less known, and whose career was one of more\ntranquil endurance, less wandering and more concentrated, and at any\nrate more attractive.\n\n\"Besides, her life can now only be found in an octavo volume by an\nanonymous writer, whose incoherent chapters, in language as clogging as\na linseed poultice, will for ever hinder the world from knowing her. So\nit will be interesting to work it up and make it readable.\"\n\nAs he turned over his papers he was thinking of one Mother Van\nValckenissen, in religion Mary Margaret of the Angels, foundress of the\nPriory of Carmelite Sisters at Oirschot in Dutch Brabant.\n\nThis pious lady was the daughter of a noble house, born on the 26th of\nMay, 1605, at Antwerp, during the wars which devastated Flanders, and at\nthe very time when Prince Maurice of Nassau was besieging the town. As\nsoon as she could read, her parents sent her to school in a convent of\nDominican nuns near Brussels. Her father dying, her mother removed her\nfrom that convent and placed her with the White Ursulines of Louvain;\nthen she too died, and at fifteen the girl was an orphan.\n\nHer guardian again removed her to the House of the Carmelite Sisters at\nMechlin; but the struggle between the Spaniards and the Flemings came\nclose to the district watered by the Dyle, and Marie Marguerite was once\nmore taken from her convent to find refuge with the canonesses of\nNivelles. Thus her whole childhood was spent in rushing from one convent\nto another.\n\nShe was happy in these retreats, especially with the Carmelites,\nadopting the hair shirt and submitting to the severest discipline; but\nnow, on coming forth from the most rigid cloistered life, she found\nherself in the midst of a gay world. This Chapter of Canonesses, which\nought to have inculcated the mystic life, was one of those hybrid\ninstitutions not altogether white nor quite black, a cross between\nprofane piety and pious laity. This Chapter, filled up exclusively from\nthe ranks of rich and high-born women, while the Abbess, nominated by\nthe Sovereign, assumed the title of Princess of Nivelles, led a devout\nand frivolous life, passing strange. Not only might these semi-nuns go\nout walking whenever they thought fit, they had a right to live at home\nfor a certain part of their time, and might even marry after obtaining\nthe consent of the Abbess.\n\nIn the morning those who chose to reside in the Abbey put on a monastic\nhabit during the services; then their religious duties ended; they\ndoffed the convent livery, dressed in splendid attire, the hoops and\nbows and farthingales and ruffs that were then the fashion, and sat in\nthe parlour where visitors poured in.\n\nThe unhappy Marie loathed the dissipation of a life which hindered her\nfrom ever being alone with her God. Bewildered by the gossip and ashamed\nof wearing clothes that were offensive to her, compelled to steal away\nbefore daylight, disguised as a waiting-woman, to pray in a deserted\nchurch far from all this turmoil, she at last pined away with sorrow,\nand was dying of grief at Nivelles.\n\nAt this juncture a certain Father Bernard de Montgaillard, Abbot of\nOrval, of the Cistercian Order, came to the town. She flew to him, and\nbesought him to rescue her; and this monk, enlightened by a truly divine\nspirit, understood that she was born to be a victim of expiation, to\natone for the insults offered to the Holy Eucharist in churches. He gave\nher comfort, and announced to her her vocation as a Carmelite. She set\nout for Antwerp to visit the Mother Anne de Saint Barthelemy, a saintly\nwoman, who, warned of her coming by a vision of Saint Theresa, consented\nto receive her into the Carmel of which she was the Superior.\n\nThen obstacles arose, the work of the Devil. Having returned to her\nguardian, pending her reception at the convent, she suddenly fell\nparalyzed, losing all at once her hearing, speech, and sight. She\nnevertheless succeeded in making it understood that they were to carry\nher, as she was, to the convent, where she was left half dead. There she\nfell at the feet of Mother Anne, who blessed her, and raised her up\ncured.\n\nThen her novitiate began.\n\nIn spite of her delicate frame, she endured the most terrible fasts, the\nmost violent scourging; she bound her body in chains with points on the\nlinks, fed on the parings thrown out on plates, drank dirty water to\nquench her thirst, and was so cold one winter that her legs froze.\n\nHer body was one wound, but her soul was glorious; she lived in God, who\nloaded her with mercies and communed with her sweetly; her probation was\nnear its end, and again, just when she became a postulant, she fell\ndangerously sick. There were doubts as to her being admitted to the\nOrder, and again Saint Theresa intervened and commanded the Abbess to\nreceive her.\n\nShe took the habit, and then fell a prey to the temptation of despair,\nwhich has assailed some Saints; after this came a sense of dryness and\ndesertion, which lasted for three years. She held out; she endured all\nthe tortures of the Mystical Substitution, bearing the most painful and\nrepulsive diseases to save souls. The Lord vouchsafed at last to\nintermit the penitential task of suffering. He allowed her to breathe,\nand the Devil took advantage of this lull to come upon the scene.\n\nHe appeared to her under the most hostile and monstrous form, breaking\neverything, and vanishing in a trail of pestilential vapours. Meanwhile\na good man, one Sylvester Lindermans, had determined to found a Carmel\non an estate he possessed at Oirschot, in Holland. As is ever the case\nwhen a convent is to be established, tribulations abounded. It seemed,\nin fact, that the time was ill-chosen for transferring the Sisters to a\ntown in arms against the Catholics, across a country infested by bands\nof armed Protestants. When the Mother Superior selected Marie Marguerite\nto go forth and found this new House, she entreated to be left to pray\nin peace in her little nook; but Jesus interposed; commanding her to\ndepart. She obeyed; exhausted, sick, and worn out, she dragged herself\nalong the roads, and at last arrived, with the Sisters accompanying her,\nat Oirschot, where she organized the Convent as best she might in a\nhouse which had never been intended to serve as a nunnery.\n\nShe was made Vicar-Prioress, and at once revealed a marvellous power of\ninfluencing souls. Living the austere life of a Carmelite, which she\naggravated for herself by fearful mortifications, she was always\ntolerant to others, and although she was known to murmur, so great were\nher bodily sufferings, \"Till the Day of Judgment, none can ever know\nwhat I endure!\" she was always gay, and preached cheerfulness to her\ndaughters in these words: \"It is all very well for those who sin to be\nsad; but we ought to have twice as much joy as the angels, since we,\nlike them, fulfil the will of God, and we, in addition, can suffer for\nHis glory, which they can never do.\"\n\nShe was the most indulgent and considerate of Abbesses. For fear of\ngiving offence to her flock by exerting her authority, she never gave an\norder in an imperative form; never said, \"Do this or that,\" but only,\n\"Let us do it.\" And if at any time she found herself obliged to punish a\nnun in the refectory, she would forthwith kiss the feet of the others,\nand entreat them to buffet her to humble her.\n\nBut it would have been too perfect if she and the angelic flock over\nwhich she ruled could have lived the inward life in peace, and sunk\ntheir soul in God. The Cure of Oirschot hated her, and, why no one knew,\nhe defamed her throughout the town. The Devil too, on his part, returned\nto the charge; he appeared, in the midst of an uproar that shook the\nwalls and made the roof tremble, in the form of an Ethiopian giant, blew\nout all the lights, and tried to strangle the nuns. Most of them almost\ndied of fear; but in compensation for their sufferings Heaven granted\nthem the comfort of incessant miracles.\n\nThe Mother enabled them to prove in her person the authenticity of the\nincredible tales they had read during meals, of the Lives of the Saints.\nShe had the gift of bilocation, appearing in several places at the same\ntime, shedding a trail of delicious fragrance wherever she passed,\ncuring the sick by the Sign of the Cross, scenting out and discerning\nhidden sins as a hunting dog puts up game, and reading souls.\n\nAnd her daughters adored her, wept to see her lead a life which now was\none long torment. As a result of the intense cold, she became a victim\nto acute rheumatism; for the Rule of Saint Theresa, which prohibits the\nlighting of a fire anywhere but in the kitchens, if it is endurable in\nSpain, is simply murderous in the frozen climate of Flanders.\n\n\"After all,\" said Durtal to himself, \"this life so far is not very\nunlike that experienced by many another cloistered nun; but towards the\napproach of death the amazing beauty of this spirit was revealed in so\nspecial a manner, and in wishes so remarkable, that it remains unique in\nthe records of the Monastic Houses.\"\n\nHer health grew worse and worse. Added to the rheumatism, which crippled\nher, she had pains in the stomach, which nothing could relieve. Sciatica\nwas presently engrafted on this flourishing stock of torments, and\ndropsy, a common disease in cloisters of austere rule, supervened.\n\nHer legs swelled and refused to carry her; she lay helpless on her bed.\nThe Sisters who nursed her now discovered a secret which she had always\nkept, out of humility; they perceived that her hands were pierced with\nred holes surrounded by a blue halo, and that her feet, also pierced,\nlay of their own accord, unless they were held down, one above the\nother, in the position of Christ's feet on the cross. At last she\nconfessed that many years before Jesus had marked her with the stigmata\nof the Passion, and that the wounds burnt night and day like red hot\niron.\n\nHer sufferings constantly increased. Feeling that this time she was\ndying, she grieved over the pitiless macerations she had used, and with\ntouching artlessness begged forgiveness of her poor body for having\nexhausted its strength, and so having perhaps hindered it from living to\nsuffer longer.\n\nAnd she then put up the most strangely fragrant, the most wildly\nextravagant prayer that ever a Saint can have addressed to God.\n\nShe had so loved the Holy Eucharist, she had so longed to kneel at His\nfeet and atone for the outrages inflicted on Him by the sins of mankind,\nthat she waxed faint at the thought that after her death what would\nremain of her could no longer worship Him.\n\nThe idea that her body would rot in uselessness, that the last handfuls\nof her miserable flesh would decay without having served to honour the\nSaviour, broke her heart; and then it was that she besought Him to\nsuffer her to melt away, to liquefy into an oil which might be burnt\nbefore the tabernacle in the lamp of the sanctuary.\n\nAnd Jesus vouchsafed to her this excessive privilege, such as the like\nis unknown in the history of the Saints; and at the moment when she died\nshe enjoined her daughters to leave her body exposed in the chapel, and\nunburied for some weeks.\n\nOn this point there is abundant authentic evidence. More or less minute\ninquiries were made, and the reports of medical experts are so precise\nthat we can follow from day to day the state of the corpse until it had\nturned to oil and could be preserved in phials, from which, by her\ndesire, a spoonful was poured every morning to feed the wick of a lamp\nhanging near the altar.\n\nWhen she died--then aged fifty-two, having lived as a nun for\nthirty-three years, and fourteen as Superior of Oirschot--her face was\ntransfigured, and in spite of the cold of a winter when the Scheldt\ncould be crossed in a carriage, her body remained soft and pliable; but\nit swelled. Surgeons examined it and opened it in the presence of\nwitnesses. They expected to find the stomach filled with water, but\nscarcely half a pint was removed, and the body did not collapse.\n\nThis autopsy led to the incomprehensible discovery in the gall-bladder\nof three nails with black heads, angular and polished, of an unknown\nmetal; two weighed as much as half a French gold crown, within seven\ngrains; the third, which was as large as a nutmeg, weighed five grains\nmore.\n\nThe operators then filled up the intestines with tow soaked in wormwood,\nand sewed the body up again with a needle and thread. And during and\nafter these proceedings not only did the dead nun give out no smell of\nputrefaction, but, as in her lifetime, she diffused an ineffable and\nexquisite perfume.\n\nNearly three weeks elapsed; boils formed and broke, giving out blood and\nwater for more than a month; then the skin showed patches of yellow;\nexudation ceased and oil came out, at first white, limpid, and fragrant,\nafterwards darker and of about the colour of amber. It filled more than\na hundred phials, each containing two ounces, several of them being\nstill preserved in the Carmels of Belgium; and her remains when buried\nwere not decomposed, but had assumed the golden brown colour of a date.\n\n\"A book might really be written on the life of this admirable woman,\"\nthought Durtal. \"And then what a group of wonderful nuns were those\nabout her! The convents of Antwerp, Mechlin, and Oirschot swarmed with\nsaintly nuns. In the time of Charles V. the Order of Carmelites renewed\nin Flanders the mystical prodigies which, four centuries before, in the\nMiddle Ages, the Dominicans had accomplished in the Monastery of\nUnterlinden at Colmar.\n\n\"How such women as these carry one away and throw one, as it were! What\nstrength of soul we see in this Marie Marguerite! What grace must have\nsustained her, that she could thus shed all the natural frenzy of the\nsenses, and endure so cheerfully and bravely the most overwhelming\nsufferings!\n\n\"Well, now, shall I harness myself to a history of this venerable\nAbbess? But then I must procure the volume by Joseph de Loignac, her\nfirst biographer, the notice by the Recluse of Marlaigne, the pamphlet\nby Monseigneur de Ram, the narrative by Papebroech; above all I must have\nat hand the translation, made by the Carmelites of Louvain, of the\nFlemish manuscript written while the Mother was still alive, by her\ndaughters. Where can I unearth that? In any case the search must be a\nlong one. No, I must set aside that scheme, which for the present is\nimpracticable.\n\n\"What I ought to do I know very well; I ought to put the article into\nshape on Angelico's picture in the Louvre. I promised the paper at least\nfour months ago to the magazine which clamours for it every morning by\nletter. It is disgraceful! Since I left Paris I have ceased to work; and\nI have no excuse, for the subject interests me, since it affords me an\nopportunity for studying the complete system of the symbolism of colour\nin the Middle Ages. 'The Early Painters, and Prayer in Colour as seen in\ntheir Works.' What a subject for thought! However, that is not the\nimmediate matter. I must not sit dreaming, but go to join the Abbe\nPlomb; and the weather is clouding over again! I certainly have no\nluck.\"\n\nAs he crossed the square he was lost again in meditations, captivated\nonce more by the haunting thought of the Cathedral, and saying to\nhimself as he looked up at the spires,--\n\n\"How many varieties there are in the immense family of the Gothic; and\nwhat dissimilarities. No two churches are alike.\"\n\nThe towers and belfries of those he knew rose before him as in those\ndiagrams on which, irrespective of distance, the buildings are placed\nall close together at the same point of view to show their relative\nheight.\n\n\"It is quite true,\" thought he, \"the towers vary like the basilicas.\nThose of Notre Dame de Paris are thick-set and gloomy, almost\nelephantine; cleft almost from top to bottom by deep bays, they seem to\nmount slowly and with difficulty, and stop short, crushed as it were by\nthe burden of sins, dragged down to earth by the wickedness of the city;\nwe feel the effort with which they rise, and we are saddened as we\ncontemplate those captive masses, all the more depressing by reason of\nthe dismal hue of the louvre-boards. At Reims, on the contrary, they are\nopen from top to bottom, pierced as with needles' eyes, long narrow\nwindows of which the opening seems filled with a herring-bone of\nenormous size, or a gigantic comb with teeth on each side. They spring\ninto the air, as light as filigree; and the sky gets into the mouldings,\nplays between the mullions, peeps through the tracery and the\ninnumerable lancets, in strips of blue, is focussed and reflected in the\nlittle carved trefoils above. These towers are mighty, expansive,\nimmense, and yet light. They are as speaking, as much alive, as those in\nParis are stern and mute.\n\n\"At Laon they are more especially strange. With their light columns,\nhere thrust forward and there standing back, they suggest a series of\nshelves piled up in a hurry, crowned merely by a platform, over which\nlowing oxen look down.\n\n\"The two towers at Amiens, built, like those of the Cathedrals at Rouen\nand at Bourges, at different periods, do not match. They are of\ndifferent heights, lame against the sky; another that is really\nmagnificent in its solitude, and putting to shame the mediocrity of the\ntwo belfries lately erected on each side of the west front, is the\nNorman tower of Saint Ouen, its summit encircled by a crown. This is the\npatrician tower among so many that preserve a peasant air, with bare\nheads, or coifs made narrow and square at the top, sloped somewhat like\nthe mouthpiece of a whistle, such as that of Saint Romain at Rouen, or\nrustic, pointed caps like that worn by the church of Saint Benigne at\nDijon, or the queer sort of awning which shades the Cathedral of Saint\nJean at Lyon.\n\n\"And in any case a tower without a tapering spire never soars to heaven.\nIt always rises heavily, pants on the way, and falls asleep exhausted.\nIt is, as it were, an arm without a hand, a wrist without palm and\nfingers, a stump; or, again, a pencil uncut, having no point wherewith\nto write up beyond the clouds the prayers from below; in short, it is\nfor ever inert.\n\n\"We must turn to the steeple, to the stone spire, to find the true\nsymbol of prayers shot up to pierce the sky and reach the Heart of the\nFather, which is their target.\n\n\"And in this family of arrows what a variety we see; no two darts are\nalike!\n\n\"Some are set in a collar of turrets at their base, held in a circle of\npinnacles, like the points of a Magian king's diadem; this we see in the\nbell-tower of Senlis.\n\n\"Others seem to have about them the children born in their image, little\nspires, all round them; some are covered with bosses, knobs, and\nblisters; others pierced like colanders and strainers, in patterns of\ntrefoils and quaterfoils that seem to have been punched out; here we\nfind some that are covered with ornament, with teeth like a rasp, ridges\nof notches, or bristling with spines; others are imbricated with scales\nlike a fish, as we see in the older spire at Chartres; and others again,\nlike that at Caudebec, display the emblem of the Roman Church, the\ntriple crown of the Pope.\n\n\"Out of this general outline, which was almost forced upon them, and\nwhich they hardly ever tried to avoid, this pyramid or pepper-caster,\njelly-bag or extinguisher, the architects of the Middle Ages evolved the\nmost ingenious combinations and varied their designs to infinity.\n\n\"How mysterious for the most part is the origin of our cathedrals! Most\nof the artists who built them are unknown; nay, the age of the stones is\nrarely a matter of certainty, for the greater part of them have been\nwrought upon by the alluvium of ages.\n\n\"They almost all cover intervals of two, three, or four centuries each;\nthey extend from the beginning, of the thirteenth century till the first\nyears of the sixteenth.\n\n\"And on reflection that is very intelligible.\n\n\"It has been accurately remarked that the thirteenth century was the\ngreat period of cathedral-building. It gave birth to almost every one of\nthem; and then, being created, their growth was checked for nearly two\nhundred years.\n\n\"The fourteenth century was torn by frightful disasters. It began with\nthe ignoble quarrels between Philippe le Bel and the Pope; it saw the\nstake lighted for the Templars, made bonfires in Languedoc of the\n_Begards_ and the _Fraticelli_, the lepers and the Jews; wallowed in\nblood under the defeats of Crecy and Poitiers, the furious excesses of\nthe Jacquerie and of the Maillotins, and the ravages of the brigands\nknown as the _Tard-venus_; and finally, having run so wild, its madness\nwas reflected in the incurable insanity of the king.\n\n\"Thus it ended, as it had begun, writhing in the most horrible religious\nconvulsions. The Tiaras of Rome and Avignon clashed, and the Church,\nstanding unsupported on these ruins, tottered on its base, for the Great\nWestern Schism now shook it.\n\n\"The fifteenth century seemed to be born mad. Charles VI.'s insanity\nseemed to be infectious; the English invasion was followed by the\npillage of France, the frenzied contest of the Bourguignons and the\nArmagnacs, by plagues and famines, and the overthrow at Agincourt; then\ncame Charles VII., Joan of Arc, the deliverance and the healing of the\nland by the energetic treatment of King Louis XI.\n\n\"All these events hindered the progress of the works in cathedrals.\n\n\"The fourteenth century on the whole restricted itself to carrying on\nthe structures begun during the previous century. We must wait till the\nend of the fifteenth, when France drew breath, to see architecture start\ninto life once more.\n\n\"It must be added that frequent conflagrations at various times\ndestroyed a whole church, and that it had to be rebuilt from the\nfoundations; others, like Beauvais, fell down, and had to be\nreconstructed, or, if money was lacking, simply strengthened and the\ngaps repaired.\n\n\"With the exception of a very few--Saint Ouen at Rouen for one, a rare\nexample of a church almost entirely built during the fourteenth century\n(excepting the western towers and front, which are quite modern), and\nthe Cathedral at Reims for another, which appears to have been\nconstructed without much interruption, on the original plans of Hugues\nLibergier or Robert de Coucy--not one of our cathedrals was erected\nthroughout in accordance with the designs of the architect who began it,\nnor has one remained untouched.\n\n\"Most of them, consequently, represent the combined efforts of\nsuccessive pious generations; still, this apparently improbable fact is\ntrue: until the dawn of the Renaissance the genius of successive\nbuilders was singularly well matched. If they made any alterations in\ntheir predecessors' plans, they were able to introduce some touch of\nindividuality, inventions of exquisite beauty that did not clash with\nthe whole. They engrafted their genius on that of their first masters;\nthere was the perpetuated tradition of an admirable conception, a\nperennial breath of the Holy Spirit. It was the interloper, the period\nof false and farcical Pagan art, that extinguished that pure flame, and\nannihilated the luminous truthfulness of the Mediaeval past, when God had\ndwelt intimately, at home, in souls; it substituted a merely earthly\nform of art for one that was divine.\n\n\"As soon as the sensuality of the Renaissance revealed itself, the\nParaclete fled; the mortal sin of stone could display itself at will. It\ncontaminated the buildings that were finished, defiled the churches,\ndebasing their purity of form; this, with the gross license of sculpture\nand painting, was the great stupration of the cathedrals.\n\n\"And this time the Spirit of Prayer was quite dead; everything went to\npieces. The Renaissance, so lauded afterwards by Michelet and the\nhistorians, was the death of the Mystical soul of monumental theology,\nof religious art--all the great art of France.\n\n\"Bless me! where am I?\" Durtal suddenly asked himself, finding himself\nin the ill-paved alleys which lead from the Cathedral square to the\nlower town. He saw that, dreaming as he walked, he had passed the Abbe's\nlodgings.\n\nHe turned up the street again, stopped in front of an old house and\nrang. A brass wicket was opened and closed, and a housekeeper, shuffling\nup in old shoes, half opened the door. Durtal was met by the Abbe Plomb,\nwho was watching for him, and who led him into a room full of statues;\nthere were carved images in every spot--on the chimney-shelf, on a\nchest of drawers, on a side table, and in the middle of the room.\n\n\"Do not look at them,\" said the Abbe, \"do not heed them; I have no part\nin the selection of this horrible bazaar. I have to endure it in spite\nof myself; these are offerings from my penitents.\"\n\nDurtal laughed, though somewhat scared by the extraordinary specimens of\nreligious art that crowded the room.\n\nThere was every kind of work: black frames with brass flats, and in them\nengravings of Virgins by Bouguereau and Signol, Guido's _Ecce Homo_,\nPietas, Saint Philomenas--and then the assembly of polychrome statues:\nMary painted with the crude green of angelica and the acrid pinks of\nEnglish pear-drops; Madonnas gazing in rapture at their own feet, with\nextended hands whence proceeded fans of yellow rays; Joan of Arc\nsquatting like a hen on her eggs, with eyes raised to heaven like white\nmarbles, and pressing a standard to her bosom in its plaster cuirass;\nSaint Anthonys of Padua, clean and snug, as neat as two pins; Saint\nJosephs, not enough the carpenter and too little the Saint; Magdalens\nweeping silver pills; a whole mob of semi-divinities, best quality, of\nthe class known as \"The Munich Article\" in the Rue Madame.\n\n\"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbe, the donors are certainly terrible people--but\ncould you not, quite by accident, drop one of these objects every day--\"\n\nThe priest gave a shrug of despair.\n\n\"They would only bring me more,\" cried he. \"But if you are willing, we\nwill be off at once, for I am afraid of being caught here if I linger.\"\n\nAnd as they walked, talking of the Cathedral, Durtal exclaimed,--\n\n\"Is it not a monstrous thing that in the splendour of this Cathedral of\nChartres it is impossible to hear any genuine plain-song? I am reduced\nto frequenting the sanctuary only at hours when there is no high service\ngoing on. Above all I avoid being present at High Mass on Sundays; the\nmusic that is tolerated infuriates me! Is there no way of having the\norganist dismissed, and a clean sweep made of the precentor and the\nteachers in the choir-school, of packing off the basses with their\nvinous voices to the taverns? Ugh! And the gassy effervescence that\nrises from the thin pipes of the little boys! and the street tunes\neructed in a hiccough, like the run of a lamp-chain when you pull it up,\nmingling with the noisy bellow of the basses! What a disgrace, what a\nshame! How is it that the Bishop, the priests, the Canons do not\nprohibit such treason?\n\n\"Monseigneur, I know, is old and ill; but those Canons!--They look so\nweary, to be sure! As I see them droning out the Psalms in their stalls,\nI wonder whether they know where they are and what they are doing; they\nalways seem to me in a half unconscious state--\"\n\n\"The high winds of la Beauce induce lethargy,\" said the Abbe, laughing.\n\"But allow me to assure you that though the Cathedral scorns Gregorian\nchants, here, at Chartres, at the little Seminary, at the church of\nNotre Dame de la Breche, and at the convent of the Sisters of Saint\nPaul, they are sung after the Use of Solesmes, so that you can\nalternately attend that church and those chapels and the Cathedral,\nsince perfection is to be found in neither.\"\n\n\"Of course. Still, is it not horrible to think that the Hottentot taste\nof a few bawling old men can pursue the Virgin even in Her sanctuary\nwith such musical insults? Ah, there is the rain again,\" said Durtal\nwith vexation, after a short silence.\n\n\"Well, here we are. We can take shelter in the church, and study the\ninterior at our leisure.\"\n\nThey knelt before the Black Virgin of the Pillar; then they sat down in\nthe deserted nave, and the Abbe said in an undertone,--\n\n\"I explained to you the other day the symbolism of the outside of the\nbuilding. Would you like me now to inform you in a few words as to the\nallegories set forth in the aisles?\"\n\nAnd on seeing Durtal agree by a nod, the priest went on,--\n\n\"You are, of course, aware that almost all our cathedrals are cruciform.\nIn the primitive Church, it is true, you will find that some were\nconstructed of a circular form and surmounted by a dome. But most of\nthese were not built by our forefathers; they are ancient temples of the\nheathen adapted by the Catholics, with more or less alteration, to their\nown use, or imitated from such temples before the Romanesque style was\nrecognized.\n\n\"We need then seek in these no liturgical meaning, since that form was\nnot a Christian invention. At the same time Durand of Mende, in his\n_Rationale_, asserts that a building of rounded form symbolizes the\nextension of the Church over the whole circle of the universe. Others\nexplain the dome as being the crown of the Crucified King, and the\nsmaller cupolas which occasionally support it as the huge heads of the\nNails. But we may set aside these explanations, which are but based on\nexisting facts, and study the cruciform plan shown here, as in other\ncathedrals, in the arrangement of the nave and transepts.\n\n\"It may be noted that in a few churches, as, for instance, the abbey\nchurch of Cluny, the interior, instead of showing a Latin Cross, was\nplanned on the lines of the Cross of Lorraine, two _crosslets_ being\nadded to the arms.--Now, behold the whole scheme!\" the priest said, with\na gesture that comprehended the whole of the interior of the basilica of\nChartres.\n\n\"Jesus is dead; His head is at the altar; His outstretched arms are the\ntwo transepts; His pierced hands are the doors; His legs are the nave\nwhere we are standing; His pierced feet are the door by which we have\ncome in. Now consider the systematic deviation of the axis of the\nbuilding; it imitates the attitude of a body bent over from the upright\ntree of sacrifice, and in some cathedrals--for instance, at Reims--the\nnarrowness, the strangulation, so to speak, of the choir in proportion\nto the nave represents all the more closely the head and neck of a man,\ndrooping over his shoulder when he has given up the ghost.\n\n\"This twist in the church is to be seen almost everywhere--in Saint Ouen\nand in the Cathedral at Rouen, in Saint Jean at Poitiers, at Tours and\nat Reims. Sometimes, indeed--but this statement needs verification--the\narchitect had substituted for the body of the Saviour that of the Saint\nin whose name the church was dedicated, and the curved axis of Saint\nSavin, for instance, has been supposed to represent the bend of the\nwheel which was the instrument of that Saint's martyrdom.\n\n\"But all this is evidently familiar to you.\n\n\"This is less well known: So far we have studied the image of Christ\nmotionless, and dead, in our churches. I will now tell you of a singular\ninstance of a church which, instead of reproducing the attitude of the\nDivine Corpse, represents that of His still living Body, a church which\nseems to have a suggestion of movement as if bending like Christ on the\nCross.\n\n\"In fact it seems to be certain that some architects strove to represent\nin the plan of their building the motion of the human frame, to imitate\nthe action of a drooping figure; in short, to give life to stones.\n\n\"Such an attempt was made in the abbey church of Preuilly-sur-Claise in\nTouraine. The plan and photographs of this basilica are to be found in\nan interesting volume that I can lend you; the author, the Abbe\nPicardat, is the Cure of the church. You will from them readily perceive\nthat the curve of the plan is that of a body leaning on one side, drawn\nout and bending over.\n\n\"And the movement of the body is represented by the curve of the axis,\nbeginning at the very first bay and continued along the nave, the choir,\nand the apse to the end, which bends aside to imitate the droop of the\nhead.\n\n\"Thus, even better than at Chartres, at Reims, and at Rouen, this humble\nsanctuary, built by Benedictine monks whose names are unknown,\nrepresents in its serpentine line, in the perspective of its aisles and\nthe obliquity of its vaulting, the allegorical presentment of our Lord\non the Cross. In all other churches the architects have to some extent\nimitated the cadaverous rigidity of the head fallen in death; at\nPreuilly the monks have perpetuated the never-to-be-forgotten instant\nthat elapsed between the '_Sitio_' (I thirst) and the '_Consummatum\nest_' (It is finished), as recorded in the Gospel of Saint John. Thus\nthe old Touraine church is in the image of Christ Crucified, but still\nliving.\n\n\"Now, to look at home once more, we will consider the inward parts of\nour sanctuaries. It may be noted incidentally that the length of the\ncathedral figures the long-suffering of the Church in adversity; its\nbreadth symbolizes charity, which expands the souls of men; its height,\nthe hope of future reward; and we can then proceed to details.\n\n\"The choir and sanctuary symbolize Heaven; the nave is the emblem of the\nearth; as the gulf that divides the two worlds can only be passed by the\nhelp of the Cross, it was formerly the custom, now, alas, fallen into\ndesuetude, to erect an enormous Crucifix over the grand arch between\nthe nave and the choir. Hence the name of triumphal arch was given to\nthe vast space in front of the High altar. It may also be remarked that\na railing or screen marks the limits of these two parts of the\ncathedral. Saint Gregory Nazianzen regards this as the border line\ntraced between the two parts--that of God, and that of man.\n\n\"There is, however, a different explanation given by Richard de Saint\nVictor, as to the sanctuary, the choir, and the nave. According to him,\nthe first symbolizes the Virgins, the second the chaste souls, and the\nthird the married hearts. As to the altar, or, as old liturgical writers\ncall it, the _Cancel_ (chancel), it is Christ Himself, the spot whereon\nHis Head rests, the Table of the Last Supper, the Stake whereon He shed\nHis blood, the Sepulchre that held His body; and again, it is the\nSpiritual Church, and its four angles the four corners of the earth over\nwhich it shall reign.\n\n\"Now behind this altar we find the apse, assuming in most cathedrals the\nform of a semicircle. There are exceptions; to mention three: at\nPoitiers, at Laon, and in Notre Dame du Fort at Etampes the wall is\nsquare, as in the ancient civic basilicas, and does not describe the\nsort of half-moon, of which the significance is one of the most\nbeautiful inventions of symbolism.\n\n\"This semicircular end, this apsidal shell, with the chapels that\nsurround the choir, simulates the Crown of Thorns on the Head of Christ.\nExcepting in Sanctuaries which are wholly dedicated to Our Lady--this\none, Notre Dame de Paris, and some others--one of these chapels, that in\nthe centre and the largest, is dedicated to the Virgin, to show by the\nplace that it occupies at the end of the church that Mary is the last\nrefuge of sinners.\n\n\"She, in person, is again symbolized by the Sacristy, whence the priest\ncomes forth as Christ's representative after putting on his sacerdotal\nvestments, as Jesus came forth from His Mother's womb after clothing\nHimself in flesh.\n\n\"It must constantly be repeated; every part of a church and every\nmaterial object used in divine worship is representative of some\ntheological truth. In the script of architecture everything is a\nreminiscence, an echo, a reflection, and every part is connected to form\na whole.\n\n\"For instance, the altar, which is the Image of Our Lord, must be\ndraped with white linen in memory of the winding-sheet in which Joseph\nof Arimathea wrapped His body--and that linen must be woven of pure\nthread, of hemp or flax. The chalice, which according to the texts\nadduced by the _Spicilegium_ of Solesmes, is to be taken now as a symbol\nof glory, and now as a sign of opprobrium, may be regarded, by the most\ngenerally received theory, as the figure of the sacred Tomb; then the\npaten appears as the stone which served to close it, while the corporal\nis the shroud itself.\n\n\"When I tell you further,\" added the Abbe, \"that according to Saint\nNilus, the columns signify the divine dogmas, or, according to Durand of\nMende, the Bishops and the Doctors of the Church, that the capitals are\nthe words of Scripture, that the pavement of the church is the\nfoundation of faith and humility, that the ambos and rood-loft, almost\neverywhere destroyed, figure the pulpit of the gospel, the mountain on\nwhich Christ preached; again, that the seven lamps burning before the\naltar are the seven gifts of the Spirit, that the steps to the altar are\nthe steps to perfection; that the alternating choirs represent on the\none side the angels, and on the other the righteous, combining to do\nhomage with their voices to the glory of the Most High, I have pretty\nwell explained to you the general meaning and detailed symbolism of the\ninterior of the cathedral, and more particularly that of Chartres.\n\n\"Now you must observe a peculiarity which is also to be seen in the\nCathedral at Le Mans; the side aisles of the nave in which we are\nsitting are single, but they are double round the choir--\"\n\nBut Durtal was not listening; far away from this architectural exegesis,\nhe was admiring the amazing structure without even trying to analyze it.\n\nWrapped in the mystery of its own shadow thick with the haze of rain, it\nsoared up lighter and lighter as it rose in the skyey whiteness of its\narcades, aspiring like a soul purifying itself with increasing light as\nit toils up the ways of the mystic life.\n\nThe clustered columns sprang in slender sheaves, their groups so light\nthat they looked as if they might bend at a breath; yet it was not till\nthey had reached a giddy height that these stems curved over, flying\nfrom one side of the Cathedral to the other to meet above the void,\nmingling their sap and blossoming at last, like a basket of flowers, in\nthe once gilt pendants from the roof.\n\nThis church appeared as a supreme effort of matter striving for\nlightness, rejecting, as though it were a burden, the diminished weight\nof its walls and substituting a less ponderous and more lucent matter,\nreplacing the opacity of stone by the diaphanous texture of glass.\n\nIt grew more spiritual--wholly spiritual, purely prayer, as it sprang\ntowards the Lord to meet Him; light and slender, as it were\nimponderable, it remained the most glorious expression of Beauty\nescaping from its earthly dross, Beauty become seraphic.\n\nIt was as slender and colourless as Roger Van der Weyden's Virgins, who\nare so fragile, so ethereal, that they might blow away were they not\nheld down to earth by the weight of their brocades and trains. Here was\nthe same mystical conception of a long-drawn body and an ardent soul,\nwhich, unable to free itself completely from that body, strove to purify\nit by reducing it, refining it, almost distilling it to a fluid.\n\nThe building bewildered him with the giddy flight of its vault, the\ndazzling splendour of its windows. The weather was gloomy, and yet a\nfurnace of gems flamed in the lancets of the windows and the blazing\nwheels of the roses.\n\nUp there, high in air, as they might be salamanders, human beings with\nfaces ablaze and robes on fire dwelt in a firmament of glory; but these\nconflagrations were enclosed and limited by an incombustible frame of\ndarker glass which set off the youthful and radiant joy of the flames by\nthe contrast of melancholy, the suggestion of the more serious and aged\naspect presented by gloomy colouring. The bugle cry of red, the limpid\nconfidence of white, the repeated Hallelujahs of yellow, the virginal\nglory of blue, all the quivering crucible of glass was dimmed as it got\nnearer to this border dyed with rusty red, the tawny hues of sauces, the\nharsh purples of sandstone, bottle-green, tinder-brown, fuliginous\nblacks, and ashy greys.\n\nAs at Bourges, where the glass is of the same period, Oriental influence\nwas visible in these windows at Chartres. Not only had the figures the\nhieratic appearance, the sumptuous and barbarous dignity of Asiatic\npersonages, but the borders, in their design and the arrangement of\ntheir colours, were an evident reminiscence of the Persian carpets which\nundoubtedly served as models to the painters; since it is known from the\n_Livre des Metiers_ that in the thirteenth century hangings copied from\nthose which the Crusaders brought from the Levant were manufactured in\nFrance, and in Paris itself.\n\nBut, apart from the question of subjects or borders, the various colours\nof these pictures were, so to speak, but an accessory crowd, handmaidens\nwhose part it was to set off another colour, namely blue--a glorious,\nindescribable blue, a vivid sapphire hue of excessive transparency, pale\nbut piercing and sparkling throughout, glittering like the broken glass\nof a kaleidoscope--in the top-lights, in the roses of the transepts, and\nin the great west window, where it burned like the blue flame of\nsulphur, among the lead-lines and black iron bars.\n\nTaken for all in all, with the tones of its stone-work and its windows,\nNotre Dame de Chartres was fair with blue eyes. He personified Her as a\nsort of white fairy, a tall and slender virgin, with large blue eyes\nunder lids of translucent rose. This was the Mother of a Christ of the\nNorth, the Christ of a Pre-Raphaelite Flemish painter. She sat enthroned\nin a Heaven of ultramarine, surrounded by these Oriental hangings of\nglass--a pathetic reminder of the Crusades.\n\nAnd these transparent hangings were like flowers, redolent of sandal and\npepper, fragrant with the subtle spices of the Magian kings; a perfumed\nflower-bed of hues culled at the cost of so much blood in the fields of\nPalestine; and here offered by the West, under the cold sky of Chartres,\nto the Virgin Mother in remembrance of the sunny lands where She dwelt\nand where Her Son chose to be born.\n\n\"Where could you find a grander shrine or a more sublime dwelling for\nOur Mother?\" said the Abbe as he pointed to the nave.\n\nThis exclamation roused Durtal from his reflections, and he listened as\nthe priest went on,--\n\n\"Though this cathedral is unique as regards its width, in spite of its\nenormous height it cannot compare with the extravagant elevation of\nBourges, Amiens, and more especially of Beauvais, where the vault of the\nroof rises to forty-eight metres from the ground. That cathedral, it is\ntrue, was bent on outstripping its sisters.\n\n\"Springing into the air at one flight, when it reached the upper spaces\nit tottered and fell. You know the portions which survived the wreck of\nthat mad attempt?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe; and that sanctuary and that apse, so narrow and\nrestricted, with columns so close together, and the iridescent light,\nlike filmy soap bubbles, from walls which seem made of glass, disturb\nand bewilder you; on first entering it gives the impression of\nindescribable uneasiness, a sort of anxious and distressed anticipation.\nAnd in truth it is neither quite healthy nor sound; it seems only to\nlive by dint of aids and expedients; it struggles to be free and is not;\nit is long drawn and not ethereal; it has--how shall I express\nit?--large bones. You remember the pillars? They are like the smooth\nmuscular trunks of beech trees, which have also the angular edges of\nreeds. How different from the harp-strings which form the aerial\nskeleton of Chartres! No, in spite of all, Beauvais, like Reims, and\nlike Paris, is a fleshy cathedral; it has not the elegant leanness, the\nperennial youthfulness of form, the Patrician stamp of Amiens, and more\nespecially of Chartres!\n\n\"And have you not been struck, Monsieur l'Abbe, by the way in which the\ngenius of man has constantly borrowed from Nature in the construction of\nhis basilicas? It is almost certain that the arcades of the forest were\nthe starting-point for the mystic avenues of our aisles. And again, look\nat the pillars. I was speaking of those at Beauvais as suggesting the\nbeech and the reed; if you think of the columns at Laon, they have nodes\nall up their stems, resembling the regular swelling of bamboos, to the\npoint of imitation. Note also the stone flora of the capitals and the\npendants of the vault, terminating the long ribs of the arches. Here the\nanimal kingdom seems to have inspired the architect. Might we not\nconceive of a fabulous spider, of which the key-stone is the body and\nthe ribs stretching under the vaults are the legs? The image is so\naccurate as to be irresistible. And then what a marvel is the gigantic\nArachne, wrought like a jewel and heightened with gold, which might have\nspun the web of those three flaming rose windows!\"\n\n\"By the way,\" said the Abbe, when they had left the church and were\nwalking down the street, \"I forgot to point out to you the Number which\nis everywhere stamped on Chartres; it is identical with Paray-le-Monial.\nHere, again, everything is in threes. Thus there are three aisles, and\nthree entrances each with three doors; if you count the pillars of the\nnave, you will count twice three on each side. The transept aisles again\nhave each three bays and three pillars, the windows are in threes under\nthe three great roses. So, you see, Notre Dame is full of the Trinity.\"\n\n\"And it is also the great store-house of Mediaeval painting and\nsculpture.\"\n\n\"Yes, and like other Gothic cathedrals, it is the completest and most\ntrustworthy collection of symbolism; for the allegories we fancy we can\ninterpret in Romanesque churches are on the whole but artificial and\ndoubtful--and that is quite conceivable. The Romanesque is a convert, a\npagan turned monk. It was not born Catholic as the pointed arch was; it\nonly became so by baptism conferred by the Church. Christianity\ndiscovered it in the Roman _basilica_, and utilized while modifying it;\nthus its origin is pagan, and it was only as it grew up that it could\nlearn the language and use the forms of our emblems.\"\n\n\"And yet, to me, as a whole, it seems to be a symbol, for it is the\nimage in stone of the Old Testament, a figure of contrition and fear.\"\n\n\"And yet more of the soul's peace,\" replied the Abbe. \"Believe me,\nreally to understand that style we must go back to the fountain-head, to\nthe earliest times of Monasticism, of which it is a perfect expression;\nback, in fact, to the Fathers of the Church, the monks of the Desert.\n\n\"Now, what is the very special character of the mysticism of the East?\nIt is the calmness of faith, love feeding on itself, ecstasy without\ndisplay, ardent but reserved, internal.\n\n\"In the books of the Egyptian Recluses you will never find the vehemence\nof a Maddalena de' Pazzi or a Catherine of Siena, the passionate\nejaculations of a Saint Angela. Nothing of the kind, no amorous\naddresses, no trepidations, no laments. They look upon the Redeemer less\nas the Victim to be wept over than as the Mediator, the Friend, the\nElder Brother. To them He was, to quote Origen's words, 'The Bridge\nbetween us and the Father.'\n\n\"These tendencies, transplanted from Africa to Europe, were preserved by\nthe first monks of the West, who followed the example of their\npredecessors, and modified and built their churches on the same pattern.\n\n\"That repentance, contrition, and awe dwell under these dark vaults,\namong these heavy pillars, in this fortress, as it were, where the elect\nshut themselves in to resist the assaults of the world, is quite\ncertain--but this mystical Romanseque also suggests the notion of a\nsturdy faith, of manly patience, and stalwart piety--like its walls.\n\n\"It has not the flaming raptures of the mystical Gothic, which finds\nutterance in all these soaring shafts of stone; the Romanesque lives\nself-centred, in reserved fervour, brooding in the depths of the soul.\nIt may be summed up in this saying of Saint Isaac's: _In mansuetudine et\nin tranquillitate, simplifica animam tuam_.'\"\n\n\"You will confess, Monsieur l'Abbe, that you have a weakness for the\nstyle.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I have, in so far as that it is less petted, more humble, less\nfeminine, and more claustral than the Gothic.\"\n\n\"On the whole,\" the priest concluded, as he shook hands with Durtal at\nhis own door, \"it is the symbol of the inner life, the image of the\nmonastic life; in a word, the true architecture of the cloister.\"\n\n\"On condition, nevertheless,\" said Durtal to himself, \"that it is not\nlike that of Notre Dame de Poitiers, where the interior is gaudy with\nchildish colouring and raw tones; for there, instead of expressing\nregret and tranquillity, it rouses a suggestion of the childish glee of\nan old savage in his second childhood, who laughs when his tattoo marks\nare renewed, and his skin rough-cast with crude ochres.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n\"How many worshippers can the Cathedral contain? Well, nearly 18,000,\"\nsaid the Abbe Plomb. \"But I need hardly tell you, I suppose, that it is\nnever full; that even during the season for pilgrimages the vast crowds\nof Mediaeval times never assemble here. Ah, no! Chartres is not exactly\nwhat you would call a pious town!\"\n\n\"It strikes me as indifferent to religion, to say the least, if not\nactually hostile,\" said the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"The citizen of Chartres is money-getting, apathetic, and salacious,\"\nreplied the Abbe Plomb. \"Above all, greedy of money, for the passion for\nlucre is fierce here, under an inert surface. Really, from my own\nexperience, I pity the young priest who is sent as a beginner to\nevangelize la Beauce.\n\n\"He arrives full of illusions, dreaming of Apostolic triumphs, burning\nto devote himself--and he drops into silence and the void. If he were\nbut persecuted he would feel himself alive; but he is met, not with\nabuse, but with a smile, which is far worse; and at once he becomes\naware of the futility of all he can do, of the aimlessness of his\nefforts, and he is discouraged.\n\n\"The clergy here are, it may be said, admirable, composed of good and\nsaintly priests; but they vegetate, torpid with inaction; they neither\nread nor work; their joints become ankylose; they die of weariness in\nthis provincial spot.\"\n\n\"You do not!\" exclaimed Durtal, laughing; \"for you make work. Did you\nnot tell me that you especially devote yourself to ladies who can still\ncondescend to take an interest in Our Lord in this town?\"\n\n\"Your satire is scathing,\" replied the Abbe. \"I can assure you that if I\nhad serving-women and the peasant girls to deal with, I should not\ncomplain; for in simple souls there are qualities and virtues and a\nresponsive spring, but not in the commercial or the richer classes! You\ncannot imagine what those women are. If only they attend Mass on Sunday\nand perform their Easter duties they think they may do anything and\neverything; and thenceforth their one idea is not so much to avoid\noffending the Saviour as to disarm Him by mean subterfuges. They speak\nill of their neighbour, injuring him cruelly, refusing him all help and\npity, and they make excuses for themselves as though these were mere\nvenial faults; but as to eating meat on a Friday! That is quite another\nthing; they are persuaded that this is the unpardonable sin. To them\ntheir stomach is the Holy Ghost; consequently, the great point is to\ntack and veer round that particular sin, never to commit it, while only\njust avoiding it, and not depriving themselves in the least. What\neloquence they will pour out on me to convince me of the penitential\nquality of water-fowl.\n\n\"During Lent they are possessed with the idea of giving dinners, and\nrack their brains to provide a lenten meal in which there is no meat,\nthough it would be supposed that there was; and then come interminable\ndiscussions as to teal, wild duck, and cold-blooded birds. They should\nconsult a naturalist and not a priest on such cases of conscience.\n\n\"As to Holy Week, that is another affair; the mania for water-birds\ngives way to a hankering for the _Charlotte Russe_. May they, without\noffence to God, enjoy a _Charlotte_? There are eggs in it, to be sure,\nbut so whipped and scourged that the dish is almost ascetic; culinary\nexplanations are poured into my ear, the confessional becomes a kitchen,\nand the priest might be a master-cook.\n\n\"But as to the general sin of greediness, they hardly admit that they\nare guilty of it. Is it not so, my dear colleague?\"\n\nThe Abbe Gevresin nodded assent. \"They are indeed hollow souls,\" said\nhe, \"and what is more, impenetrable. They are sealed against every\ngenerous idea, regarding the intercourse they hold with the Redeemer as\nbeseeming their rank and in good style; but they never seek to know Him\nmore nearly, and restrict themselves, of deliberate purpose, to calls of\npoliteness.\"\n\n\"Such visits as we pay to an aged parent on New Year's Day,\" said\nDurtal.\n\n\"No, at Easter,\" corrected Madame Bavoil.\n\n\"And among these Fair Penitents,\" the Abbe Plomb went on, \"we have that\nterrible variety, the wife of the Depute who votes on the wrong side,\nand to his wife's objurgations retorts: 'Why, I am at heart a better\nChristian than you are!'\n\n\"Invariably and every time, she repeats the list of her husband's\nprivate virtues, and deplores his conduct as a public man; and this\nhistory, which is never ending, always leads up to the praises she\nawards herself, almost to requiring us to apologize for all the\nannoyance the Church occasions her.\"\n\nThe Abbe Gevresin smiled, and said,--\n\n\"When I was in Paris, attached to one of the parishes on the left bank\nof the Seine, in which there is a huge draper's and fancy shop, I had to\ndeal with a very curious class of women. Especially on days when there\nwas a great show of cotton and linen goods, or a sale of bankrupt stock,\nthere was a perfect rush of well-dressed women to the confessional.\nThese people lived on the other side of the water; they had come to that\npart of the town to buy bargains, and finding the departments of the\nshop too full, no doubt, they meant to wait till the crowd should be\nthinner, to make their selection in comfort; so then, not knowing what\nto be doing, they took refuge in the church, and, tortured by the need\nfor speech, they asked for the priest whose turn it was to attend, and\nto justify themselves, chattered in the confessional as if it had been a\ndrawing-room, merely to kill time.\"\n\n\"Not being able to go to a _cafe_ like a man, they go to church,\" said\nDurtal.\n\n\"Unless it is,\" said Madame Bavoil, \"that they would rather confide to\nan unknown priest the sins it would pain them to confess to their own\ndirector.\"\n\n\"At any rate, this is a new light on things: the influence of big shops\non the tribunal of penance!\" exclaimed Durtal.\n\n\"And of railway stations,\" added the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"How of railway stations?\"\n\n\"Yes, I assure you that churches situated near railway stations have a\nspecial following of women on their journeys. There it is that our dear\nMadame Bavoil's shrewd remark finds justification. Many a country-woman\nwho has the Cure of her own parish to dinner dares not tell him the tale\nof her adultery, because he could too easily guess the name of her\nlover, and because the propinquity of a priest living on intimate terms\nin her house would be inconvenient; so she takes advantage of an\nexcursion to Paris to open her heart to another confessor who does not\nknow her. As a general rule, when a woman speaks ill of her Cure, and\nbegins the tale of her confession by explaining that he is dull,\nuneducated, unsympathetic in understanding and guiding souls, you may be\ncertain that a confession is coming of sin against the sixth (seventh)\nCommandment.\"\n\n\"Well, well; the people who flutter around the Lord are cool hands!\"\nexclaimed Madame Bavoil.\n\n\"They are unhappy creatures, who try to strike a balance between their\nduties and their vices.\n\n\"But enough of this; let us turn to something more immediate. Have you\nbrought us the article on the Angelico, as you promised? Read it to us.\"\n\nDurtal brought out of his pocket the manuscript he had finished, which\nwas to be posted that evening to Paris.\n\nHe seated himself in one of the straw-bottomed arm-chairs in the middle\nof the room where they were sitting with the Abbe Gevresin, and began:--\n\n     THE CORONATION OF THE VIRGIN.\n    By Fra Angelico. In the Louvre.\n\nThe general arrangement of this picture reminds the spectator of the\ntree of Jesse, of which the branches, supporting a human figure on every\ntwig, spread fan-like as they rise on each side of a throne, while at\nthe top, on a single stem, the radiant beauty of a Virgin is the\ncrowning blossom.\n\nIn Fra Angelico's 'Coronation of the Virgin,' to the right and left of\nthe isolated knoll on which Christ sits under a carved stone canopy,\nplacing the crown He holds with both hands on His Mother's bowed head,\nwe see a perfect espalier of Apostles, Saints, and Patriarchs, rising in\nclose and crowded ramification at the lower part of the panel, to burst\ninto a luxuriant blossoming of angels relieved against the blue sky,\ntheir heads in a sunshine of glories.\n\nThe arrangement of the persons represented is as follows:--\n\nAt the foot of the throne, under the gothic canopy--to the left, Saint\nNicholas of Myra kneels in prayer, wearing his mitre and clasping his\ncrozier, from which the maniple hangs like a folded banner; Saint Louis\nthe King with a crown of fleurs de lys; the monastic saints; St. Antony,\nSt. Benedict, St. Francis, St. Thomas, who holds an open book in which\nwe read the first lines of the _Te Deum_, St. Dominic holding a lily,\nSt. Augustine with a pen. Then, going upwards, St. Mark and St. John\ncarrying their gospels, St. Bartholomew showing the knife with which he\nwas flayed; and higher still the lawgiver Moses, ending in the serried\nranks of angels against the azure firmament, each head circled with a\ngolden nimbus.\n\nOn the right, below, by the side of a monk whose back only is\nseen--possibly St. Bernard--Mary Magdalene is on her knees with a vase\nof spices by her side, robed in vermilion; behind her come St. Cecilia,\ncrowned with roses, St. Clara or St. Catherine of Sienna, in a blue\nhood, patterned with stars, St. Catherine of Alexandria, leaning on her\nwheel of martyrdom, St. Agnes, cherishing a lamb in her arms, St. Ursula\nflinging an arrow, and others whose names are unknown; all female\nsaints, facing the Bishop, the King, the Recluses, and the founders of\nOrders. By the steps of the throne are St. Stephen, with the green palm\nof martyrdom, St. Lawrence, with his gridiron, St. George, wearing a\nbreastplate, and on his head a helmet, St. Peter the Dominican\nrecognizable by his split skull; and yet further up St. Matthew, St.\nPhilip, St. James the Greater, St. Jude, St. Paul, St. Matthias, and\nKing David. Finally, opposite the angels on the left a group of angels,\nwhose faces, set in gold discs, are relieved against the pure\nultramarine background.\n\nIn spite of injury from the restorations it has endured, this panel,\nwith its stamped and diapered gold, is splendid in the freshness of its\ncolours, laid on with white of egg.\n\nAs a whole, it represented, so to speak, a stairway for the eye, a\ncircular stair of two flights, in steps of glorious blue hung with gold.\n\nThe lowest to the left is seen in the blue mantle of Saint Louis, and\nothers lead up through a glimpse of blue drapery, the robe of St. John,\nand then, higher still before reaching the blue expanse of the sky, the\nrobe of the first angel.\n\nThe first on the right is the mantle of St. Cecilia; others are the\nbodice of St. Agnes, St. Stephen's robe, a prophet's tunic; and above\nthese, before reaching the lapis-lazuli border of sky, the robe of the\nfirst angel.\n\nThus blue, which is the predominating colour in the whole, is regularly\npiled up in steps and spaced almost identically on the opposite sides of\nthe throne. This azure hue of the draperies, their folds faintly\nindicated with white, is extraordinarily serene, indescribably innocent.\nThis it is which gives the work its soul of colour--this blue, helped\nout by the gold which gleams round the heads, runs or twines on the\nblack robes of the monks; in Y's on those of St. Thomas; in suns, or\nrather in radiating chrysanthemums, on those of St. Antony and St.\nBenedict; in stars on St. Clara's hood; in filagree embroidery in the\nletters of their names, in brooches and medallions on the bodices of the\nother female saints.\n\nAt the very bottom of the picture a splash of gorgeous red--the\nMagdalen's robe--that finds an echo in the flame-colour of one of the\nsteps of the throne, and reappears here and there, but softened in\nfragmentary glimpses of drapery, or smothered under a running pattern of\ngold (as in St. Augustine's cope) serves as a spring-board, as it were,\nto start the whole stupendous harmony.\n\nThe other colours seem to fill no part, but that of necessary stop-gaps,\nindispensable supports. They are too, for the most part, common and ugly\nto a degree that is most puzzling. Look at the greens: they range from\nboiled endive to olive, ending in the absolute hideousness of two steps\nof the throne which lie across the picture--two bars, two streaks of\nspinach dipped in tawny mud. The only tolerable green of them all is\nthat of St. Agnes' mantle, a Parmigiano green, rich in yellow, and made\nstill richer by the lining which affords the pleasing adjunct of orange.\n\nOn the other hand, consider this blue which Angelico uses so sumptuously\nin his celestial tones; when he makes it darker it loses its fulness,\nand looks almost dull; we see this in St. Clara's hood.\n\nBut what is yet more amazing is that this painter, so eloquent in blue,\nis but a stammerer when he makes use of the other angelic\nhue--rose-pink. In his hands it is neither subtle nor ingenuous; it is\nopaque, of the colour of blood thinned with water, or of pink\nsticking-plaister, excepting when it trends on the hue of wine-lees,\nlike that of the Saviour's sleeves.\n\nAnd it is heaviest of all in the saints' cheeks. It looks glazed, like\nthe surface of pie-crust; it has the quality of raspberry syrup drowned\nin white of egg.\n\nThese are in the main the only colours used by Angelico. A magnificent\nblue for the sky and another vile blue, white, brilliant red, melancholy\npinks, a light green, dark greens, and gold. No bright yellow like\neverlastings, no luminous straw-colour; at most a heavy opaque yellow\nfor the hair of his female saints; no truly bold orange, no violet,\neither tender or strong, unless in the half-hidden lining of a cloak or\nin the scarcely visible robe of a saint, cut off by the frame; no brown\nthat does not lurk in the background. His palette, as may be seen, is\nvery limited.\n\nAnd it is symbolical, if we consider it. He has undoubtedly done in his\nhues what he has done in the arrangement of the work. His picture is a\nhymn to Chastity, and round the central group of Christ and His Mother\nhe has placed in ranks the Saints who best concentrated this virtue on\nearth. St. John the Baptist, beheaded for the bounding impurity of an\nHerodias; St. George, who saved a virgin from the emblematic Dragon;\nsuch saints as St. Agnes, St. Clara, and St. Ursula; the heads of the\nOrders--St. Benedict and St. Francis; a king like St. Louis, and a\nbishop like St. Nicholas of Myra, who hindered the prostitution of three\nyoung girls whom a starving father was fain to sell. Everything, down to\nthe smallest details, from the attributes of the persons represented to\nthe steps of the throne, of which the number is nine--that of the choirs\nof angels--everything in this picture is symbolical.\n\nIt is permissible therefore to assume that he selected his colours for\ntheir allegorical signification.\n\nWhite: the symbol of the Supreme Being, and of absolute Truth, and\nemployed by the Church in its adornments for the festival of our Lord\nand the Virgin because it signifies Goodness, Virginity, Charity, and is\nthe splendour, the emblem of Divine Wisdom when it is enhanced to the\npure radiance of silver.\n\nBlue: because it symbolizes Chastity, Innocence, and Guilelessness.\n\nRed: which is the colour adopted for the offices of the Holy Ghost and\nof the Passion; the garb of Charity, Suffering and Love.\n\nRose-pink; the Love of Eternal Wisdom, and, as Saint Mechtildis teaches,\nthe anguish and torments of Christ.\n\nGreen: used liturgically at Seasons of Pilgrimage, and which seems to be\nthe colour preferred by the Benedictine Sisterhood, interpreting it as\nmeaning freshness of soul and perennial sap; the green which, in the\nhermeneutics of colour, expresses the hopes of the regenerated creature,\nthe yearning for final repose, and which is likewise the mark of\nhumility, according to the Anonymous English writer of the thirteenth\ncentury, and of contemplation, according to Durand of Mende.\n\nOn the other hand, Angelico has intentionally refrained from introducing\nthe hues which are emblematic of vices, excepting of course those\nadopted for the garb of the Monastic Orders, which altogether changes\ntheir meaning.\n\nBlack: the colour of error and the void, the seal of death, and,\naccording to Sister Emmerich, the image of profaned and wasted gifts.\n\nBrown: which, as the same Sister tells us, is synonymous with agitation,\nbarrenness and dryness of the spirit, and neglect of duty; brown; which\nbeing composed of black and red--smoke darkening the sacred fire--is\nSatanic.\n\nGrey: the ashes of penance, the symbol of tribulation, according to the\nBishop of Mende, the sign of half-mourning formerly used in the Paris\nritual instead of violet in Lent. The mingling of white and black, of\nvirtue and vice, of joy and grief, the mirror of the soul that is\nneither good nor evil, the medium being, the lukewarm creature that God\nspueth out, grey can only rise by the infusion of a little purity, a\nlittle blue; but can, when thus converted to pearl grey, become a pious\nhue, and attempt a step towards Heaven, an advance in the lower paths of\nMysticism.\n\nYellow: considered by Sister Emmerich as the colour of idleness, of a\nhorror of suffering, and often given to Judas in mediaeval times, is\nsignificant of treason and envy. Orange: of which Frederic Portal\nspeaks as the revelation of Divine Love, the communion of God with man,\nmingling the blood of Love to the sinful hue of yellow, may be taken to\nbear a worse meaning with the idea of falsehood and torment; and,\nespecially when it verges on red, expresses the defeat of a soul\nover-ridden by its sins, hatred of Love, contempt of Grace, the end of\nall things.\n\nDead leaf colour: speaking of moral degradation, spiritual death, the\nhopefulness of green for ever extinct.\n\nFinally, violet: adopted by the Church for the Sundays in Advent and in\nLent, and for penitential services. It was the colour of the\nmortuary-shroud of the kings of France; during the Middle Ages it was\nthe attribute of mourning, and it is at all times the melancholy garb of\nthe exorcist.\n\nWhat is certainly far less easy to explain is the limited variety of\ncountenance the painter has chosen to adopt. Here symbolism is of no\nuse. Look, for instance, at the men. The Patriarchs with their bearded\nfaces do not show us the almost translucent texture, as of the\nsacramental wafer, in which the bones show through the dry and\ndiaphanous parchment-like skin, or like the seeds of the cruciferous\nflower called _Monnaie du Pape_ (honesty); they have all regular and\npleasant faces, are all healthy, full-blooded personages, attentive and\ndevout. His monks too have round faces and rosy cheeks; not one of his\nSaints looks like a Recluse of the Desert overcome by fasting, or has\nthe exhausted emaciation of an ascetic; they are all vaguely alike, with\nthe same solidity and the same complexion. In fact, as we see them in\nthis picture, they are a contented colony of excellent people.\n\nAt least, so they appear at a first glance.\n\nThe women, too, are all of one family; sisters more or less exactly\nalike; all fair and rosy, with light snuff-coloured eyes, heavy eyelids,\nand round faces; they form a train of rather an insipid type round the\nVirgin with her long nose and bird-like head kneeling at the feet of\nChrist.\n\nAltogether, among all these figures we find scarcely four distinct\ntypes, if we take into consideration their more or less advanced years\nand the modifications resulting from the arrangement of their hair,\ntheir being bearded or shaven, and the pose of the head, front face or\nprofile, which distinguishes them.\n\nThe only groups which are not of an almost uniform stamp are the angels,\nsexless youths for ever charming. They are of matchless purity, of a\nmore than human innocence in their blue and rose-pink and green robes\nsprigged with gold, with their yellow or red hair, at once aerial and\nheavy, their chastely downcast eyes, and flesh as white as pith. Grave,\nbut in ecstasy, they play on the harp or the theorbo, on the Viol\nd'Amore or the rebeck, singing the eternal glory of the most Holy\nMother.\n\nThus, on the whole, the types used by Angelico are not less restricted\nthan his colours.\n\nBut then, in spite of the exquisite array of angels, is this picture\nmonotonous and dull? Is this much-talked-of work over-praised?\n\nNo, for this Coronation of the Virgin is a masterpiece, and superior to\nall that enthusiasm can say about it; indeed, it outstrips painting and\nsoars through realms which the mystics of the brush had never\npenetrated.\n\nHere we have not a mere manual effort, however admirable; this is not\nmerely a spiritual and truly religious picture such as Roger van der\nWeyden and Quentin Matsys could create; it is quite another thing. With\nAngelico an unknown being appears on the scene, the soul of a mystic\nthat has entered on the contemplative life, and breathes it on the\ncanvas as on a perfect mirror. It is the soul of a marvellous monk that\nwe see, of a saint, embodied on this coloured mirror, exhaled in a\npainted creation. And we can measure how far that soul had advanced on\nthe path of perfection from the work that reflects it.\n\nHe carries his angels and his saints up to the Unifying Life, the\nsupreme height of Mysticism. There the weariness of their dolorous\nascent is no more; there is the plenitude of tranquil joy, the peace of\nman made one with God. Angelico is the painter of the soul immersed in\nGod, the painter of his own spirit.\n\nNone but a monk could attempt such paintings. Matsys, Memling, Dierck\nBouts, Roger van der Weyden were no doubt sincere and pious worthies.\nThey gave their work a reflection of Heaven; they too reflected their\nown soul in the faces they depicted; but though they gave them a\nwonderful stamp of art, they could only infuse into them the semblance\nof the soul beginning the practice of Christian asceticism; they could\nonly represent men still detained, like themselves, in the outer\nchambers of those Castles of the Soul of which Saint Theresa speaks, and\nnot in the Hall where, in the centre, Christ sits and sheds His glory.\n\nThey were, in my opinion, greater and keener observers, more learned and\nmore skilful, even better painters than Angelico; but their heart was in\ntheir craft, they lived in the world, they often could not resist giving\ntheir Virgins fine-lady airs, they were hampered by earthly\nreminiscences, they could not rise in their work above the trammels of\ndaily life; in short, they were and remained men. They were admirable;\nthey gave utterance to the promptings of ardent faith; but they had not\nhad the specific culture which is practised only in the silence and\npeace of the cloister. Hence they could not cross the threshold of the\nseraphic realm where roamed the guileless being who never opened his\neyes, closed in prayer, excepting to paint--the monk who had never\nlooked out on the world, who had seen only within himself.\n\nAnd what we know of his life is worthy of this work. He was a humble and\ntender recluse, who always prayed or ever he took up his brush, and\ncould not draw the Crucifixion without melting into tears.\n\nThrough the veil of his tears his angelic vision poured itself out in\nthe light of ecstasy, and he created beings that had but the semblance\nof human creatures, the earthly husk of our existence, beings whose\nsouls soared already far from their prison of flesh. Study his picture\nattentively, and see how the incomprehensible miracle works of such a\nsublimated state of mind.\n\nThe types chosen for the Apostles and Saints are, as we have said, quite\nordinary. But gaze firmly at the countenances of these men, and you will\nsee how little they really take in of the scene before them. Whatever\nattitude the painter may have given them, they are all absorbed into\nthemselves; they behold the scene, not with the eyes of the body, but\nwith the eyes of the soul. Each is looking into himself. Jesus dwells in\nthem, and they can gaze on Him better in their inmost heart than on His\nthrone.\n\nIt is the same with his female Saints. I have said that they are\ninsignificant looking, and it is true; but how their features, too, are\ntransfigured and effaced under the Divine touch! They are drowned in\nadoration, and spring buoyant, though motionless, to meet the Heavenly\nSpouse. Only one remains but half escaped from her material shell: Saint\nCatherine of Alexandria, who, with upturned eyes of a brackish green, is\nneither as simple nor as innocent as her sisters; she still sees the\nform of man in Christ; she still is a woman; she is, if one may so, the\nsin of the work.\n\nStill, all these spiritual degrees clothed in human figures are but the\naccessories of this picture. They are placed there, in the august\nassumption of gold and the chaste ascending scale of blue, to lead by a\nstair of pure joy to the sublime platform whereon we see the group of\nthe Saviour and the Virgin.\n\nAnd here, in the presence of the Mother and Son, the ecstatic painter\noverflows. One could imagine that the Lord had merged into him, and\ntransported him beyond the life of sense, love and chastity are so\nperfectly personified in the group above all the means of expression at\nthe command of man.\n\nNo words could express the reverent tenderness, the anxious affection,\nthe filial and paternal love of the Christ, who smiles as He crowns His\nMother; and She is yet more incomparable. Here the words of adulation\nare too weak; the invisible is made visible by the sacramental use of\ncolour and line. A feeling of infinite deference, of intense but\nreserved adoration, flows and spreads about this Virgin, who, with Her\narms crossed over Her bosom, bends Her little dove-like head, with\ndowncast eyes and a rather long nose, under a veil. She resembles the\nApostle St. John who is just behind her, and might be his daughter; and\nshe is enigmatic; for that soft, delicate face, which in the hands of\nany other painter would be merely charming and trivial, breathes out the\npurest innocence. She is not even flesh and blood; the material that\nclothes Her swells softly with the breath of the fluid that shapes it.\nMary is a living but a volatilized and glorious body.\n\nWe can understand certain ideas of the Abbess of Agreda who declares\nthat She was exempt from the defilements inflicted on women; we see what\nSt. Thomas meant who asserted that Her beauty purified instead of\nagitating the senses.\n\nHer age is indeterminate; She is not a woman, yet She is no longer a\nchild. It is hard to say even that She is grown up, just marriageable, a\ngirl-child, so entirely is She refined above all humanity, beyond the\nworld, so exquisitely pure and for ever chaste.\n\nShe remains incomparable, unapproached in painting. By Her, other\nMadonnas are vulgar; they are in every case women; She alone is the\nwhite stem of the divine Ear of corn, the Wheat of the Eucharist. She\nalone is indeed the Immaculate, the _Regina Virginum_ of the hymns; and\nShe is so youthful, so guileless, that the Son seems to be crowning His\nMother before She can have conceived Him.\n\nIt is in this that we see the glory of the gentle Friar's superhuman\ngenius. He painted as others have spoken, inspired by Grace; he painted\nwhat he saw within him just as St. Angela of Foligno related what she\nheard within her. Both one and the other were mystics absorbed into God;\nthus this picture by Angelico is at the same time a picture by the Holy\nGhost, bolted through a purified sieve of art.\n\nIf we consider it, this soul is that of a female saint rather than of a\nmonk. Turn to his other pictures; those, for instance, in which he\nstrove to depict Christ's Passion; we are not looking at the stormy\nscene represented by Matsys or Gruenewald; he has none of their harsh\nmanliness, nor their gloomy energy, nor their tragic turbulence; he only\nweeps with the uncomforted grief of a woman. He is a Sister rather than\na Friar-artist; and it is from this loving sensibility, which in the\nmystic vocation is more generally peculiar to women, that he has drawn\nthe pathetic orisons and tender lamentation of his works.\n\nAnd was it not also in this spiritual nature, so womanly in its\ncomplexion, that he found, under the impulse of the Spirit, the wholly\nangelical gladness, the really glorious apotheosis of Our Lord and His\nMother, as he has painted them in this Coronation of the Virgin, which,\nafter being revered for centuries in the Dominican Church at Fiesole,\nhas now found shelter and admiration in the little gallery devoted to\nthe Italian School at the Louvre.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Your article is very good,\" said the Abbe Plomb. \"But can the\nprinciples of a ritual of colour which you have discerned in Angelico\nbe verified with equal strictness in other painters?\"\n\n\"No, if we look for colour as Angelico received it from his monastic\nforefathers, the illuminators of Missals, or as he applied it in its\nstrictest and most usual acceptation. Yes, if we admit the law of\nantagonism, the rules of inversion, and if we know that symbolism\nauthorizes the system of contraries, allowing the use of the hues which\nare appropriated to certain virtues to indicate the vices opposed to\nthem.\"\n\n\"In a word, an innocent colour may be interpreted in an evil sense, and\nvice versa,\" said the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Precisely. In fact, artists who, though pious, were laymen, spoke a\ndifferent language from the monks. On emerging from the cloister the\nliturgical meaning of colours was weakened; it lost its original\nrigidity and became pliant. Angelico followed the traditions of his\nOrder to the letter, and he was not less scrupulous in his respect for\nthe observances of religious art which prevailed in his day. Not for\nanything on earth would he have infringed them, for he regarded them as\na liturgical duty, a fixed rule of service. But as soon as profane\npainters had emancipated the domain of painting, they gave us more\npuzzling versions, more complicated meanings; and the symbolism of\ncolour, which is so simple in Angelico, became singularly\nabstruse--supposing that they even were constantly faithful to it in\ntheir works--and almost impossible to interpret.\n\n\"For instance, to select an example: the Antwerp gallery possesses a\ntryptich, by Roger van der Werden, known as 'The Sacraments.' In the\ncentre panel, devoted to the Eucharist, the Sacrifice of the Redeemer is\nshown under two aspects, the bleeding form of the Crucifixion and the\nmystic form of the pure oblation on the altar; behind the Cross, at the\nfoot of which we see the weeping Mary, Saint John and the Holy Women, a\npriest is celebrating Mass and elevating the Host in the midst of a\ncathedral which forms the background of the picture.\n\n\"On the left-hand shutter, the Sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation and\nPenance are shown, in small detached scenes; and on the right-hand\nshutter those of Ordination, Marriage and Extreme Unction.\n\n\"This picture, a work of marvellous beauty, with the 'Descent from the\nCross' by Quentin Matsys, are the inestimable glory of the Belgium\ngallery; but I will not linger over a full description of this work; I\nwill omit any reflection suggested by the supreme art of the painter,\nand restrict myself to recording that part of the work which bears on\nthe symbolism of colour.\"\n\n\"But are you sure that Roger van der Weyden intended to ascribe such\nmeanings to the colours?\"\n\n\"It is impossible to doubt it, for he has assigned a different hue to\neach Sacrament, by introducing above the scenes he depicts, an angel\nwhose robe is in each instance different in accordance with the ceremony\nset forth. His meaning therefore is beyond question; and these are the\ncolours he affects to the means of Grace consecrated by the Saviour:\n\n\"To the Eucharist, green; to Baptism, white; to Confirmation, yellow; to\nPenance, red; to Ordination, purple; to Marriage blue; to Extreme\nUnction, a violet so deep as to be almost black.\n\n\"Well, you will admit that the interpretation of this sacred scheme of\ncolour is not altogether easy.\n\n\"The pictorial imagery of Baptism, Extreme Unction, and Ordination is\nquite clear; Marriage even as symbolized by blue may be intelligible to\nsimple souls; that Communion should blazon its coat with _vert_, is even\nmore appropriate, since green represents sap and humility, and is\nemblematical of the regenerative power. But ought not Confession to\ndisplay violet rather than red; and how, in any case, are we to account\nfor Confirmation being figured in yellow?\"\n\n\"The colour of the Holy Ghost is certainly red,\" remarked the Abbe\nPlomb.\n\n\"Thus there are differences of interpretation between Angelico and Roger\nvan der Weyden, though they lived at the same time. Still, the monk\nseems to me the more trustworthy authority.\"\n\n\"For my part,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"I cannot but think of the right\nside of the lining of which you were speaking just now.\"\n\n\"This rule of contraries is not peculiar to the ritual of colour; it is\nto be seen in almost every part of the science of symbolism. Look at\nthe emblems derived from the animal world; the eagle alternately\nfiguring Christ and the Devil; the snake which, while it is one of the\nmost familiar symbols of the Demon, may nevertheless, as in the brazen\nserpent of Moses, prefigure the Saviour.\"\n\n\"The anticipatory symbol of Christian symbolism was the double-faced\nJanus of the heathen world,\" said the Abbe Plomb, laughing.\n\n\"Indeed, these allegories of the palette turn completely to the\nright-about,\" said Durtal. \"Take red, for instance: we have seen that in\nthe general acceptation it is to be interpreted as meaning charity,\nendurance, and love. This is the right side out; the wrong side,\naccording to Sister Emmerich, is dulness, and clinging to this world's\ngoods.\n\n\"Grey, the emblem of repentance and sorrow, and at the same time the\nimage of a lukewarm soul, is also, according to another interpretation,\nsymbolical of the Resurrection--white, piercing through blackness--light\nentering into the Tomb and coming out as a new hue--grey, a mixed colour\nstill heavy with the gloom of death, but reviving as it gets light by\ndegrees from the whiteness of day.\n\n\"Green, to which the mystics gave favourable meanings, also acquires a\ndisastrous sense in some cases; it then represents moral degradation and\ndespair; it borrows melancholy significance from dead leaves, is the\ncolour given to the bodies of the devils in Stephan Lochner's Last\nJudgment, and in the infernal scenes depicted in the glass windows and\npictures of the earliest artists.\n\n\"Black and brown, with their inimical suggestions of death and hell,\nchange their meaning as soon as the founders of religious Orders adopt\nthem for the garb of the cloister. Black then symbolizes renunciation,\nrepentance, the mortification of the flesh, according to Durand de\nMende; and brown and even grey suggest poverty and humility.\n\n\"Yellow again, so misprized in the formulas of symbolism, becomes\nsignificant of charity; and if we accept the teaching of the English\nmonk who wrote in about 1220, yellow is enhanced when it changes to\ngold, rising to be the symbol of divine Love, the radiant allegory of\neternal Wisdom.\n\n\"Violet, finally, when it appears as the distinctive colour of\nprelates, divests itself of its usual meaning of self-accusation and\nmourning, to assume a certain dignity and simulate a certain pomp.\n\n\"On the whole, I find only white and blue which never change.\"\n\n\"In the Middle Ages, according to Yves de Chartres,\" said the Abbe\nPlomb, \"blue took the place of violet in the vestments of bishops, to\nshow them that they should give their minds rather to the things of\nHeaven than to the things of earth.\"\n\n\"And how is it,\" asked Madame Bavoil, \"that this colour, which is all\ninnocence, all purity, the colour of Our Mother Herself, has disappeared\nfrom among the liturgical hues?\"\n\n\"Blue was used in the Middle Ages for all the services to the Virgin,\nand it has only fallen into desuetude since the eighteenth century,\"\nreplied the Abbe Plomb; \"and that only in the Latin Church, for the\northodox Churches of the East still wear it.\"\n\n\"And why this neglect?\"\n\n\"I do not know, any more than I know why so many colours formerly used\nin our services have been forgotten. Where are the colours of the\nancient Paris use: saffron yellow, reserved for the festival of All\nAngels; salmon pink, sometimes worn instead of red; ashen grey, which\ntook the place of violet; and bistre instead of black on certain days.\n\n\"Then there was a charming hue which still holds its place in the scale\nof colour used in the Roman ritual, though most of the Churches overlook\nit--the shade called 'old rose,' a medium between violet and crimson,\nbetween grief and joy, a sort of compromise, a diminished tone, which\nthe Church adopted for the third Sunday in Advent and the fourth Sunday\nin Lent. It thus gave promise, in the penitential season that was\nending, of a beginning of gladness, for the festivals of Christmas and\nEaster were at hand.\n\n\"It was the idea of the spiritual dawn rising on the night of the soul,\na special impression which violet, now used on those days, could not\ngive.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is to be regretted that blue and rose-colour have disappeared\nfrom the Churches of the West,\" said the Abbe Gevresin. \"But to return\nto the monastic dress which delivered brown, grey, and black from their\nmelancholy significance, does it not strike you that from the point of\nview of emblematic language, that of the Order of the Annunciation was\nthe most eloquent? Those sisters were habited in grey, white, and red,\nthe colours of the Passion, and they also wore a blue cape and a black\nveil in memory of Our Mother's mourning.\"\n\n\"The image of a perpetual Holy Week!\" exclaimed Durtal.\n\n\"Here is another question,\" the Abbe Plomb went on. \"In the earliest\nreligious pictures the cloaks in which the Virgin, the Apostles, and the\nSaints are draped almost always show the hue of their lining in\ningeniously contrived folds. It is of course different from that of the\nouter side, as you yourself observed just now with regard to the mantle\nof Saint Agnes in Angelico's work. Now, do you suppose that, apart from\ncontrast of colour selected for technical purposes, the monk meant to\nexpress any particular idea by the juxtaposition of the two colours?\"\n\n\"In accordance with the symbolism of the palette the outer colour would\nrepresent the material creature, and the lining colour the spiritual\nbeing.\"\n\n\"Well, but then what is the significance of Saint Agnes' mantle of green\nlined with orange?\"\n\n\"Obviously,\" replied Durtal, \"green denoting freshness of feeling, the\nessence of good, hope; and orange, in its better meaning, being regarded\nas representing the act by which God unites Himself to man, we might\nconclude from these data that Saint Agnes had attained the life of\nunion, the possession of the Saviour, by virtue of her innocence and the\nfervour of her aspirations. She would thus be the image of virtue\nyearning and fulfilled, of hope rewarded, in short.\n\n\"But now I must confess that there are many gaps, many obscurities in\nthis allegorical lore of colours. In the picture in the Louvre, for\ninstance, the steps of the throne, which are intended to play the part\nof veined marble, remain unintelligible. Splashed with dull red, acrid\ngreen, and bilious yellow, what do these steps express, suggesting as\nthey do by their number the nine choirs of angels?\"\n\n\"It seems to me difficult to allow that the monk intended to figure the\ncelestial hierarchies by smears with a dirty brush and these crude\nstreaks.\"\n\n\"But has the colour of a step ever represented an idea in the science of\nsymbolism?\" asked the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Saint Mechtildis says so. When speaking of the three steps in front of\nthe altar, she propounds that the first should be of gold, to show that\nit is impossible to go to God save by charity; the second blue, to\nsignify meditation on things divine; the third green, to show eager hope\nand praise of Heavenly things.\"\n\n\"Bless me!\" cried Madame Bavoil, who was getting somewhat scared by this\ndiscussion, \"I never saw it in that light. I know that red means fire,\nas everybody knows; blue, the air; green, water; and black, the earth.\nAnd this I understand, because each element is shown in its true colour;\nbut I should never have dreamed that it was so complicated, never have\nsupposed that there was so much meaning in painters' pictures.\"\n\n\"In some painters'!\" cried Durtal. \"For since the Middle Ages the\ndoctrine of emblematic colouring is extinct. At the present day those\npainters who attempt religious subjects are ignorant of the first\nelements of the symbolism of colours, just as modern architects are\nignorant of the first principles of mystical theology as embodied in\nbuildings.\"\n\n\"Precious gems are lavishly introduced in the works of the primitive\npainters,\" observed the Abbe Plomb. \"They are set in the borders of\ndresses, in the necklets and rings of the female saints, and are piled\nin triangles of flame on the diadems with which painters of yore were\nwont to crown the Virgin. Logically, I believe we ought to seek a\nmeaning in every gem as well as in the hues of the dresses.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" said Durtal, \"but the symbolism of gems is much confused.\nThe reasons which led to the choice of certain stones to be the emblems,\nby their colour, water, and brilliancy, of special virtues, are so\nfar-fetched and so little proven, that one gem might be substituted for\nanother without greatly modifying the interpretation of the allegory\nthey present. They form a series of synonyms, each replacing the other\nwith scarcely a shade of difference.\n\n\"In the treasury of the Apocalypse, however, they seem to have been\nselected, if not with stricter meaning, with a more impressive breadth\nof application, for expositors regard them as coincident with a virtue,\nand likewise with the person endowed with it. Nay, these jewellers of\nthe Bible have gone further; they have given every gem a double\nsymbolism, making each embody a figure from the Old Testament and one\nfrom the New. They carry out the parallel of the two Books by selecting\nin each case a Patriarch and an Apostle, symbolizing them by the\ncharacter more especially marked in both.\n\n\"Thus, the amethyst, the mirror of humility and almost childlike\nsimplicity, is applied in the Bible to Zebulon, a man obedient and\ndevoid of pride, and in the Gospel to St. Matthias, who also was gentle\nand guileless; the chalcedony, as an emblem of charity, was ascribed to\nJoseph, who was so merciful and pitiful to his brethren, and to St.\nJames the Great, the first of the Apostles to suffer martyrdom for the\nlove of Christ; the jasper, emblematical of faith and eternity, was the\nattribute of Gad and of St. Peter; the sard, meaning faith and\nmartyrdom, was given to Reuben and St. Bartholomew; the sapphire, for\nhope and contemplation, to Naphtali and St. Andrew, and sometimes,\naccording to Aretas, to St. Paul; the beryl, meaning sound doctrine,\nlearning, and long-suffering, to Benjamin and to St. Thomas, and so\nforth. There is, indeed, a table of the harmony of gems and their\napplication to patriarchs, apostles, and virtues, drawn up by Madame\nFelicie d'Ayzac, who has written an elaborate paper on the figurative\nmeaning of gems.\"\n\n\"The avatar of some other Scriptural personages might be equally well\ncarried out by these emblematical minerals,\" observed the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Obviously; and as I warned you, the analogies are very far-fetched. The\nhermeneutics of gems are uncertain, and founded on mere fanciful\nresemblances, on the harmonies of ideas hard to assimilate. In mediaeval\ntimes this science was principally cultivated by poets.\"\n\n\"Against whom we must be on our guard,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"since\ntheir interpretations are for the most part heathenish. Marbode, for\nexample, though he was a Bishop, has left us but a very pagan\ninterpretation of the language of gems.\"\n\n\"These mystical lapidaries have on the whole chiefly applied, their\ningenuity to explaining the stones of the breastplate of Aaron, and\nthose that shine in the foundations of the New Jerusalem, as described\nby St. John; indeed, the walls of Sion are set with the same jewels as\nthe High Priest's pectoral, with the exception of the carbuncle, the\nligure, agate, and onyx, which are named in Exodus, and replaced in the\nBook of Revelation by chalcedony, sardonyx, chrysoprase, and jacinth.\"\n\n\"Yes, and the symbolist goldsmiths wrought diadems, setting them with\nprecious stones, to crown Our Lady's brow; but their poems showed little\nvariety, for they were all borrowed from the _Libellus Corona Virginis_,\nan apocryphal work ascribed to St. Ildefonso, and formerly famous in\nconvents.\"\n\nThe Abbe Gevresin rose and took an old book from the shelf.\n\n\"That brings to my mind,\" said he, \"a hymn in honour of the Virgin\ncomposed in rhyme by Conrad of Haimburg, a German monk in the fourteenth\ncentury. Imagine,\" he continued, as he turned over the pages, \"a litany\nof gems, each verse symbolizing one of Our Mother's virtues.\n\n\"This prayer in minerals opens with a human greeting. The good monk,\nkneeling down, begins:--\n\n\"'Hail, noble Virgin, meet to become the Bride of the Supreme King!\nAccept this ring in pledge of that betrothal, O Mary!'\n\n\"And he shows Her the ring, turning it slowly in his fingers, explaining\nto Our Lady the meaning of each stone that shines in the gold setting;\nbeginning with green jasper, symbolical of the faith which led the\nVirgin to receive the message of the angelic visitant; then comes the\nchalcedony, signifying the fire of charity that fills Her heart; the\nemerald, whose transparency signifies Her purity; the sardonyx, with its\npale flame, like the placidity of Her virginal life; the red sard-stone,\none with the Heart that bled on Calvary; the chrysolite, sparkling with\ngreenish gold, reminding us of Her numberless miracles and Her Wisdom;\nthe beryl, figurative of Her humility; the topaz, of Her deep\nmeditations; the chrysoprase of Her fervency; the jacinth of Her\ncharity; the amethyst, mingling rose and purple, of the love bestowed on\nHer by God and men; the pearl, of which the meaning remains vague, not\nrepresenting any special virtue; the agate, signifying Her modesty; the\nonyx, showing the many perfections of Her grace; the diamond, for\npatience and fortitude in sorrow; while the carbuncle, like an eye that\nshines in the night, everywhere proclaims that Her glory is eternal.\n\n\"Finally the donor points out to the Virgin the interpretation of\ncertain other matters set in the ring, which in the Middle Ages were\nregarded as precious: crystal, emblematic of chastity of body and soul;\nligurite, resembling amber, more especially figurative of the quality of\ntemperance; lodestone, which attracts iron, as She touches the chords of\nrepentant hearts with the bow of her loving-kindness.\n\n\"And the monk ends his petition by saying: 'This little ring, set with\ngems, which we offer Thee as at this time, accept, glorious Bride, in\nThy benevolence. Amen.'\"\n\n\"It would no doubt be possible,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"to reproduce\nalmost exactly the invocations of these Litanies by each stone thus\ninterpreted.\" And he reopened the book his friend the priest had just\nclosed.\n\n\"See,\" he went on, \"how close is the concordance between the epithets in\nthe sentences and the quality assigned to the gems.\n\n\"Does not the emerald, which in this sequence is emblematical of\nincorruptible purity, reflect in the sparkling mirror of its water the\n_Mater Purissima_ of the Litanies to the Virgin? Is not the chrysolite,\nthe symbol of wisdom, a very exact image of the _Sedes Sapientiae_? The\njacinth, attribute of charity and succour vouchsafed to sinners, is\nappropriate to the _Auxilium Christianorum_ and the _refugium\npeccatorum_ of the prayers. Is not the diamond, which means strength and\npatience, the _Virgo potens_?--the carbuncle, meaning fame, the _Virgo\npraedicanda_?--the chrysoprase, for fervour, the _Vas insigne\ndevotionis_?\n\n\"And it is probable,\" said the Abbe, in conclusion, as he laid the book\ndown, \"that if we took the trouble we could rediscover one by one, in\nthis rosary of stones, the whole rosary of praise which we tell in\nhonour of Our Mother.\"\n\n\"Above all,\" remarked Durtal, \"if we did not restrict ourselves to the\nnarrow limits of this poem, for Conrad's manual is brief, and his\ndictionary of analogies small; if we accepted the interpretations of\nother symbolists, we could produce a ring similar to his and yet quite\ndifferent, for the language of the gems would not be the same. Thus to\nSt. Bruno of Asti, the venerable Abbot of Monte Cassino, the jasper\nsymbolizes Our Lord, because it is immutably green, eternal without\npossibility of change; and for the same reason the emerald is the image\nof the life of the righteous; the chrysoprase means good works; the\ndiamond, infrangible souls; the sardonyx, which resembles the\nblood-stained seed of a pomegranate, is charity; the jacinth, with its\nvarying blue, is the prudence of the saints; the beryl, whose hue is\nthat of water running in the sunshine, figures the Scriptures elucidated\nby Christ; the chrysolite, attention and patience, because it has the\ncolour of the gold that mingles in it and lends it its meaning; the\namethyst, the choir of children and virgins, because the blue mixed in\nit with rose pink suggests the idea of innocence and modesty.\n\n\"Or, again, if we borrow from Pope Innocent III. his ideas as to the\nmystical meanings of gems, we find that chalcedony, which is pale in the\nlight and sparkles in the dark, is synonymous with humility; the topaz\nwith chastity and the merit of good works, while the chrysoprase, the\nqueen of minerals, implies wisdom and watchfulness.\n\n\"If we do not go quite so far back into past ages, but stop at the end\nof the sixteenth century, we find some new interpretations in a\nCommentary on the Book of Exodus by Corneille de la Pierre; for he\nascribes truth to the onyx and carbuncle, heroism to the beryl, and to\nthe ligure, with its delicate and sparkling violet hue, scorn of the\nthings of earth, and love of heavenly things.\"\n\n\"And then St. Ambrose regards this stone as emblematical of Eucharist,\"\nthe Abbe Gevresin put in.\n\n\"Yes; but what is the ligure or ligurite?\" asked Durtal. \"Conrad of\nHaimburg speaks of it as resembling amber; Corneille de la Pierre\nbelieves it to be violet-tinted, and St. Jerome gives us to understand\nthat it is not identifiable; in fact, that it is but another name for\nthe jacinth, the image of prudence, with its water of blue like the sky\nand changing tints. How are we to make sure?\"\n\n\"As to blue stones, we must not forget that St. Mechtildis regarded the\nsapphire as the very heart of the Virgin,\" observed the Abbe Plomb.\n\n\"We may also add,\" Durtal went on, \"that a new set of variations on the\nsubject of gems was executed in the seventeenth century by a celebrated\nSpanish Abbess, Maria d'Agreda, who applies to Our Mother the virtues of\nthe precious stones spoken of by St. John in the twenty-first chapter of\nthe Apocalypse. According to her, the sapphire figures the serenity of\nMary; the chrysolite shows forth Her love for the Church Militant, and\nespecially for the Law of Grace; the amethyst, Her power against the\nhordes of hell; the jasper, Her invincible fortitude; the pearl, Her\ninestimable dignity--\"\n\n\"The pearl,\" interrupted the Abbe Plomb, \"is regarded by St. Eucher as\nemblematic of perfection, chastity, and the evangelical doctrine.\"\n\n\"And all this time you are forgetting the meaning of other well-known\ngems,\" cried Madame Bavoil. \"The ruby, the garnet, the aqua-marine; are\nthey speechless?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Durtal. \"The ruby speaks of tranquility and patience; the\ngarnet, Innocent III. tells us, symbolizes charity. St. Bruno and St.\nRupert say that the aqua-marine concentrates in its pale green fire all\ntheological science. There yet remain two gems, the turquoise and the\nopal. The former, little esteemed by the mystics, is to promote joy. As\nto the second, of which the name does not occur in treatises on gems, it\nmay be identified with chalcedony, which is described as a sort of agate\nof an opaque quality, dimmed with clouds and flashing fires in the\nshadows.\n\n\"To have done with this emblematical jewelry, we may add that the series\nof stones serves to symbolize the hierarchies of the angels. But here,\nagain, the meanings commonly received are derived from more or less\nforced comparisons and a tissue of notions more or less flimsy and\nloose. However, it is so far established that the sard-stone suggests\nthe Seraphim, the topaz the Cherubim, the jasper means the Thrones, the\nchrysolite figures the Dominions, the sapphire the Virtues, the onyx the\nPowers, the beryl the Principalities, the ruby the Archangels, and the\nemerald the Angels.\"\n\n\"And it is a curious fact,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"that while beasts,\ncolours, and flowers are accepted by that symbolists sometimes with a\ngood meaning and sometimes with an evil one, gems alone never change;\nthey always express good qualities, and never vices.\"\n\n\"Why is that?\"\n\n\"St. Hildegarde perhaps affords a clue to this stability when, in the\nfourth book, of her treatise on Physics, she says that the Devil hates\nthem, abhors and scorns them, because he remembers that their splendour\nshone in him before his fall, and that some of them are the product of\nthe fire that is his torment.\n\n\"And the saint added, 'God, who deprived him of them, would not that the\nstones should lose their virtues; He desired, on the contrary, that they\nshould ever be held in honour, and used in medicine to the end that\nsickness should be cured and ills driven out.' And, in fact, in the\nMiddle Ages they were highly esteemed and used to effect cures.\"\n\n\"To return to those early pictures,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"in which\nthe Virgin emerges like a flower from amid the gorgeous assemblage of\ngems, it may be said as a general thing, that the glow of jewels\ndeclares by visible signs the merits of Her who wears them; but it would\nbe difficult to say what the painter's purpose may have been when, in\nthe decoration of a crown or a dress, he placed any particular stone in\none spot rather than another. It is, as a rule, a question of taste or\nharmony, and has nothing, or very little, to do with symbolism.\"\n\n\"Of that there can be no doubt,\" said Durtal, who rose and took leave,\nas Madame Bavoil, hearing the cathedral clock strike, handed to the two\npriests their hats and breviaries.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nThe somewhat dolefully calm frame of mind in which Durtal had been\nliving since settling at Chartres came to a sudden end. One day _ennui_\nmade him its prey, the black possession which would allow him neither to\nwork, nor to read, nor to pray; so overwhelming that he knew not whither\nto turn nor what to do.\n\nAfter spending dark and futile days in lounging round his library,\ntaking down a volume and shutting it up again, opening another of which\nhe failed to master a single page, he tried to escape from the weariness\nof the hours by taking walks, and he determined finally to study the\ntown of Chartres.\n\nHe found a number of blind alleys and break-neck steeps, such as the\nroad down the knoll of St. Nicolas, which tumbles from the top of the\ntown to the bottom in a precipitous flight of steps; and then the\nBoulevard des Filles-Dieu, so lonely with its walks planted with trees,\nwas worthy of his notice. Starting from the Place Drouaise, he came to a\nlittle bridge where the waters meet of the two branches of the Eure; to\nthe right, above the eddying current and the buildings on the shore, he\ncould see the pile of the old town shouldering up the cathedral; to the\nleft, all along the quay, and looking out on the tall poplars that\nfanned the water-mills, were saw-mills and timber-yards, the washing\nplaces where laundresses knelt on straw in troughs, and the water foamed\nbefore them in widening inky circles splashed into white bubbles by the\ndip of a bird's wing.\n\nThis arm of the river diverted into the moat of the old ramparts,\nencircled Chartres, bordered on one side by the trees of the alleys, and\non the other by cottages with terraced gardens down to the level of the\nstream, the two banks joined by foot-bridges of planks or cast iron\narches.\n\nNear where the Porte Guillaume uplifted its crenelated towers like\nraised pies, there were houses that looked as if they had been gutted,\ndisplaying, as in the vanished _cagnards_ or vaults of the Hotel Dieu at\nParis, cellars open on the level of the water, paved basements in whose\ndepths of prison twilight stone steps could be seen; and on going out\nthrough the Porte Guillaume across a little humpbacked bridge, under the\narchway still showing the groove in which the portcullis had worked\nwhich was let down of yore to defend this side of the town, he came upon\nyet another arm of the river washing the feet of more houses, playing at\nhide and seek in the courts, musing between walls; and at once he was\nhaunted by the recollection of another river just like this, with its\ndecoction of walnut hulls frothed with bubbles; and to contribute to the\nsuggestion, the more clearly to evoke a vision of the dismal Bievre, the\nrank, acrid, pungent smell of tan, steeped, as it were, in vinegar, came\nup in fumes from this broth of medlar juice brought down by the Eure.\n\nThe Bievre, a prisoner now in the sewers of Paris, seemed to have\nescaped from its dungeon and to have taken refuge at Chartres that it\nmight live in the light of day; winding by the Rues de la Foulerie, de\nla Tannerie, du Massacre, the quarters invaded by the leather-dressers,\nthe skinners and tan-peat makers.\n\nBut the Parisian environment, so pathetic in its aspect of silent\nsuffering, was absent from this town; these streets suggested merely a\ndeclining hamlet, a poverty-stricken village. He felt something lacking\nin this second Bievre, the fascination of exhaustion, the grace of the\nwoman of Paris faded and smirched by misery; it lacked the charm\ncompounded of pity and regret, of a fallen creature.\n\nSuch as they were, however, these streets, traced with a sort of\ndescending twist round the hill on which the cathedral stood exalted,\nwere the only curious by-ways of Chartres worth wandering through.\n\nHere Durtal often succeeded in getting out of himself, in dreaming over\nthe distressful weariness of these streams, and in ceasing to meditate\non his own qualms, till he presently was tired of constant excursions in\nthe same quarter of the town, and then he tramped through it in every\ndirection, trying to find an interest in the sight of time-worn\nspots--the grace of Queen Berthe's tower, of Claude Huve's house and\nother buildings that have survived the shock of ages; but the enthusiasm\nhe threw into the study of these relics, spoilt by the foregone\neulogiums of the guides, could not last, and he then fell back on the\nchurches.\n\nAlthough the cathedral crushed everything near it, Saint-Pierre, the\nancient Abbey church of a Benedictine monastery, now used as barracks,\ndeserved a lingering visit for the sake of its splendid windows, the\ndwelling-place of Abbots and Bishops who look down with stern eyes,\nholding up their croziers. And these windows, damaged by time, were very\nsingular. Upright, in each lancet-shaped setting of white glass, rose a\nsword-blade bereft of its point; and in these square-tipped blades Saint\nBenedict and Saint Maur stood lost in thought, with Apostles and Popes,\nPrelates and Saints, standing out in robes of flame against the luminous\nwhiteness of the borders.\n\nCertainly Chartres could show the finest glass windows in the world; and\neach century had left its noblest stamp on its sanctuaries: the twelfth,\nthirteenth, and even the fifteenth, on the cathedral; the fourteenth on\nSaint Pierre; and a few examples--unfortunately broken up and used in a\nmedley mosaic--of painted glass of the sixteenth century in Saint\nAignan, another church where the vaulted roof had been washed of the\ncolour of gingerbread speckled with anise-seed, by painters of our own\nday.\n\nDurtal got through a few afternoons in these churches; then the charm of\nthis prolonged study was at an end, and gloom took possession of him,\neven worse than before.\n\nThe Abbe Plomb, to divert his mind, took him for walks in the country,\nbut La Beauce was so flat, so monotonous, that any variety of landscape\nwas impossible to find. Then the Abbe took him through other parts of\nthe town. Some of the buildings claimed their attention, as, for\ninstance, the House of Detention, in the Rue-Sainte-Therese near the\nPalais de Justice. The edifices themselves were not, indeed, very\nimpressive, but the history of their origin made them available as the\nfulcrum for old dreams. There was something in the prison walls, in\ntheir height and austerity, in their look of order and precision, which\nmade the cloister wall of a Carmel look small. They had, in fact, of\nold, sheltered a Sisterhood of that Order, and a few steps further on,\nin a blind alley, was the entrance to the ancient convent of the\nJacobins, the Mother-House of the great Sisterhood of Chartres: the\nNursing Sisters of Saint Paul.\n\nThe Abbe Plomb took him to visit this house, and he retained a cheerful\nimpression of the walk in the fresh air on the old ramparts. The Sisters\nhad kept up the sentry's walk, which followed a long and narrow avenue\nwith a statue of the Virgin at each end, one representing the Immaculate\nConception, the other the Virgin Mother. And this walk, strewn with\nriver-pebbles and edged with flowers, shut in on one side by the Abbey\nand the novices' schools, on the left overlooked a precipice down to the\nButte des Charbonniers, and below that again, the Rue de la Couronne;\nwhile beyond lay the grass lawns of the Clos Saint Jean, the line of the\nrailroad, labourers' hovels, and convent buildings.\n\n\"There you see,\" said the Abbe, \"behind the embankment of the Western\nRailway stands the Convent of the Sisters of Our Lady and of the\nCarmelites; here, nearer to the town on this side of the line, are the\nLittle Sisters of the Poor.\"\n\nAnd indeed the place swarmed with convents: Sisters of the Visitation,\nSisters of Providence, Sisters of Good Comfort, Ladies of the Sacred\nHeart, all lived in hives close round Chartres. Prayer hummed up on\nevery side, rising as the fragrant breath of souls above a city where,\nby way of divine service, nothing was chanted but the price-current of\ngrain and the higher and lower cost of horses in the fairs which, on\ncertain days, brought all the copers of La Perche together in the\n_cafes_ on the Place.\n\nBesides this walk on the old ramparts, the Convent of the Sisters of\nSaint Paul was attractive by reason of its quiet and cleanliness. Down\nsilent passages the backs of the good women might be seen crossed by the\ntriangular fold of linen, and the click could be heard of their heavy\nblack rosaries on links of copper, as they rattled on their skirts\nagainst the hanging bunch of keys. Their chapel was redolent of Louis\nXIV., at once childish and pompous, too much bedizened with gold, and\nthe floor too shiny with wax; but there was an interesting detail: at\nthe entrance large panes of glass had been substituted for the walls, so\nthat in winter the sick, sitting in a warm room, could look through the\nglass partition and follow the services and hear the plain song of\nSolesmes which the Sisters had the good taste to use.\n\nThis visit revived Durtal's spirit; but he inevitably compared the\npeaceful hours told out in that retreat with others, and his disgust was\nincreased for this town, and its inhabitants, and its avenues, and its\nboasted Place des Epars, aping a little Versailles, with its surrounding\nblatant mansions, and its ridiculous statue of Marceau in the middle.\n\nAnd then the limpness of the place, hardly awake by sunrise and asleep\nagain by dusk!\n\nOnce only did Durtal see it really awake, and that was on the day when\nMonseigneur Le Tilloy des Mofflaines was enthroned as Bishop.\n\nThen suddenly the city was galvanized; projects were made, the various\nbodies corporate sat in committee, and men came forth who had lived\nwithin doors for years.\n\nScaffold poles were brought out from the masons' yards; blue and yellow\nflags were hoisted on them, and these masts were linked together by\ngarlands of ivy-leaves sewn one over the other with white cotton.\n\nThen Chartres was exhausted, and paused for breath.\n\nDurtal, startled by these unexpected preparations and such an assumption\nof life, had gone out to meet the Bishop, as far as to the Rue Saint\nMichel. There, on the open square, a gymnastic apparatus had been\nerected, the swing bars and rings having been removed, and the poles\ngarnished with pine branches and gilt paper rosettes, and surmounted by\na trophy of tricolour flags arranged in a fan behind a painted cardboard\nshield. This was an arch of triumph, and under this the Brethren of the\nChristian Schools were to escort the canopy.\n\nThe procession, which had gone forth to fetch the Bishop from the\nHospice of Saint Brice, where, in obedience to time-honoured custom, he\nhad slept the night before entering his See, had made its way thither\nunder a fine rain of chanted canticles, broken by heavier showers of\nbrass sounding a pious flourish of trumpets. Slowly, with measured\nsteps, the train wound along between two hedges of people crowded on the\nsidewalks, and all the way the windows, hung with drapery, displayed\nbunches of faces and leaning bodies, cut across the middle by the\nbalcony bar.\n\nAt the head of the procession, behind the gaudy uniforms of the\nponderous beadles, came the girls of the Congregational Schools, dressed\nin crude blue with white veils, in two ranks, filling up the roadway;\nthen followed delegates of nuns from every Order that has a House in the\ndiocese; Sisters of the Visitation from Dreux, Ladies of the Sacred\nHeart from Chateaudun, Sisters of the Immaculate Conception from Nogent\nle Rotrou, the uncloistered Sisters of the Cloistered Orders of\nChartres, Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul and Poor Clares, whose dresses\nof blueish grey and peat-brown contrasted with the black robes of the\nothers.\n\nWhat was most odd was the various shapes of their coifs. Some had soft\nflapping blinkers, others wore them goffered and stiffened with starch;\nthese hid their face at the bottom of a deep white tunnel; others, on\nthe contrary, showed their countenance set in an oval frame of pleated\ncambric, prolonged behind into conical wings of starched linen lustrous\nfrom heavy irons. As he looked over this expanse of caps, Durtal was\nreminded of the Paris landscape of roofs, in shapes resembling the\nfunnels worn by these nuns and the cocked hats of the beadles.\n\nThen, behind these long files of sober-coloured garments, the scarlet\nvestments of the choirs came like the blare of trumpets. The little ones\nmarched with downcast eyes, their arms crossed under their red capes\nedged with ermine, and behind them, a little in advance of the next\ngroup, walked two white cowls, that of a Brother of Picpus, and that of\na Trappist who represented the Trappist Sisterhood of La Cour Peytral,\nto which he was chaplain.\n\nFinally the Seminarists came on in a black crowd; those of the Great\nSeminary of Chartres and of the Little Seminary of Saint Cheron\npreceding the priests, and behind them, under a purple velvet canopy\nembroidered in gold with wheat ears and grapes, and decorated at each\ncorner with bunches of snow-white feathers, with his mitre on his head\nand holding his crozier, came Monseigneur Le Tilloy des Mofflaines.\n\nAs he passed, in the act of blessing the street, many an unknown Lazarus\nrose up, the forgotten dead come back to life; His Reverence seemed to\nmultiply the Miracles of the Lord. Effete old men, huddled in their\nchairs in the doorways or at the windows, revived for a second, and\nfound strength enough to cross themselves. Persons who had been\nsupposed dead for years managed almost to smile. The vacant eyes of old,\nold children gazed at the violet cross outlined in the air by the\nPrelate's gloved hand. Chartres, that city of the dead, had changed to a\nvast nursery; in the extravagance of its joy the town was in its second\nchildhood.\n\nBut as soon as the Bishop was past the scene changed. Durtal was\nstartled, and he tittered.\n\nA whole \"Court of Miracles\" seemed to follow in the Prelate's train,\nstrutting but tottering; a procession of old wrecks, dressed out in such\ngarments as are sold from the dead-house, staggered along holding each\nother's arms, propped one against another. Every reach-me-down that had\nbeen hanging these twenty years flapped about their limbs, hindering\ntheir progress. Trousers with baggy ankles or with gaiter tops,\nballoon-shaped or close-fitting, made of loose-woven stuff or so shrunk\nthat they would not meet the boot, displaying feet where the elastic\nsides wriggled like living vermin, and ankles covered with vermicelli\ndipped in ink; then the most impossibly threadbare and discoloured\ncoats, made, as it seemed, of old billiard cloths, of tarpaulin worn to\nthe canvas, of cast-off awnings; overcoats of cast iron, the surface\nworn off the back-seam and sleeves--glaucous waistcoats, sprigged with\nflowers and furnished with buttons of dry brawn-parings; and all this\nwas as nothing; what was prodigious, beyond the bounds of belief,\nfabulous, positively insane, was the collection of hats that crowned\nthese costumes.\n\nThe specimens of extinct headgear, lost in the night of ages, that were\ncollected here! The veterans wore muff-boxes and gas-pipes; some had\ntall white hats, for all the world like toilet-pails turned upside\ndown, or huge spigots with a hole for the head; others had donned felt\nhats like sponges, shaggy, long-haired Bolivars, melons on flat brims\njust like a tart on a dish; others, again, had crush-hats, which swayed\nand played the accordion on their own account, their ribs showing\nthrough the stuff.\n\nThe craziness of the gibus hats beats description. Some were very tall,\nthe shaft crowned with a platform larger than the head, like the shako\nof an Imperial Lancer; others very low, ending in an inverted cone--the\nmouth of a blunderbuss or a Polish schapska.\n\nAnd under this Sanhedrim of drunken hats were the mopping, wrinkled\nfaces of very old men, with whiskers like white rabbits' paws, and\nbristles like tooth-brushes in their nostrils.\n\nDurtal shook with inextinguishable laughter at this carnival of\nantiquities; but his mirth was soon over; he saw two Little Sisters of\nthe Poor who were in charge of this school of fossils, and he\nunderstood. These poor creatures were dressed in clothes that had been\nbegged, the rummage of wardrobes, for which the owners had no further\nuse. Then the queerness of their outfit was pathetic; the Little Sisters\nmust have been at infinite trouble to utilize these leavings of charity;\nand the old children, recking little of fashion, plumed themselves with\npride at being so fine.\n\nDurtal followed to the cathedral. When he reached the little square, the\nprocession, caught by a gale of wind, was struggling and clinging to the\nbanners, which bellied like the sails of a ship, carrying on the men who\nclutched the poles. At last, more or less easily, all the people were\nswallowed up in the basilica. The _Te Deum_ was pouring out in a torrent\nfrom the organ. At this moment it really seemed as though, under the\nimpulsion of this glorious hymn, the church, springing heavenward in a\nrapturous flight, were rising higher and higher; the echo resounded down\nthe ages, repeating the hymn of triumph which had so often been sung\nunder that roof; and for once the music was in harmony with the\nbuilding, and spoke the language which the cathedral had learnt in its\ninfancy.\n\nDurtal was exultant. It seemed to him that Our Lady smiled down from\nthose glowing windows, that She was touched by these accents, created by\nthe saints she had loved, to embody for ever, in a definite melody, and\nin unique words, the scattered praise of the faithful, the unformulated\nrejoicing of the multitude.\n\nSuddenly his exalted mood was sobered. The _Te Deum_ was ended; a roll\nof drums and a clarion flourish rang out from the transept. And while\nthe brass band of Chartres cannonaded the old walls with the balista of\nmere noise, he fled to breathe away from the crowd, which, however, did\nnot nearly fill the church; and then, after the ceremony, he went to see\nthe parade of representatives of the various institutions in the town,\nwho came to pay their respects to the new Bishop in his palace.\n\nThere he could laugh and not be ashamed. The forecourt was packed full\nof priests. All the superiors of the different Archdeaconries--Chartres,\nChateaudun, Nogent le Rotrou, and Dreux--had left there, within the\ngreat gate, their following of parish priests and cures, who were pacing\nround and round the green circus of a grass plot.\n\nThe big-wigs of the town, not at all less ridiculous than the pensioners\nof the Little Sisters of the Poor, crowded in, driving the ecclesiastics\ninto the garden walks. Teratology seemed to have emptied out its\nspecimen bottles; it was a seething swarm of human larvae, of strange\nheads--bullet-shaped, egg-shaped, faces as seen through a bottle or in a\ndistorting mirror, or escaped from one of Redon's grotesque albums; a\nperfect museum of monsters on the move. The stagnation of monotonous\ntoil, handed down for generations from father to son in a city of the\ndead, was stamped on every face, and the Sunday-best festivity of the\nday added a touch of the absurd to hereditary ugliness.\n\nEvery black coat in Chartres had come out to take the air. Some dated\nfrom the days of the Directory, swallowed up the wearer's neck, climbed\nup high behind the nape, muffled the ears and padded the shoulders;\nothers had shrunk by lying in the drawer, and their sleeves, much too\nshort, cut the wearer round the armholes so that he dared not move.\n\nA miasma of benzine and camphor exhaled from these groups. The clothes,\nonly that morning taken out of pickle to be aired by the good wife, were\npestilential. The stove-pipe hats were to match. Left to themselves on\nwardrobe shelves, they had surely grown taller; they towered immense,\ndisplaying on their mill-board column a thin covering of hairs.\n\nThis assembly of worthies admired and congratulated each other; clasped\nhands encased in white gloves--gloves scoured with paraffin, cleaned\nwith indiarubber or breadcrumb. Presently a retiring wave cleared a\nspace in the crowd of priests and laymen, who shrank back hat in hand to\nmake way for an old hearse of a landau, drawn by a consumptive horse and\ndriven by a sort of Moudjik, a coachman with a puffy face behind a\nthicket of hair sprouting on his cheeks and his mouth, in his ears and\nnose. This vehicle came to an anchor before the front steps, and out of\nit stepped a fat man, blown out like a bladder and buttoned up in an\nuniform with silver lace; after him came a thinner personage in a coat\nwith facings of dark and light blue, and everybody bowed to the Prefet\nattended by one of his three Councillors.\n\nThey had lifted their plumed cocked hats, distributed a dole of\nhand-shaking, and vanished into the vestibule when the army made its\nappearance, represented by a Colonel of Cuirassiers, some officers of\nthe Artillery and the Commissariat, a few subalterns of Infantry, and\none gendarme.\n\nThis was all.\n\nWithin an hour of this reception the exhausted town was asleep again,\nnot having energy enough even to remove the poles; Lazarus had gone back\nto his sepulchre, the resuscitated antiquities had relapsed into death;\nthe streets were empty; reaction had ensued; Chartres would be exhausted\nfor months by this outbreak.\n\n\"What a sty it is! What a hole!\" cried Durtal to himself.\n\nOn certain days, tired of spending his afternoons shut up with his books\nor of attending service in the cathedral, hearing the canons languidly\nplaying rackets from side to side of the choir with the Psalms, of which\nthey tossed the verses to and fro in a mumbling tone, he would go down\nafter dinner and smoke cigarettes in the little Place. At Chartres,\neight o'clock in the evening was as three in the morning in any other\ntown; every light was out, every house closed.\n\nThe priesthood, eager for bed, had shut up shop. No prayers to the\nVirgin, no Benediction, nothing in this cathedral! At such an hour,\nkneeling in the dark, you feel as if the Mother were more immediately\npresent, nearer, more intimately your own; but these moments of\nconfidence, when it is easier to tell Her all your trivial woes, were\nunknown at Notre Dame. No one was worn out by midnight prayer in that\nchurch!\n\nBut though he could not go in, Durtal could prowl round and about it.\nAnd then, scarcely seen by the light of the poverty-stricken lamps\nstanding here and there on the square, the cathedral assumed strange\naspects. The portals yawned as caverns full of blackness, and the outer\nshape of the body of the building, from the towers to the apse, with\nits abutments and buttresses merely guessed at in the dark, stood up\nlike a cliff worn away by invisible waves. It might have been a\nmountain, its summit jagged by storms, eaten into deep caverns at the\nfoot by a vanished ocean; and on going nearer he could in the gloom\nimagine ill-defined paths steeply running up the cliff, or winding on\nshelves at the edge of a rock; and, occasionally, midway on one of these\ndark paths, some white statue of a Bishop would start forth under a\nmoonbeam, like a ghost haunting the ruins, and blessing all comers with\nuplifted fingers of stone.\n\nThese wanderings in the precincts of the cathedral, which by daylight\nwas so light and slender, and in the dark seemed so ponderous and\nthreatening, were ill-adapted to cure Durtal of his melancholy.\n\nThis illusion of rocks riven by the lightning, of caverns deserted by\nthe waves, plunged him into fresh reveries, and at last threw him back\non himself, ending, after many divagations of mind, in the contemplation\nof the ruin within him. Then once more he sounded his soul, and tried to\nreduce his thoughts to some sort of order.\n\n\"I am simply bored to death,\" said he to himself, \"and why?\" And by dint\nof analyzing his condition he came to this conclusion: \"My state of\nboredom is not simple but two-fold; or, if it is indeed all of a piece,\nit may be divided into two very distinct phases: I am bored by myself,\nindependently of place, of home, of books; and I am also bored by\nprovincial life--the special form of boredom inherent in Chartres.\n\n\"Bored by myself--ah, yes, most heartily! How tired I am of watching\nmyself, of trying to detect the secret of my disgust and\ncontentiousness. When I contemplate my life I could sum it up thus: the\npast has been horrible; the present seems to me feeble and desolate; the\nfuture--is appalling.\"\n\nHe paused, and then went on,--\n\n\"During my first days here I was happy in the dream suggested by this\ncathedral. I believed it would re-act on my life, that it would people\nthe solitude I felt within me, that it would, in a word, be a help to me\nin this provincial atmosphere. But I beguiled myself. In fact, it still\nweighs on me, it still holds me wrapped in the mild gloom of its crypt;\nbut I can now reason about it, I can scrutinize its details, I try to\ntalk to it of art, and in these inquiries I have lost the unreasoning\nsense of its environment, the silent fascination of the whole.\n\n\"I am less conscious now of its soul than of its body. I tried to study\narchaeology, that contemptible anatomy of building, and I have fallen\nhumanly in love with its beauty; the spiritual aspect has vanished, to\nleave nothing behind but the earthly part. Alas! I was determined to\nsee, and I have wrecked trust; it is the eternal allegory of Psyche over\nagain!\n\n\"And besides--besides--is not the weariness that is crushing me to some\nextent the fault of the Abbe Gevresin? By compelling me to much\nrepetition he has exhausted in me the soothing and, at the same time,\nsubversive virtue of the Sacrament; and the most evident result of this\ntreatment is that my soul has collapsed and has no spirit to\nreinvigorate it.\n\n\"No, no,\" he went on presently. \"Here I am working back on my perennial\npresumption, my incessant round of cares; and once more I am unjust to\nthe Abbe. But it is certainly no fault of his if frequent Communion\nmakes me cold. I look for sensations; but the very first thing should be\nto convince myself that such cravings are contemptible, and next, to\nunderstand clearly that it is precisely because Communion is so frigid\nthat it is the more meritorious and virtuous, yes, that is very easy to\nsay; but where is the Catholic who prefers such coldness to a glow? The\nsaints may, no doubt; but even they suffer under it! It is so natural to\nentreat God for a little joy, to look forward to an Union consummated by\na loving word, a sign--a mere nothing that may show that He is present.\n\n\"Say what they may, we cannot help being pained by a dead absorption of\nthat living bread! And it is very hard to admit that Our Lord is wise\nwhen He keeps us in ignorance of the ills from which it preserves us and\nthe progress it enables us to make, since, but for that, we might be\ndefenceless against the attacks of self-conceit and the assaults of\nvanity--helpless against ourselves.\n\n\"In short, whatever the reason, I am no better off at Chartres than in\nParis,\" was his conclusion. And when these reflections beset him,\nespecially on Sundays, he regretted having accompanied the Abbe Gevresin\ninto the country.\n\nIn Paris, in old days, he at any rate got through the hours at the\nservices. He could attend Mass in the morning at the Benedictine chapel\nor at Saint Severin, and go to Saint Sulpice for vespers or compline.\n\nHere there was nothing; and yet where were there more promising\nconditions for the performance of Gregorian music than at Chartres?\n\nSetting aside a few antiquated basses who could only bark, and whom it\nwould be necessary to dismiss, there was a whole sheaf of rich young\nvoices, a school of nearly a hundred boys who could have rolled out in\nclear, sweet tones the broad melodies of the old plain-song.\n\nBut in this ill-starred cathedral an inept precentor gave out, by way of\nliturgical canticles, a perfect menagerie of outlandish tunes, which,\nlet loose on Sunday, seemed to scamper like marmosets up the pillars and\nunder the roof. And the artless voices of the choir-boys were drilled to\nthese musical monkey-tricks. At Chartres it was impossible to attend\nHigh Mass in the cathedral with any decent devotion.\n\nThe other services were not much better; indeed, Durtal was reduced to\nattending vespers at Notre Dame de la Breche, in the lower town, a\nchapel where the priest, a friend of the Abbe Plomb, had introduced the\nuse of Solesmes, and patiently trained a little choir composed of\nfaithful working-men and pious boys.\n\nThe voices, especially the trebles, were not first-rate; but the priest,\nbeing a skilled musician, had contrived to train and soften them, and\nhad, in fact, succeeded in getting the Benedictine art accepted in his\nchurch.\n\nUnfortunately it was so ugly, so painfully adorned with images, that\nonly by shutting his eyes could Durtal endure to remain in Notre Dame de\nla Breche.\n\nIn the midst of this surge of reflections on his soul, on Paris, on the\nEucharist, on music, on Chartres, Durtal was at last quite bewildered,\nnot knowing where he was. Now and then, however, he recovered some\ntranquillity, and then he was astonished at himself, he could not\nunderstand himself.\n\n\"Why regret Paris--why, indeed?\" he would ask himself. \"Was the life I\nled there unlike that I lead here? Were not the churches there--Notre\nDame de Paris, to name but one--just as much to be execrated for\nsacrilegious _bravuras_ as Notre Dame de Chartres? On the other hand, I\nnever went out there to lounge in the tiresome streets; I saw nobody but\nthe Abbe Gevresin and Madame Bavoil, and I see them still, and oftener,\nin this town. I have even gained a friend by the move, a learned and\nagreeable companion, in the Abbe Plomb. So why?\"\n\nAnd then one morning, unexpectedly, every thing was plain to him. He saw\nquite clearly that he was on the wrong track, and without even seeking\nfor it he found the right one.\n\nTo discover the unknown source of his flaccid longing for he knew not\nwhat, and his inexplicable dissatisfaction, he had only to look back a\nlittle way and pause at La Trappe. He saw now everything had begun\nthere. Having reached that culminating point of his retrospect, he\ncould, as it were, stand on a height and command a view of the declining\nyears since he had left the monastery; and now, gazing at that\ndescending panorama of his life, he discerned this:--\n\nThat from the time of his return to Paris a craving for the cloister had\nbeen incessantly permeating his being; he had unremittingly cherished\nthe dream of retiring from the world, of living peacefully as a recluse\nnear to God.\n\nHe had, to be sure, only thought of it definitely in the form of\nimpossible longings and regrets, for he knew full well that neither was\nhis body strong enough nor his soul staunch enough for him to bury\nhimself as a Trappist. Still, once started from that spring-board, his\nimagination flew off at a tangent, overleaped every obstacle, floated in\ndiscursive reveries where he saw himself as a Friar in some easy-going\nconvent under the rule of a merciful Order, devoted to liturgies and\nadoring art.\n\nHe could but shrug his shoulders, indeed, when he came back to himself,\nand smile at these dreams of the future which he indulged in hours of\nvacuous idleness; but this self-contempt of a man who catches himself in\nthe very act of flagrant nonsense was nevertheless succeeded by the hope\nof not losing all the advantages of an honest delusion; and he could\nremount on a chimera which he thought less wild, as leading to a _via\nmedia_, a compromise, fancying that by moderating his ideal he should\nfind it more attainable.\n\nHe assured himself that, in default of a really conventual life, he\nmight perhaps achieve an illusory imitation of it by avoiding the\nturmoil of Paris and burying himself in a hole. And he now saw that he\nhad completely cheated himself when, on discussing the question as to\nwhether he should leave Paris and go to settle at Chartres, he had\nbelieved that he was yielding to the Abbe Gevresin's arguments and\nMadame Bavoil's urgency.\n\nCertainly, without admitting it, without accounting for it, he had\nreally acted on the prompting of this cherished dream. Would not\nChartres be a sort of monastic haven, of open cloister, where he could\nenjoy his liberty and not have to give up his comforts? Would it not, at\nany rate, for lack of an unattainable hermitage, be a sop thrown to his\ndesires; and supposing he could succeed in reducing his too exorbitant\ndemands, give him the final repose and peace for which he had yearned\never since his return from La Trappe?\n\nAnd nothing of all this had been realized. The unsettled feeling he had\nexperienced in Paris had pursued him to Chartres. He was, as it were, on\nthe march, or perched on a bough; he could not feel at home, but as a\nman lingering on in furnished rooms, whence he must presently depart.\n\nIn short, he had deluded himself when he had fancied that a man might\nmake a cell of a solitary room in silent surroundings; the religious\njog-trot in a provincial atmosphere had no resemblance to the life of a\nmonastery. There was no illusion or suggestion of the convent.\n\nThis check, when he recognized it, added to the ardour or his regrets;\nand the distress which in Paris had lurked latent and ill-defined,\ndeveloped at Chartres clear and unmistakable.\n\nThen began an unremitting struggle with himself.\n\nThe Abbe Gevresin, whom he consulted, would only smile and treat him as\nin a novices' school or a seminary a youthful postulant is treated who\nconfesses to deep melancholy and persistent weariness. His malady is not\ntaken seriously; he is told that all his companions suffer the same\ntemptations, the same qualms; he is sent away comforted, while his\nsuperiors seem to be laughing at him.\n\nBut at the end of a little time this method no longer succeeded. Then\nthe Abbe was firm with Durtal, and one day, when his penitent was\nbemoaning himself, he replied,--\n\n\"It is an attack you must get over,\" and then he added lightly after a\nsilence, \"And it will not be the last or the worst.\"\n\nAt this Durtal turned restive; the Abbe, however, drove him to bay,\nwanting to make him confess how senseless his struggles were.\n\n\"The idea of the cloister haunts you,\" said he. \"Well, then, what is\nthere to hinder you? Why do you not retire to a Trappist convent?\"\n\n\"You know very well that I am not strong enough to endure the rule.\"\n\n\"Then become an oblate; go to join Monsieur Bruno at Notre Dame de\nl'Atre.\"\n\n\"No, indeed, not that, at any rate. To be an oblate at La Trappe is the\nsame thing as remaining at Chartres! It is a mere half-measure. Monsieur\nBruno will always remain a boarder; he will never be a monk. He gets all\nthe disadvantages of the cloister, and none of the benefits.\"\n\n\"But there are other monasteries besides those of La Trappe,\" replied\nthe Abbe. \"Be a Benedictine Father or oblate, a black Friar. Their rule\nseems to be mild; you will live in a world of learned men and writers;\nwhat more would you have?\"\n\n\"I do not say--but--\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"I know nothing of them--\"\n\n\"Nothing can be easier than to get to know them. The Abbe Plomb is a\nwelcome friend at Solesmes. He can give all the introductions you can\nwish to that convent.\"\n\n\"Good; that is worth thinking about. I will consult the Abbe,\" said\nDurtal, rising to take leave of the old priest.\n\n\"The Black Dog is troubling you, our friend,\" observed Madame Bavoil,\nwho had overheard the two men's conversation from the next room, the\ndoor between being open; and she came in, her breviary in her hand.\n\n\"Ah, ha!\" she went on, looking at him over her spectacles, \"do you\nsuppose that by moving your soul from place to place you can change it?\nYour trouble is neither in the air nor outside you, but within you. On\nmy word, to hear you talk, one might fancy that by travelling from one\nspot to another every discord could be avoided, that a man could escape\nfrom himself! Nothing can be more false. Ask the Father--\"\n\nAnd when Durtal, smiling awkwardly, was gone, Madame Bavoil questioned\nher master.\n\n\"What is really the matter with him?\"\n\n\"He is being broken by the ordeal of dryness,\" replied the priest. \"He\nis enduring a painful but not dangerous operation. So long as he\npreserves a love of prayer, and neglects none of his religious\nexercises, all will be well. That is the touchstone which enables us to\ndiscern whether such an attack is sent from Heaven.\"\n\n\"But, Father, he must at any rate be comforted.\"\n\n\"I can do nothing but pray for him.\"\n\n\"Another question: our friend is possessed by the notion of a monastic\nlife; perhaps you ought to send him to a convent.\"\n\nThe Abbe gave an evasive shrug.\n\n\"Dryness of spirit and the dreams to which it gives rise are not the\nsign of a vocation,\" said he. \"I might even say that they have a greater\nchance of thriving than of diminishing in the cloister. From that point\nof view conventual life might be bad for him. Still, that is not the\nonly question to be considered--there is something else--and besides,\nwho knows?\" He was silent, and presently added: \"Much may be possible.\nGive me my hat, Madame Bavoil. I will go and talk over Durtal with the\nAbbe Plomb.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nThis discussion had been of use to Durtal; it took him out of the\ngeneralities over which he had persistently mused since his arrival at\nChartres. The Abbe had, in fact, shown him his bearings, and pointed out\na navigable channel leading to a definite end, a haven familiar to all.\nThe monastery which had lingered in Durtal's fancy as a mere confused\npicture, apart from time, without place or date, deriving nothing from\nhis memories of La Trappe but the sense of discipline, and on to which\nhe had at once engrafted the fancy of an abbey of a more literary and\nartistic stamp, governed by a conciliatory rule, in a milder\natmosphere--that ideal retreat, half borrowed from reality and half the\nfabric of a dream--was taking shape. By speaking of an Order that\nexisted, mentioning it by name and actually specifying a House under its\nrule, the Abbe had given Durtal substantial food instead of the\nargumentative wordiness of a mania; he had afforded him something better\nto chew than the empty air on which he had fed so long.\n\nThe state of uncertainty and indecision he had been living in was at\nend; his choice now lay between remaining at Chartres or retiring to\nSolesmes; and at once, without delay, he set to work to read and\nreconsider the works of Saint Benedict.\n\nThis rule, summed up more particularly in a series of paternal\ninjunctions and affectionate advice, was a marvel of gentleness and\ntactfulness. Every craving of the soul was described, every misery of\nthe body foreseen. It knew so precisely how to ask much and yet not to\nexact too much, that it had yielded without breaking, satisfied the\nmovements of different ages, and remained, in the nineteenth century\nwhat it had been in mediaeval times.\n\nThen how merciful, how wise it was when addressing itself to the feeble\nand infirm. \"The sick shall be served as though they were Christ in\nperson,\" says Saint Benedict; and his anxiety for his sons, his urgent\nrecommendations to the Superiors to love and visit the younger brethren,\nto neglect nothing that may assuage their ills, reveals a maternal care\nthat is truly touching on the patriarch's part.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" muttered Durtal, \"but there are in this rule other articles\nwhich seem less acceptable to miscreants of my stamp. This, for\ninstance: 'No man shall dare to give or to receive anything without the\nAbbot's permission, or to have or hold anything as his own--absolutely\nnothing, neither book, nor tablets, nor pointer--in a word, nothing\nwhatever, inasmuch as they are not allowed to call even their body or\ntheir will their own.'\n\n\"This is a terrible sentence of abnegation and obedience,\" he sighed,\n\"only, is this law, which is binding on the Fathers and the Serving\nBrothers, equally strict for the Oblates, the aegrotant members of the\nBenedictine army, who are not mentioned in the text? This remains to be\nseen. It will be well too to ascertain how far it is applied, for the\nrule is on the whole so skilful, so elastic, so broad that it can be\nmade at option very austere or very mild.\n\n\"With the Trappists the ordinances are so closely drawn that they are\nstifling; with the Benedictines, on the contrary, they would be light\nand airy enough to allow the soul to breathe easily. One Fraternity\nclings scrupulously to the letter; the other, on the contrary, draws\ninspiration from the Spirit of the Saint.\n\n\"Before goading myself along this road I must consult the Abbe Plomb,\"\nwas Durtal's conclusion. He went to call on the priest; but he was\nabsent for some days.\n\nAs a precaution against indolence, a measure of spiritual discipline, he\nthrew himself on the cathedral once more, and tried, now that he was\nless overpowered by speculation, to read its meaning.\n\nThe stone text which he was bent on understanding was puzzling, if not\ndifficult to decipher, in consequence of the interpolated passages,\nrepetitions, and parts eliminated or abridged; in fact, to say the\ntruth, as the result of a certain incoherence, accounted for no doubt by\nthe circumstance that the work had been carried on, altered or extended\nby successive artists during a lapse of two hundred years.\n\nThe image-makers of the thirteenth century had not always taken into\naccount the ideas expressed by their precursors; they had repeated them,\nexpressing them from their own point of view in their personal tongue;\nthus, for instance, they had introduced a second version of the signs of\nthe seasons and of the zodiac. The sculptors of the twelfth century had\nmade a calendar in stone on the western front; those of the thirteenth\ndid the same in the right-hand doorway of the north porch, justifying\nthis reduplication of the subject on the same church by the fact that\nthe zodiac and the seasons may in symbolism have several\ninterpretations.\n\nAccording to Tertullian the death and new birth of the circling years\nafforded an image of the Resurrection at the end of the world. According\nto others the Sun, surrounded by the twelve Signs, was emblematic of the\nSun of Justice surrounded by his twelve Apostles. The Abbe Bulteau sees\nin these stony calendars a rendering of the passage in which St. Paul\ndeclares to the Hebrews that \"Jesus is the same yesterday, to-day, and\nfor ever,\" while the Abbe Clerval gives this simple interpretation: that\nall times belong to Christ, and are bound to glorify Him.\n\n\"But this is a mere detail,\" said Durtal to himself. \"In the whole\nstructure of the cathedral itself we can trace two-fold purposes.\n\n\"The architectural mass of Notre Dame de Chartres as a whole may be\ndivided, externally, into three great parts, as indicated by the three\ngrand porches. The western or royal portal, which is the ceremonial\nentrance to the sanctuary, between the two towers; the north porch on\nthe side next the bishop's palace, beyond the new spire; the south\nporch, flanked by the old spire.\n\n\"Now, the subjects represented on the royal front and in the south porch\nare identical. Each glorifies the Triumph of the Incarnate Word, with\nthis difference: that on the south porch Our Lord is not exalted alone\nas He is on the west front, but in the person also of the Elect and of\nHis Saints. If to these two subjects, which may be considered as\none--the Saviour glorified in Himself and in His Saints--we add the\npraises of the Virgin set forth in the north front we find this result:\na poem in praise of the Mother and the Son as declaring the final cause\nof the Church itself.\n\n\"By studying the variations between the south and west fronts we\nperceive that, though in both Jesus is shown in the same act of blessing\nthe earth, and though both are almost exclusively restricted to\nillustrating the Gospel, leaving the scenes of the Old Testament to the\narches on the north, they differ greatly from each other, and are no\nless unlike the portals of all other cathedrals.\n\n\"In total disagreement with the mystic rituals observed almost\neverywhere else--at Notre Dame de Paris, at Bourges, at Amiens, to name\nbut three churches--the Last Judgment, which is seen on the main\nentrance of those basilicas, is at Chartres relegated to the south\nporch.\n\n\"And in the same way the Tree of Jesse, which at Amiens and Reims and\nthe cathedral at Rouen, is displayed on the royal porch, is at Chartres\non the north side of the building; and many more similar changes might\nbe noted,\" said Durtal to himself. \"But, which is yet more strange, the\nparallel so commonly to be observed between the subjects treated on the\ninner and outer surface of the same wall, in sculptured stone without\nand painted glass within, does not constantly exist at Chartres. This,\nfor instance, is the case with regard to the genealogical Tree of\nChrist, which is seen inside in glass on the upper wall of the west\nfront, and is carved outside on the north porch. At the same time, when\nthe subjects do not entirely coincide on the front and back of the page,\nthey are often complementary, or carry out the same idea. Thus the Last\nJudgment, which is not to be found on the outside of the north front,\nblazes out, within, from the great rose window above on the same side.\nThis, then, is not cumulative but appropriate development--history begun\nin one dialect and finished in another.\n\n\"In short, it is the ruling idea of the poem which governs all these\ndifferences and harmonies; which comes out like a refrain after each of\nthese three strophes in stone; the idea that this church belongs to Our\nMother. The cathedral is faithful to its name, loyal to its dedication.\nThe Virgin is Lady over all. She fills the whole interior, and appears\noutside even on the western and southern portals, which are not\nespecially Hers, above a door, on a capital, high in air on a pediment.\nThe angelic salutation of art has been repeated without intermission by\nthe painters and sculptors of every age. The cathedral of Chartres is\ntruly the Virgin's fief.\n\n\"And on the whole,\" thought Durtal, \"in spite of the discrepancies in\nsome of its texts, the cathedral is legible.\n\n\"It contains a rendering of the Old and New Testaments; it also engrafts\non the sacred Scriptures the Apocryphal traditions relating to the\nVirgin and St. Joseph, the lives of the saints preserved in the Golden\nLegend of Jacopo da Voragine and the special biographies of the aspiring\nrecluses of the diocese of Chartres. It is a vast encyclopaedia of\nmediaeval learning as concerning God, the Virgin, and the Elect.\n\n\"Didron is almost justified in saying that it is a compendium of those\ngreat encyclopaedias composed in the thirteenth century; only the theory\nthat he bases on this truthful observation wanders off and becomes\nfaulty as soon as he tries to work it out.\n\n\"He concludes, in fact, by conceiving of this cathedral as no more than\na rendering of the _Speculum Universale_, the _Mirror of the World_ of\nVincent of Beauvais; above all, like that work, as an epitome of\npractical life and a record of the human race throughout the ages. In\npoint of fact,\" said Durtal to himself, as he took the _Christian\nIconography_ of that writer down from the shelf, \"in point of fact,\naccording to him, our stone pages ought to follow in such succession\nthat, beginning with the opening chapter on the north, they would end\nwith the paragraphs on the south. Then we should find the narrative in\nthe following order: First of all the genesis, the Biblical cosmogony,\nthe creation of man and woman and Eden; and then, after the expulsion of\nthe first pair, the tale of man's redemption by suffering.\n\n\"'Whereby,' says he, 'the sculptor took occasion to teach the hinds of\nLa Beauce how to work with their hands and their head. Here, to the\nright of Adam's Fall, he carves under the eyes and for the perpetual\nedification of all men, a calendar of stone with all the labours of the\nfield, and then a catechism of industry, showing the works done in the\ntown; finally, for the labours of the mind, a manual of the liberal\narts.\"\n\n\"Then, thus instructed, man lives on from generation to generation,\nuntil the end of the world, set forth in the images on the south side.\n\n\"This treasury of sculpture would thus include a compendium of the\nhistory of nature and of science, a glossary of morality and art, a\nbiography of humanity, a panorama of the whole world. Thus it would very\nreally represent the _Mirror of the World_, and be an edition in stone\nof Vincent of Beauvais' book.\n\n\"There is only one difficulty. The Dominican's _Speculum Universale_\ndates from many years later than the erection of this cathedral; also,\nin developing his theory, Didron does not take into account the\nperspective and relations of the statuary. He assigns equal importance\nto a small figure half hidden in the moulding of an arch and to the\nlarge statues in the foreground supporting the picture in relief of Our\nLord and His Mother. Indeed, it might be said that these are the very\nfigures he overlooks; and, in the same way, he takes no account of the\nwestern doors, which he could not force into his scheme.\n\n\"This archaeologist's ideas, in fact, cannot be maintained. He\nsubordinates leading features to accessory details, and ends in a kind\nof rationalism entirely opposed to the mysticism of the period. He\ninvestigates the Middle Ages by levelling down the divine idea to the\nlowest earthly meaning, and referring to man what is intended to apply\nto God. The prayer of sculpture, chanted by the ages of faith, becomes,\nin the introduction to his work, nothing more than an encyclopaedia of\nindustrial and moral teaching.\n\n\"Let us look closer at all this,\" Durtal went on, and he went out to\nsmoke a cigarette on the Place. \"That royal doorway,\" thought he, as he\nwalked on, \"is the entrance to the great front by which kings were\nadmitted. It is likewise the first chapter of the book, and it sums up\nthe whole of the building.\n\n\"But certainly these conclusions forestalling the premisses are very\nstrange; this recapitulation, placed at the very beginning of the work,\nwhen it ought, in fact, to be placed at the end, in the apse!\n\n\"And yet,\" he reflected, \"putting this aside, the _facade_ thus worked\nout fills the position in this basilica which the second of the\nSapiential Books holds in the Bible. It answers to the Book of Psalms,\nwhich is in a certain sense an epitome of all the Books of the Old\nTestament, and consequently, at the same time, a prophetic memento of\nthe whole of revealed religion.\n\n\"The western side of the cathedral is similar; only, it is a compendium\nnot of the older but of the newer Scriptures; an epitome of the Gospels,\nan abridgment of the books of St. John and the synoptical Gospels.\n\n\"In building this, the twelfth century did more. It added more details\nto this glorification of Christ, following Him from before His birth,\nthrough the Bible story, till after His Death and to His Apotheosis as\ndescribed in the Apocalypse; it completed the Scriptures by the\nApocryphal writings, telling the tale of Saint Joachim and Saint Anna,\nrecording many episodes of the marriage of the Virgin and Joseph derived\nfrom the Gospel of the Nativity of the Virgin and _pseudo_-Gospel of St.\nJames the Less.\n\n\"But, indeed, in every early sanctuary such use was made of these\nlegends, and no church is really intelligible when they are ignored.\n\n\"Nor is there anything to surprise us in this mixture of the authentic\nGospels and mere fables. When the Church refused to recognize by\ncanonical authority the divine origin of the Gospels of the Childhood,\nof the Nativity, the writings of St. Thomas the Israelite, of Nicodemus,\nof St. James the Less, and the History of Joseph, it had no intention of\nrejecting them altogether, and consigning them to the limbo of\ninventions and lies. In spite of certain anecdotes which are, to say the\nleast of it, ridiculous, there may be found in these texts some accurate\ndetails and authentic narratives which the Evangelists, cautiously\nreticent, did not think proper to record. The Middle Ages by no means\nlent themselves to heresy when they ascribed to these purely human\nScriptures the value of probable legend and the interest of pious\nreminiscence.\n\n\"As a whole,\" thought Durtal, who was now standing in front of the doors\nbetween the two towers, the royal western front, \"as a whole, this vast\npalimpsest, with its 719 figures, is easy to decipher if we avail\nourselves of the key applied by the Abbe Bulteau in his monograph on\nthis cathedral.\n\n\"Starting from the new belfry and working across the western front to\nthe old belfry, we follow the history of Christ embodied in nearly two\nhundred statues lost in the capitals. It starts with Christ's ancestors,\nbeginning with the story of Anna and Joachim, and giving the legend in\nminute images. Out of deference perhaps to the Inspired Books, this\nhistory creeps along the wall, making itself small so as to be\ninconspicuous, and narrates, as if in secret, by artless mimicry, poor\nJoachim's despair when a scribe of the Temple named Reuben reproves him\nfor being childless, and rejects his offerings in the name of the Lord\nwho has not blessed him; then Joachim, in sorrow, separates from his\nwife and goes away to bewail the curse that has lighted on him, till an\nangel appears to him and comforts him, and bids him return to his wife,\nwho shall bear a daughter of his begetting.\n\n\"Then we see Anna, weeping alone over her barrenness and her widowhood;\nand the angel comes to her and bids her go forth to meet her husband,\nand she finds him at the golden gate. And they fall on each other's neck\nand go home together. And Anna brings forth Mary, whom they dedicate to\nthe Lord.\n\n\"Years then pass, till the time comes when the Virgin is to be\nbetrothed. The High Priest bids all of the children of the House of\nDavid who are of age, and not yet married, to come to the altar with a\nrod in their hand; and to discern which of these shall be chosen to\nmarry the Virgin, Abiathar, the High Priest, inquires of the Most High,\nwho repeats the prophecy of Isaiah which declares that a flower shall\ncome out of Jesse on which the Holy Spirit shall rest.\n\n\"And immediately the rod blossoms of one of those present, Joseph the\nCarpenter, and a dove descends from heaven to settle on it.\n\n\"So Mary is given to Joseph, and the marriage takes place; Messiah is\nborn, and Herod massacres the Innocents; and there the gospel of the\nNativity ends, and the story is taken up by the Holy Scriptures, which\nfollow the Life of Jesus to the hour of His last appearance on earth\nafter His death.\n\n\"These scenes, set forth in small simple imagery, serve as a border at\nthe bottom of the vast presentment which extends from tower to tower\nover all three doors.\n\n\"Here the scenes are placed which are intended to attract the crowd by\nplainer and more visible images; here we see the general theme of this\nportal in all its splendour, recapitulating the Gospels and achieving\nthe purpose of the Church itself.\n\n\"On the left we see the Ascension of Our Lord, soaring triumphant on\nclouds rendered by a waving scroll held on each side, in the Byzantine\nmanner, by two angels; while below, the Apostles with uplifted faces,\ngaze at this ascension pointed out to them by other angels who have\ndescended and hover over them, their fingers extended towards the sky.\n\n\"The hollow moulding of the arch is filled up with a calendar and zodiac\nof stone.\n\n\"The right-hand side shows the Assumption of Our Lady, seated on a\nthrone, sceptre in hand, and holding the Infant, who blesses the world.\nBeneath are the episodes of Her life: the Annunciation, the Visitation,\nthe Nativity, the homage of the shepherds, and the presentation of Jesus\nto the High Priest; and the bend of the arch, rising to a point like a\nmitre above the Mother, has the mouldings enriched with two lines of\nfigures, one of archangels bearing censers, with wings closely\nimbricated as if with tiles, the other of personifications of the seven\nliberal arts, each represented by two figures--one allegorical, and the\nother the presentment of the inventor, or of the paragon of that art in\nantiquity. This is the same scheme of expression as we see in the\ncathedral at Laon; the paraphrase in sculpture of scholastic theology,\nand a rendering in images of the text of Albertus Magnus, who, after\nrehearsing the perfections of the Virgin, declares that She possessed a\nperfect knowledge of the seven arts: grammar, rhetoric, dialectic,\narithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music--all the lore of the Middle\nAges.\n\n\"Finally, in the middle, the great doorway illustrates the subject round\nwhich the storied carving of the other doors all centres: the\nGlorification of Our Lord, as Saint John beheld it at Patmos; the\nApocalypse, the last book of the Bible, spread open on the forefront of\nthe basilica, above the grand entrance to the church.\n\n\"Jesus is seated, on His head the cruciform nimbus, robed in the linen\ntalaris and draped in a mantle which hangs in a fall of close pleats;\nHis bare feet rest on a stool, emblematical of the earth, according to\nIsaiah. With one hand He blesses the world; in the other He holds the\nBook with the seven Seals. About him, in the oval glory or _Vesica_, we\nsee the Tetramorph--the four evangelical emblems with closely fretted\nwings: the winged cherub, the lion, the eagle, and the ox, figuring St.\nMatthew, St. Mark, St. John, and St. Luke. Above are the twelve Apostles\nholding scrolls and books.\n\n\"And to complete the Apocalyptic vision, in the hollow mouldings of the\narch are the twelve Angels and four and twenty Elders described by St.\nJohn, in white raiment and crowned with gold, playing on musical\ninstruments, and singing in the perpetual adoration which some few\nsouls, dwelling isolated in the midst of the indifference of this age,\nstill carry on. They magnify the glory of the Most High, throwing\nthemselves on their faces when the Evangelical Beasts, responding to the\nfervent and solemn prayers that go up from the earth, utter, in a voice\nthat resounds above the roar of thunder, the word which in its four\nletters, its two syllables, sums up every duty of man to God--the\nhumble, loving, obedient _Amen_.\n\n\"The text has been very closely followed by the image-maker, excepting\nwith regard to the Beasts, for one detail is omitted; they are not\nrepresented with the eyes of which the prophet tells us they were 'full\nwithin.'\n\n\"Thus, regarding this whole front as a triptych, we find that in the\nleft doorway we have the Ascension framed in the signs of the zodiac; in\nthe middle, the triumph of Jesus as described by the Seer; on the right,\nthe triumph of Mary, surrounded by certain of Her attributes. The whole\nconstitutes the scheme to be carried out by the architect: the\nGlorification of the Incarnate Word.\n\n\"In fact, as the Abbe Clerval says in his important work on the\ncathedral of Chartres, 'we have the scenes of His life which prepared\nthe way for His glory; we have this actual entrance into glory; and then\nHis eternal glorification by the Angels, the Saints, and the Blessed\nVirgin.'\n\n\"From the point of view of artistic execution the work in the grand\nsubject is crisp and splendid; the smaller figures are obscure and\nmutilated. The panel representing the Virgin Mary has suffered severely,\nand both it and that representing the Ascension are strangely rough and\nbarbarous, quite inferior to the central tympanum, which contains the\nmost living, the most haunting, of many figures of Christ.\n\n\"Nowhere, indeed, in mediaeval sculpture does the Redeemer appear as more\nsaddened or more pitiful, or under a more solemn aspect. Seen in\nprofile, His hair flowing over His shoulders, smooth in front and\ndivided down the middle, with a nose slightly turned up and a heavy\nmouth under a thick moustache, with a short, curling beard and a long\nneck, He suggests not so much a Byzantine Christ, such as the artists of\nthat time were wont to paint and carve, but a pre-Raphaelite Christ\ndesigned by a Fleming, or even derived from the Dutch, showing indeed\nthat slightly earthy taint which reappeared at a later time with a less\npure type of head, at the end of the fifteenth century, in the picture\nby Cornelis Van Oostzaanen, in the gallery at Cassel.\n\n\"He rises enthroned, almost sorrowful in His triumph, unamazed as He\nblesses, with pathetic resignation, the generations of sinners who for\nseven centuries have gazed up at Him with inquisitive, unloving eyes as\nthey cross the square; and all turn their back on Him, caring little\nenough for this Saviour unlike the head familiar to them, recognizing\nHim only with sheep-like features and a pleasing expression; such, in\nshort, as the foppish image at the cathedral at Amiens before which the\nlovers of a softer type go into ecstasies.\n\n\"Above this Christ are the three windows invisible from outside, and\nover them again the huge dead rose window, looking like a blind eye, and\nlighting up, like the windows, only when seen from within, when they\nglow with clear flame and pale sapphires set in stone; then, higher yet,\nabove the rose, is the gallery of French kings, under the great\ntriangular gable between the towers.\n\n\"And the two belfries fling up their spires; the old one carved in soft\nlimestone, imbricated with scales, rising in one bold flight to end in a\npoint, and send up a vapour of prayer among the clouds; the new one,\npierced like lace, chiselled like a jewel, wreathed with foliage and\ncrockets of vine, rises with coquettish dalliance, trying to make up for\nlack of the inspired flight and humble entreaty of its senior by\nbabbling prayer and ingratiating smiles; to persuade the Father by\nchildlike lisping.\n\n\"But to return to the west portal,\" Durtal went on, \"in spite of the\nimportance of its grand decoration, displaying the Eternal Triumph of\nthe Word, the interest of artists is irresistibly attracted to the\nground storey of the building, where nineteen colossal stone statues\nstand in the space that extends from tower to tower; part against the\nwall, and part in the recesses of the door-bays.\n\n\"The finest sculpture in the world is certainly that we find here. There\nare seven kings, seven saints or prophets, and five queens. There were\noriginally twenty-four of these statues, but five have disappeared and\nleft no trace.\n\n\"They all wear glories excepting the three first, nearest to the new\nbelfry, and all stand under canopies of pierced work, representing roofs\nor tabernacles, palaces, bridges--a whole town in little, Sion for\nchildren, a dwarfed New Jerusalem.\n\n\"They all are standing, each on a column with a guilloche pattern; on\nplinths carved over with lozenges, diamond points, fir-cone scales, with\nchain patterns, fretwork, billets, chequers like a chess-board of which\nthe alternate squares are hollowed out; and paved with a sort of mosaic,\ninlaid patterns which, like the borders of the church windows, suggest a\nreminiscence of Mussulman goldsmith's work, and show the origin of the\nstyle brought from the East by the Crusaders.\n\n\"The three first statues in the recess to the left, nearest the new\nspire, do not stand on any pattern borrowed from the heathen; they are\ntrampling on indescribable monsters. One, a king whose head having been\nlost, has been fitted with the head of a queen, treads on a man\nentangled by serpents; another king stands on a woman who holds a\nreptile by the tail with one hand, and with the other strokes the plait\nof her own hair; the third, a queen, her head crowned with a plain gold\nfillet and her shape that of a woman with child, while her face is\nsmiling but commonplace, has at her feet two dragons, a monkey, a toad,\na dog, and a snake with an ape's head. What is the meaning of these\nenigmas? No one knows--no more, indeed, than we know the names of the\nsixteen other statues placed along the porch.\n\n\"Some believe that they represent the ancestry of the Messiah, but this\nassertion has no evidence to support it; others find here a mixed\nassemblage of the heroes of the Old Testament and the benefactors to the\nChurch, but this hypothesis is no less illusory. The truth is that,\nthough all these personages have had sceptres in their hands, scrolls,\nribands, and breviaries, not one of them displays the attributes which\nwould serve to identify them in accordance with the religious symbolism\nof the Middle Ages. At most might we venture to give the name of Daniel\nto a headless figure because a formless dragon writhes under his feet,\nemblematical of the Devil conquered by the prophet at Babylon.\n\n\"The most striking and the strangest of these figures are the queens.\n\n\"The first, the royal virago with the prominent stomach, is ordinary\nenough; the last, opposite to this princess at the furthest end of the\nfront near the old tower, has lost half her face, and the remaining\nportion is not attractive; but the three others, standing in the\nprincipal doorway, are matchless.\n\n\"The first, tall, slender, and very straight, wears a crown on her brow,\na veil, hair banded on each side of a middle parting, and falling in\nplaits on her shoulders; her nose turns up a little, is somewhat common;\nher lips firm and judicious; her chin square. The face is not very\nyoung. The body is swathed, and rigid, in a large cloak with wide\nsleeves, and the richly-jewelled sheath of a gown that betrays no\nfeminine outline of figure. She is upright, sexless, shapeless; her\nwaist slight and bound with a girdle of cord, like a Franciscan Sister.\nShe stands looking, with her head slightly bent, attentive to one knows\nnot what, seeing nothing. Has she attained to the perfect negation of\nall things? Is she living the life of Union with God beyond the worlds,\nwhere time is no more? It might be thought so, since it is noteworthy\nthat, in spite of her royal insignia and the magnificence of her\ncostume, she has the self-centred look, the austere demeanour of a nun.\nShe seems more of the cloister than of the Court. Then we wonder who can\nhave placed her on guard by this door, and why, faithful to a charge\nknown to none but herself, she watches, day and night, with her far-away\ngaze across the square, waiting motionless for some one who for seven\nhundred years has failed to come.\n\n\"She might be an embodiment of Advent, stooping a little to listen to\nthe woeful supplications of man as they rise from earth; in that case,\nshe must be an Old Testament queen, dead long before the birth of the\nMessiah she perhaps may have prophesied.\n\n\"As she holds a book, the Abbe Bulteau thinks it may be a full-length\nstatue of Saint Radegonde. But other princesses have been canonized,\nand, like her, hold books. At the same time, the monastic aspect of this\nqueen, her emaciated figure, her eye vaguely fixed on the region of\ninternal dreams, would well befit Clotaire's wife, who retired to a\ncloister.\n\n\"But for what can she be watching? The dreaded arrival of the king bent\non tearing her from her Abbey at Poitiers to replace her on the throne?\nFor lack of any information every conjecture must be futile.\n\n\"The second statue again represents a king's wife holding a book. She is\nyounger; she wears neither cloak nor veil; her bosom is full and closely\nfitted in a clinging dress, tightly drawn over the bust like wet linen;\na bodice resembling the Carlovingian _rokette_, fastened on one side.\nHer hair lies flat in two bands on her forehead, covering her ears and\nfalling in long tresses plaited with ribbon, and ending in loose tufts.\n\n\"Her face is wilful and alert, and rather haughty. She is looking out of\nherself; her beauty is of a more human type, and she knows it. Saint\nClotilde, is the Abbe Bulteau's guess.\n\n\"It is very certain that this Elect lady was not always a pattern of\namiability--not what could be called easy to get on with. Before being\nreproved and chastened we see her in history, as vindictive, unrelenting\nto pity, eager for retaliation. She would be Clotilde before her\nrepentance--the Queen, before she became a saint.\n\n\"But is it really she? The name was given her because a statue of the\nsame period and very like this, which was formerly at Notre Dame de\nCorbeil, was dubbed with this name. It was, however, subsequently\nadmitted that it represented the Queen of Sheba. Are we then in the\npresence of that sovereign? And why, if her name is not in the Book of\nLife, has she a glory?\n\n\"It is highly probable that she is neither the wife of Clovis, nor\nSolomon's friend--this strange princess who stands before us, at once so\nearthly and yet more spectral than her sisters; for time has marred her\nfeatures, injured her skin, dotted her chin with hail-specks, vulgarized\nher mouth, injured her nose, making it look like the ace of clubs, and\nput the stamp of death on that living countenance.\n\n\"As to the third, she is tall and slender, a fragile spindle, a slim,\nsylph-like creature, suggesting a taper with the lower portion\npatterned, embossed, brocaded in the wax itself; she stands\nmagnificently arrayed in a stiff-pleated robe channelled lengthwise,\nlike a stick of celery. The bodice is richly trimmed and stitched; below\nher waist hangs a cord with loose jewelled knots; on her head is a\ncrown. Both arms are broken; one hand rested on her bosom; in the other\nshe held a sceptre, of which a small portion remains.\n\n\"This queen is smiling, artless, and engaging--quite charming. She looks\ndown on all comers with wide open eyes under high-arched brows. Never,\nat any period, has a more expressive face been formed by the genius of\nman; it is a masterpiece of childlike grace and saintly innocence.\n\n\"Here, amid the pensive architecture of the twelfth century, one of a\ncrowd of devout statues, symbolical to some extent of simple love in an\nage when men were in perpetual dread of everlasting hell, she seems to\nstand at the Gate of the Lord as the exorable image of forgiveness. To\nthe terrified souls of habitual sinners who after perseverance in guilt\nno longer dare cross the threshold of the Sanctuary, she stands kindly\nreproving such reticence, conquering regrets and soothing terrors by her\nfamiliar smile.\n\n\"She is the elder sister of the prodigal son, of whom St. Luke indeed\nmakes no mention, but who, if she ever existed, would have pleaded for\nthe absent wanderer, and have insisted with her father on the killing of\nthe fatted calf when the son returned.\n\n\"Chartres, to be sure, does not see her in this indulgent aspect; local\ntradition names her Berthe of the broad foot; but while there is no\nargument to support this hypothesis, it is in fact quite absurd, as the\nstatue is graced with a nimbus. This mark of holiness would not have\nbeen given to Charlemagne's mother, whose name is not on the list of the\nsaints of the Church Triumphant.\n\n\"According to the notions of those archaeologists who believe that the\nsculptured dignitaries of this porch represent the ancestry of Christ,\nshe must be a queen of the Old Testament. But which? As Hello very truly\nremarks, tears abound in the Scriptures, but laughter is so rare that\nSarah's, when she could not help mocking at the angel who announced that\nshe should bear a son in her old age, has remained on record. So it is\nin vain that we inquire to what personage of the ancient books this\nqueen's innocent joy may be ascribed.\n\n\"The truth is that she must remain a perennial mystery; she is an\nangelic, limpid creature, who has attained, no doubt, to the purest joy\nin the Lord; and withal so attractive, so helpful, that she leaves in us\nan impression of a healing gesture, the illusion of a blessing made\nvisible to all who crave it. Her right arm indeed is broken at the\nwrist, and her hand is gone; but we can fancy it there still when we\nlook for it; as a shade, a reflection; it is very plainly seen in the\nslight fulness of the bosom, as though it were the palm; in the folds of\nthe bodice, which distinctly show the four taper fingers and raised\nthumb to make the sign of the cross over us.\n\n\"How exquisite a forerunner of the Blessed Mother is this royal guardian\nof the threshold, this sovereign, inviting wanderers to come back to the\nChurch, to enter the door over which She keeps watch, and which is\nitself one of the symbols of Her Son!\" exclaimed Durtal, as he glanced\nat the opposite figures--such different women! one a nun rather than a\nqueen, her head a little bowed; another, every inch a queen, holding\nhers aloft; the third saucy, though saintly, her neck neither bent nor\nassertive, holding herself in a natural attitude, and moderating the\naugust mien of a sovereign by the humble, smiling expression of a saint.\n\n\"And perhaps,\" said he to himself, \"we may see in the first an image of\nthe contemplative life, and in the second the embodied idea of the\nactive life; while the third, like Ruth in the Scriptures, symbolizes\nboth!\"\n\nAs to the other statues--prophets wearing the Jewish cap with ears, and\nkings holding missals or sceptres, they too are impossible to identify.\nOne in the middle arch, divided from the so-called Berthe by a king, was\nmore especially interesting to Durtal because it was like Verlaine. The\nstatue had indeed thicker hair, but just as strange a head, a skull with\ncurious bumps, a flattish face, a curling beard, and the same common but\nkindly look.\n\nTradition gives this statue the name of St. Jude, and this resemblance\nis suggestive between the saint whom Christians most neglected, and who\nfor several centuries found so few devotees that suddenly, one day, on\nthe theory that he, less than the others, would have exhausted his\ncredit with God, people took to imploring him for desperate cases, lost\nsouls, and the poet so utterly ignored or so stupidly condemned by the\nvery Catholics to whom he has given the only mystical verses produced\nsince the Middle Ages.\n\n\"They were ill-starred, one as a saint and the other as a poet,\" Durtal\nconcluded, as he drew back to get a better view of the front.\n\nIt was indeed incredible, with the chasing of silvery flowers wrought on\nthe panes by frost; with its church-drapery, its lace rochets, its fine\npierced work, as light as gossamer, running up to the level of the\nsecond storey, and forming a fretted frame for the great stone-carvings\nof the porch. And above that it rose in hermit-like sobriety, unadorned,\nCyclopean, with the colossal eye of its dull rose-window between the two\ntowers, one full of windows and richly wrought like the doorway, the\nother as bare as the facade above the porch.\n\nBut after all, what absorbed and possessed Durtal's mind was still those\nstatues of queens.\n\nHe finally thought no more of the rest, listened to nothing but the\ndivine eloquence of their lean slenderness, regarding them only under\nthe semblance of tall flower-stems deep in carved stone tubes and\nexpanding into faces of ingenuous fragrance, of innocent perfume, while\nChrist, touched and saddened, blessing the world, seemed to bend from\nHis throne above them to inhale the delicate aroma that rose from these\nup-soaring chalices full of soul. Durtal was wondering--what potent\nnecromancer could evoke the spirits of these royal doorkeepers, compel\nthem to speak, and enable us to overhear the colloquy they perhaps hold\nwhen in the evening they seem to withdraw behind the curtain of shadow?\n\nWhat have they to say to each other--they who have seen Saint Bernard,\nSaint Louis, Saint Ferdinand, Saint Fulbert, Saint Yves, Blanche of\nCastille--so many of the Elect walking past on their way into the starry\ngloom of the nave? Did they cause the death of their companions, the\nfive other statues that have vanished for ever from the little assembly?\nDo they listen, through the closed doors, to the wailing breath of\nheart-broken psalms, and the roaring tide of the organ? Can they hear\nthe inane exclamations of the tourists who laugh to see them so stiff\nand so lengthy? Do they, as many saints have done, smell the fetor of\nsin, the foul reek of evil in the souls that pass by them? Why, then,\nwho would dare to look at them?\n\nAnd still Durtal looked at them, for he could not tear himself away;\nthey held him fast by the undying fascination of their mystery; in\nshort, he concluded, they are supra-terrestrial under the semblance of\nhumanity. They have no bodies; it is the soul alone that dwells in the\nwrought sheath of their raiment; they are in perfect harmony with the\ncathedral, which, divesting itself of its stones, soars in ecstatic\nflight above the earth.\n\nThe crowning achievement of mystical architecture and statuary are here,\nat Chartres; the most rapturous, the most superhuman art which ever\nflourished in the flat plains of La Beauce.\n\nAnd now, having contemplated the whole effect of this facade, he went\nclose to it again to examine its minutest accessories and details, to\nstudy more closely the robes of these sovereigns; then he observed that\nno two were alike in their drapery. Some flowed without any broken\nfolds, in ridge and furrow like the fall of rippling water; others hung\nclosely gathered in parallel flutings like the ribs on stems of\nangelica, and the stern material lent itself to the needs of the\ndressers, was soft in the figured crape and fustian and fine linen,\nheavy in the brocade and gold tissue. Every texture was distinct; the\nnecklaces were chased bead by bead; the knots of the girdles might be\nuntied, so naturally were the strands entwined; the bracelets and crowns\nwere pierced and hammered and adorned with gems, each in its setting, as\nif by practised goldsmiths.\n\nAnd in many cases the pedestal, the statue, and the canopy were all\ncarved out of one block, in one piece. What were the men who executed\nsuch work?\n\nIt is probable that they lived in convents, for art was not at that time\ncultivated or practised but in the precincts of God. And just then they\nwere in their glory in the Ile de France, the Orleans country, the\nprovinces of Maine, Anjou, and Berry, for we find statues of this type\nin all; still, it must be said that they are not equal to these at\nChartres.\n\nAt Bourges, for instance, analogous prophets and very similar queens\nstand meditative in, one of the extraordinary side bays where the Arab\ntrefoil is so conspicuous. At Angers the statues are weather-beaten,\nalmost ruined, but it can be seen that they were less stately, merely\nhuman; they are no longer chastely slender, fit for Heaven, but earthly\nqueens. At Le Mans, where they are in better preservation, they vainly\nstrive to soar above their narrow weed; they lack spring, they are\nnerveless, feeble, almost common.\n\nNowhere do we find a soul clothed in stone as at Chartres; and if at Le\nMans we study the front, of which the scheme is the same as at Chartres,\nwith Christ enthroned and benedictory between the winged beasts of the\nTetramorph, what a descent we note in the divine ideal! Everything is\npinched and airless. The Christ, too roughly wrought, looks savage. The\npupils only of the supreme masters of Chartres evidently adorned these\nportals.\n\nWas there a guild, a brotherhood of these image-makers, devoted to the\nholy work, who went from place to place to be employed by monks as\nhelpers of the masons and labourers, builders for God? Did they first\ncome from the Benedictine Abbey of Tiron founded at Chartres near the\nmarket, by that Abbot Saint Bernard whose name figures on the list of\nbenefactors to the church, in the necrology of the cathedral? None may\nknow. They worked humbly, anonymously.\n\nAnd what souls these artists had! For this we know: they laboured only\nin a state of grace. To raise this glorious temple, purity was required\neven of the workmen.\n\nThis would seem incredible if it were not proved by authentic documents\nand undoubted evidence.\n\nWe possess letters of the period preserved in the Benedictine annals, a\nletter from an Abbot of Saint-Pierre-sur-Dive, found by Monsieur Leopold\nDelisle, in MS. 929 of the French collection in the Bibliotheque\nNationale, and a Latin volume of the Miracles of Our Lady, discovered in\nthe Vatican Library, and translated into French by Jehan le Marchant, a\npoet of the thirteenth century. And these all relate the way in which\nthe Sanctuary dedicated to the Virgin was rebuilt after destruction by\nfire.\n\nWhat then occurred was indeed sublime. This was a crusade, if ever there\nwas one. It was here no question of snatching the Holy Sepulchre from\nthe power of the infidels, of meeting armies on the field of battle, and\nfighting with men; the Lord Himself was to be attacked in His\nentrenchments, Heaven was besieged, and conquered by love and\nrepentance! And Heaven confessed itself beaten; the angels smiled and\nyielded; God capitulated, and in the gladness of defeat He threw open\nthe treasury of His grace to be plundered of men.\n\nThen, under the guidance of the Spirit, came a battle in every workshop\nwith brute matter, the struggle of a nation vowing, cost what it might,\nto save a Virgin, homeless now as on the day when Her Son was born.\n\nThe manger of Bethlehem was a mere heap of cinders. Mary would be left\nto wander, lashed by bitter winds, across the icy plains of La Beauce.\nShould the same tale be repeated, twelve hundred years later, of\npitiless households, inhospitable inns, and crowded rooms?\n\nMadonna was loved then in France--loved as a natural parent, a real\nmother. On hearing that she was turned adrift by fire, seeking woefully\nfor a home, everyone grieved and wept; and that, not only in the country\nabout Chartres; in the Orleans country, in Normandy, Brittany, the Ile\nde France, in the far north, whole populations stopped their regular\nwork, left their homes to fly to Her help, the rich giving money and\njewels, and helping the poor to drag their barrows and carry corn and\noil, wine, wood and lime, everything that could serve to feed labouring\nmen or help in building a church.\n\nIt was a constant stream of immigration, the spontaneous exodus of a\npeople. Every road was crowded with pilgrims, all, men and women alike,\ndragging whole trees, pushing loads of sawn beams, and cartfuls of the\nmoaning sick and aged forming the sacred phalanx, the veterans of\nsuffering, the unconquerable legions of sorrow, all to help in the siege\nof the heavenly Jerusalem, forming the outer guard to support the attack\nby the reinforcement of prayer.\n\nNothing--neither sloughs, nor bogs, nor pathless forests, nor fordless\nrivers, could check the advancing tide of the marching throng; and one\nmorning, from every point of the compass, lo! they took possession of\nChartres.\n\nThe investment began; while the sick opened the first parallels of\nprayer, the sound pitched the tents; the camp extended for leagues on\nall sides; tapers were kept burning on the carts, and at night La Beauce\nwas a champaign of stars.\n\nWhat still seems incredible, and is nevertheless attested by every\nchronicle of the time, is that this horde of old folks and children, of\nwomen and men, were at once amenable to discipline; and yet they\nbelonged to every class of society, for there were among them knights\nand ladies of high degree; but divine love was so powerful that it\nannihilated distinctions and abolished caste; the nobles harnessed\nthemselves with the villeins to drag the trucks, piously fulfilling\ntheir task as beasts of burthen; patrician dames helped the peasant\nwomen to stir the mortar, and to cook the food; all lived together in an\nundreamed surrender of prejudice; all were alike ready to be mere\nlabourers, machines, loins and arms, and to toil without a murmur under\nthe orders of the architects who had come out of the cloister to direct\nthe work.\n\nNothing was ever more simply or more efficiently organized; the convent\ncellarers, forming a sort of commissariat for this army, superintended\nthe distribution of food, and saw to the sanitation of the huts and the\nhealth of the camp. Men and women were no more than docile instruments\nin the hands of the chiefs they themselves had chosen, and who in their\nturn obeyed gangs of monks. These again were under the orders of the\nwonderful man, the nameless genius, who, after conceiving the plan of\nthis cathedral, directed the whole work.\n\nTo achieve such results the spirit of the multitude must really have\nbeen admirable, for the humble and laborious work of plasterers and\nbarrow-men was accepted by all, noble or base-born, as an act of\nmortification and penance, and at the same time as an honour; and no man\nwas so audacious as to lay hand on the materials belonging to the Virgin\ntill he had made peace with his enemies and confessed his sins. Those\nwho were reluctant to repair the ill they had done, or to frequent the\nSacraments, were dismissed from the traces, rejected as reprobates by\ntheir comrades, and even by their own families.\n\nAt daybreak every morning the work decided on by the foremen was begun.\nSome dug the foundations, cleared away the ruins, carried off the\nrubbish; others, going in parties to the quarries of Berchere-l'Eveque,\nat about five miles from Chartres, cut out enormous blocks of stone, so\nheavy that in some cases a thousand workmen were not many enough to\nhoist them from their bed to the top of the hill where the church was\npresently to rise.\n\nAnd when these silent toilers paused, exhausted and broken, the sound\nwent up of prayers and psalms; some would groan over their sins,\nimploring Our Lady's mercy, beating their breast and sobbing in the arms\nof priests who bade them be comforted.\n\nOn Sundays long processions formed with banners at their head, and the\nshout of canticles filled the streets that blazed from afar with tapers;\nthe canonical services were attended by a whole people on their knees;\nrelics were carried with much pomp to visit the sick.\n\nAnd all the time the walls of the Celestial City were being shaken by\nbattering-rams of supplication, catapults of prayer; the living forces\nof the whole army combining to make a breach and take the place by\nstorm.\n\nThen it was that Jesus surrendered at discretion, conquered by so much\nhumility and so much love; He placed His powers in His Mother's hands,\nand miracles began to abound.\n\nAll the tribe of the sick and crippled are on their feet; the blind see,\nthe dropsical dry up, the lame walk, the weak-hearted run.\n\nThe tale of these miracles, which were repeated day after day, sometimes\nbeing produced even before the pilgrim had reached Chartres, has been\npreserved in the Latin manuscript in the Vatican.\n\nThe natives of Chateau Landon are dragging a cart-load of wheat. On\nreaching Chantereine they discover that the food they had taken for the\njourney is all gone, and they beg for bread from some unhappy creatures\nwho are themselves in the greatest want. The Virgin intercedes for them\nand the bread of the poor is multiplied. Again, some men set out from\nthe Gatinais with a load of stone. Ready to drop, they pause near Le\nPuiset, and some villagers coming out to meet them, invite them to rest\nwhile they themselves take a turn at the load; but this they refuse.\nThen the natives of Le Puiset offer them a cask of wine, and pour it\ninto a barrel hoisted on to the truck. This the pilgrims accept, and,\nfeeling less weary, they go on their way. But they are called back to\nsee that the empty vat has refilled itself with excellent wine. Of this\nall drink, and it heals the sick.\n\nAgain, a man of Corbeville-sur-Eure employed in loading a cart with\ntimber has three fingers chopped across by an axe and shrieks in agony.\nHis comrades advise him to have the fingers completely severed, as they\nhold only by a strip of flesh, but the priest who is conducting them to\nChartres disapproves. They all pray to Mary, and the wound vanishes, the\nhand is whole as before.\n\nSome men of Brittany have lost their way at night in the open country,\nand are suddenly guided aright by flames of fire; it is the Virgin in\nperson descending that Saturday after Complines into Her church when it\nis almost finished, and filling it with dazzling glory.\n\nAnd there are pages and pages of such incidents.\n\n\"Ah, it is easy to understand,\" thought Durtal, \"why this Sanctuary is\nso full of Her. Her gratitude for the love of our forefathers is still\nfelt here--even now She is fain not to seem too much disgusted, not to\nlook too closely.\n\n\"Well, well! we build sanctuaries in another way nowadays. When I think\nof the Sacred Heart in Paris, that gloomy, ponderous erection raised by\nmen who have written their names in red on every stone! How can God\nconsent to dwell in a church of which the walls are blocks of vanity\njoined by a cement of pride; walls where you may read the names of\nwell-known tradesmen exhibited in a good place, as if they were an\nadvertisement? It would have been so easy to build a less magnificent\nand less hideous church, and not to lodge the Redeemer in a monument of\nsin! Think of the throng of good souls who so long ago dragged their\nload of stones, praying as they went! It would never have occurred to\nthem to turn their love to account and make it serve their craving for\ndisplay, their hunger for lucre.\"\n\nAn arm was laid on his, and Durtal recognized the Abbe Gevresin, who\nhad come up while he stood dreaming in front of the cathedral.\n\n\"I am going on at once, they are waiting for me,\" said the priest. \"I\nonly took advantage of our meeting to tell you that I had a letter this\nmorning from the Abbe Plomb.\"\n\n\"Indeed! And where is he?\"\n\n\"At Solesmes; but he comes home the day after to-morrow. Our friend\nseems greatly taken with the Benedictine life.\"\n\nAnd the Abbe smiled, while Durtal, a little startled, watched him turn\nthe corner by the new belfry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nOne morning Durtal went out to seek the Abbe Plomb. He could not find\nhim in his own house, nor in the cathedral; but at last, directed by the\nbeadle, he made his way to the house at the corner of the Rue de\nl'Acacia, where the choir-school was lodged.\n\nHe went in by a gate that stood half open, into a yard littered with\nbroken pails and other rubbish. The house, beyond this courtyard, was\nsuffering from the cutaneous disease that affects plaster, eaten with\nleprosy and spotted with blisters, with zig-zag rifts from top to\nbottom, and a crackled surface like the glaze of an old jar. The dead\nstock of a vine stretched its gnarled black arms along the wall.\n\nDurtal, looking in at a window, saw a dormitory with rows of white beds,\nand he was amused, for never had he seen beds so tiny.\n\nA lad was in the room, whom he called, by tapping on the pane, and asked\nwhether the Abbe Plomb were still about the place. The boy nodded an\naffirmative, and showed Durtal into a waiting-room.\n\nThis room was like the office of an exceedingly inferior and pious\nhotel. The furniture consisted of a mahogany table of a sort of salmon\npink colour, on which stood a pot-stand bereft of flowers; arm-chairs\nwith circular backs fit for a gatekeeper's room, a chimney-piece adorned\nwith statues of saints much fly-bitten, and a chimney board covered with\npaper representing the Vision of Lourdes. On the walls hung a black\nboard with rows of numbered keys; opposite, a chromo-lithograph of\nChrist, displaying, with an amiable smile, an underdone heart bleeding\namid streams of yellow sauce.\n\nBut what was chiefly characteristic of this bedizened porter's lodge\nwas a horribly sickening smell, the smell of lukewarm castor oil.\n\nDurtal, nauseated by this odour, was on the point of making his escape,\nwhen the Abbe Plomb came in and took his arm. They went out together.\n\n\"Then you have just come back from Solesmes?\" said Durtal.\n\n\"As you see.\"\n\n\"And were you satisfied with your visit?\"\n\n\"Enchanted,\" and the Abbe smiled at the impatience he could detect in\nDurtal's accents.\n\n\"What do you think of the monastery?\"\n\n\"I think it most interesting to visit, both from the monastic and from\nthe artistic point of view. Solesmes is a great convent, the parent\nHouse of the Benedictine Order in France, and it has a flourishing\nschool of novices. What is it that you want to know, exactly?\"\n\n\"Why, everything you can tell me.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I may tell you that ecclesiastical art, brought to its very\nhighest expression, is fascinating in that monastery. No one can\nconceive of the magnificence of the liturgy and of plain-song who has\nnot heard them at Solesmes. If Notre Dame des Arts had a special\nsanctuary, it undoubtedly would be there.\"\n\n\"Is the chapel ancient?\"\n\n\"A part of the old church remains, and the famous Solesmes sculpture,\ndating from the sixteenth century. Unfortunately, there are some quite\ndisastrous windows in the apse: the Virgin between Saint Peter and Saint\nPaul; modern glass in its most piercing atrocity. But, then, where is\ndecent glass to be had?\"\n\n\"Nowhere. We have only to look at the transparent pictures let into the\nwalls of our new churches to appreciate the incurable idiocy of painters\nwho insist on treating window panes from cartoons, as they do subject\npictures--and such subjects! and such pictures! All turned out by the\ngross from cheap glass melters, whose thin material dots the pavement of\nthe church with spots like confetti, strewing lollipops of colour\nwherever the light falls.\n\n\"Would it not be far better to accept the colourless scheme of\nwindow-glass used at Citeaux, where a decorative effect was produced by\na design in the lead lines; or to imitate the fine grisailles,\niridescent from age, which may still be seen at Bourges, at Reims, and\neven here, in our cathedral?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said the Abbe. \"But to return to our monastery. Nowhere, I\nrepeat, are the services performed with so much pomp. You should see it\non the occasion of some high festival! Picture to yourself above the\naltar, where commonly the tabernacle shines, a Dove suspended from a\ngolden crozier, its wings outspread amid clouds of incense; then a whole\narmy of monks deploying in a solemn rhythmic march, and the Abbot\nstanding, on his brow a mitre thickly set with jewels, his green and\nwhite ivory crozier in his hand, his train carried by a lay-brother when\nhe moves, while the gold of many copes blazes in the light of the\ntapers, and a torrent of sound from the organ bears the voices up,\ncarrying to the very vault the cry of repentance or the joy of the\nPsalms.\n\n\"It is glorious. It is not the penitential austerity of the liturgy as\nit is used by the Franciscans or at La Trappe: it is luxury offered to\nGod, the beauty He created dedicated to His service, and in itself\npraise and prayer. But if you wish to hear the music of the Church in\nits utmost perfection you must go to the neighbouring Abbey: that of the\nSisters of Saint Cecilia.\"\n\nThe Abbe paused, whispering to himself, thinking over his reminiscences;\nand then he slowly spoke again,--\n\n\"Wherever you go, the voice of a nun preserves, merely by reason of her\nsex, a sort of emotion, a tendency to the cooing tone, and, it must be\nowned, a certain satisfaction in hearing herself when she knows that\nothers can hear her; so that the Gregorian chant is never perfectly\nexecuted by nuns.\n\n\"But with the Benedictine Sisters of Sainte-Cecile all the graces of\nearthly sentimentality have vanished. These nuns have ceased to have\nwomen's voices; the quality is at once seraphic and manly. In their\nchurch you are either thrown back I know not how far into the depth of\npast ages, or shot forward into time to come, as they sing. They have\noutpourings of soul and tragical pauses, pathetic murmurs and ecstasies\nof passion, and sometimes they seem to rush to the assault, and storm\ncertain Psalms at the bayonet's point. And they do assuredly achieve\nthe most vehement leap that can be imagined from this world into the\ninfinite.\"\n\n\"Then it is a very different thing from the Benedictine service of nuns\nin the Rue Monsieur in Paris?\"\n\n\"No comparison is possible. Without wishing to reflect on the musical\nsincerity of those good Sisters, who sing quite suitably but humanly, as\nwomen, it may be asserted that they have neither such knowledge, nor\nsuch soul-felt aspiration, nor such voices. As a monk remarked, 'when\nyou have heard the Sisters of Solesmes, those of Paris sound\nprovincial.'\"\n\n\"And you saw the Abbess of Saint Cecilia. Why, when I think of it, is\nnot she the writer of a Treatise on Prayer (_Traite de l'Oraison_) which\nI read when I was at La Trappe, and which was not, I believe, regarded\nwith favour at the Vatican?\"\n\n\"Yes, she it is. But you are making the greatest mistake in imagining\nthat her book was not approved at Rome. It was examined there, like\nevery book of the kind, through a magnifying glass, strained through a\nsieve, picked over line by line, turned inside out and upside down; but\nthe theologians employed in this pious custom-house service acknowledged\nand certified that this work, based on the soundest principles of\nmysticism, was learnedly, impeccably, desperately orthodox.\n\n\"I may add that the volume was printed privately by the Abbess herself,\nhelped by some of the nuns, in a little hand-press belonging to the\nconvent, and has never been in circulation. It is, in fact, an epitome\nof doctrine, the essential extract of her teaching, and was more\nespecially intended for those of her daughters who are unable to have\nthe benefit of her instruction and lectures, because they live away from\nSolesmes, in other convents that she has founded.\n\n\"Why in these days, when for ten years past the Benedictine Sisters have\nmade a study of Latin, when many of them translate from Hebrew and Greek\nand are skilled in exegesis, when others draw and paint the pages of\nmissals, reviving the art of the illuminators of the Middle Ages, when\nothers again--as, for instance, Mother Hildegarde--are organists of the\nhighest attainment, you may easily understand that the woman who\ndirects them all, the woman who has created in her Sisterhoods a school\nof practical mysticism and of religious art, is a very remarkable\nperson; nay, in these days of frivolous devotions and ignorant piety,\nquite unique.\"\n\n\"Why, she is one of the great Abbesses of the Middle Ages,\" cried\nDurtal.\n\n\"She is the crowning work of Dom Gueranger, who took her in hand almost\nas a child and kneaded and mollified her soul with long patience; then\nhe transplanted her into a special greenhouse, watching her growth in\nthe Lord day after day; and you see the result of this forcing and high\nculture.\"\n\n\"Yes, and even this does not hinder some persons from regarding convents\nas the homes of idleness and reservoirs of folly. When you think that\nobscure idiots write to the papers to say that nuns know nothing of the\nLatin they repeat! It would be well for them if they knew as much Latin\nas those women!\"\n\nThe Abbe smiled.\n\n\"And the secret of the Gregorian chant dwells with them,\" he went on.\n\"It is necessary not only to understand the language of the Psalms as\nthey are sung, but to appreciate meanings which are often doubtful in\nthe Vulgate, in order to express them properly. Without fervent feeling\nand knowledge, the voice is nothing.\n\n\"It may be beautiful in secular music, but it is null and void when it\nattempts the venerable sequences of plain-song.\"\n\n\"And how are the Fathers employed?\"\n\n\"They also began by restoring the liturgy and Church singing; then they\ndiscovered certain lost texts of the subtle symbolists and learned\nsaints, and collected them in a _Spicilegium_ and _Analectae_. Now they\nare editing and printing a musical Palaeography, one of the most learned\nand abstruse of modern publications.\n\n\"Still, I would not have you believe that the whole mission of the\nBenedictine Order consists in overhauling ancient manuscripts and\nreproducing ancient Antiphonals and curious chronicles. The Brother who\nhas a talent for any art devotes himself to it, no doubt, if the\nSuperior permits; on this point the rule knows no exception; but the\nreal and true aim of the Son of Saint Benedict is to sing Psalms and\npraise the Lord, to serve his apprenticeship here for his task in\nHeaven: namely, to glorify the Redeemer in words inspired by Himself,\nand in the language He spoke by the voice of David and the Prophets.\n\n\"Seven times a day the Benedictines do the homage required of the Elders\nin Heaven, as described by Saint John in the Apocalypse, and represented\nby sculptors as playing on instruments here at Chartres.\n\n\"In point of fact, their particular function is not at all to bury\nthemselves under the accumulated dust of ages, nor even to accept in\nsubstitution the sins and woes of others as the Orders of pure\nmortification do--the Carmelites and the Poor Clares. Their vocation is\nto fill the office of the Angels; it is a task of joy and peace, an\nanticipation of their inheritance of gladness beyond the grave; in fact,\nthe work which is nearest to that of purified spirits, the highest on\nearth.\n\n\"To fulfil their duty fittingly, besides ardent piety, a thorough\nknowledge of the Scriptures is required, and a refined feeling for art.\nThus a true Benedictine must be at once a saint, a learned man, and an\nartist.\"\n\n\"And what is the daily life of Solesmes?\" asked Durtal.\n\n\"Very methodical and very simple: Matins and Lauds at four in the\nmorning; at nine o'clock tierce, mass for the brethren, and sext; at\nnoon dinner; at four nones and vespers; at seven supper; at half-past\neight compline and deep silence. As you see, there is time for\nmeditation and work in the intervals between the canonical hours and\nmeals.\"\n\n\"And the oblates?\"\n\n\"What oblates? I saw none at Solesmes.\"\n\n\"Indeed--then if there are any, do they lead the same life as the\nFathers?\"\n\n\"Evidently; excepting, perhaps, some dispensations depending on the\nAbbot's favour. I can tell you this much: that in some other Benedictine\nHouses that I have visited the general system is that the oblate shall\nfollow as much of the rule as he is able for.\"\n\n\"Still, he is, I suppose, free to come and go--his actions are free?\"\n\n\"When once he has taken the oath of obedience to his Superior, and,\nafter his term of probation, has adopted the monastic habit, he is as\nmuch a monk as the rest, and consequently can do nothing without the\nFather Superior's leave.\"\n\n\"The deuce!\" muttered Durtal. \"Of course, if the ridiculous metaphor so\nfamiliar to the world were accurate, if the cloister were rightly\ncompared to a tomb, the condition of the oblate would also be tomb-like,\nonly its walls would be less air-tight, and the stone, a little tilted,\nwould admit a ray of daylight.\"\n\n\"If you like!\" said the Abbe, laughing.\n\nAs they walked, they had reached the Bishop's palace.\n\nThey went into the forecourt, and saw the Abbe Gevresin making his way\nto the gardens; they joined him, and the old priest asked them to go\nwith him to the kitchen garden, where, to oblige his housekeeper, he was\nto inspect the seeds she had sown.\n\n\"Aye, and I too promised long ago to look at the vegetables,\" exclaimed\nDurtal.\n\nThey went down the ancient paths and reached the orchard on the slope;\nand as soon as Madame Bavoil caught sight of them she grounded arms, so\nto speak, setting her foot in gardener fashion on the spade she had\nstuck into the soil.\n\nShe proudly pointed to her rows of cabbages and carrots, onions and\npeas, announced that she intended to make an attempt on the gourd tribe,\nexpatiated on cucumbers and pumpkins, and to conclude, declared that at\nthe bottom of the kitchen garden she meant to have a flower-bed.\n\nThen they sat down on a mound that formed a sort of seat.\n\nThe Abbe Plomb, in a mood for teasing, gave his spectacles a push,\nsettling the arch above his nose, and rubbing his hands, remarked, very\nseriously,--\n\n\"Madame Bavoil, flowers and vegetables are but of trivial importance\nfrom the decorative and culinary point of view; the only rule that\nshould guide you in your selection is the symbolical meaning, the\nvirtues and vices ascribed to plants. Now, I am sorry to observe that\nyour favourites are for the most part of evil augury.\"\n\n\"I do not understand you, Monsieur l'Abbe.\"\n\n\"Why, you have only to consider that these vegetables which you take\nsuch care of mean many evil things. Lentils, for instance--you grow\nlentils?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, the seeds of the lentils are very cunning and mysterious.\nArtemidorus, in his 'Interpretation of Dreams,' tells us that if we\ndream of them it is a sign of mourning; it is the same with lettuce and\nonion: they forecast misfortune. Peas are less ill-famed; but, above\nall, beware of coriander, with its leaves smelling like bugs, for it\ngives rise to all manner of evils.\n\n\"Thyme, on the contrary, according to Macer Floridus, cures snake-bites,\nfennel is a stimulant wholesome for women, and garlic taken fasting is a\npreservative against the ills we may contract from drinking strange\nwaters, or changing from place to place. So plant whole fields of\ngarlic, Madame Bavoil.\"\n\n\"The Father does not like it!\"\n\n\"And then,\" the Abbe Plomb added, very seriously, \"you must fill your\nmind from the books of Albertus Magnus, the Master of Saint Thomas\nAquinas, who in the treatises ascribed to him on the Virtues of Herbs,\nthe Wonders of the World, and the Secrets of Women, puts forth certain\nideas, which, as I may hope, will not have been written in vain.\n\n\"He tells us that the plantain-root is a cure for headache and for\nulcers; that mistletoe grown on an oak opens all locks; that celandine\nlaid on a sick man's head sings if he will die; that the juice of the\nhouse-leek will enable you to hold a hot iron without being burnt; that\nleaves of myrtle twisted into a ring will reduce an abscess; that lily\npowdered and eaten by a young maiden is an effectual test of her\nvirginity, for if she should not be innocent it takes instantaneous\neffect as a diuretic!\"\n\n\"I did not know of that property in the lily,\" said Durtal, laughing,\n\"but I knew that Albertus Magnus assigned the same peculiarity to the\nmallow; only the patient need not swallow the plant; she has only to\nstoop over it.\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" exclaimed the old priest.\n\nHis housekeeper, quite scared, stood looking at the ground.\n\n\"Do not listen to him, Madame Bavoil,\" cried Durtal. \"I have a less\nmedical, and more religious, idea: cultivate a liturgical garden and\nemblematic vegetables; make a kitchen and flower garden that may set\nforth the glory of God and carry up our prayers in their language; and,\nin short, imitate the purpose of the Song of the Three Holy Children in\nthe fiery furnace, when they called on all Nature, from the breath of\nthe storm to the seed buried in the field, to Bless the Lord!\"\n\n\"Very good!\" exclaimed the Abbe Plomb; \"but you must have a wide space\nat your disposal, for not less than one hundred and thirty plants are\nmentioned in the Scriptures; and the number of those to which mediaeval\nwriters give a meaning is immense.\"\n\n\"To say nothing of the fact,\" observed the Abbe Gevresin, \"that a garden\ndependent on our cathedral ought also to reproduce the botany of its\narchitecture.\"\n\n\"Is it known?\"\n\n\"A list has not indeed been written for Chartres as it has been for\nReims of its sculptured flora: the botany in stone of the church of\nNotre Dame there, has been carefully classified and labelled by Monsieur\nSaubinet; still, you will observe that the posies of the capitals are\nmuch the same everywhere. In all the churches of the thirteenth century\nyou will find the leaves of the vine, the oak, the rose-tree, the ivy,\nthe willow, the laurel, and the bracken, with strawberry and buttercup\nleaves. Indeed, as a rule, the image-makers selected native plants\ncharacteristic of the region where they were employed.\"\n\n\"Did they intend to express any particular idea by the capitals and\ncorbels of the columns?--At Amiens, for instance, there is a wreath of\nflowers and foliage forming the string-course above the arches of the\nnave for its whole length and continued over the cornice of the pillars.\nApart from the probable purpose of dividing the height into two equal\nparts in order to rest the eye, has this string-course any other\nmeaning? Does it embody any particular idea? Is it the expression of\nsome phrase relating to the Virgin, in whose name the cathedral is\ndedicated?\"\n\n\"I do not think so,\" said the Abbe. \"I believe that the artist who\ncarved those wreaths simply aimed at a decorative effect, and made no\nattempt to give us in symbolical language a compendium of our Mother's\nvirtues.\n\n\"Moreover, if we admit that the sculptors of the thirteenth century\nintroduced the acanthus on account of its emollient qualities, the oak\nbecause it is emblematic of strength, and the water-lily because its\nbroad leaves are accepted as a figure of charity, we ought no less to\nconclude that at the end of the fifteenth century, when the mystery of\nsymbolism was not as yet altogether lost, the toothed bunches of curled\ncabbage, of thistles and other deeply-cut leaves mingling with\ntrue-love-knots, as in the church at Brou, might have had some meaning.\nBut it is perfectly certain that these vegetable forms were chosen only\nfor their elaborately elegant growth, and the fragile and mannered grace\nof their outline. Otherwise we might assert that this later ornament has\na different tale to tell from that set forth in the flora of Reims and\nAmiens, Rouen and Chartres.\n\n\"In point of fact, the natural form which most frequently occurs in the\ncapitals of our cathedral--by no means a remarkably flowery one--is the\nepiscopal crozier as seen in the young shoots of the fern.\"\n\n\"No doubt. But does not the fern bear a symbolical meaning?\"\n\n\"In a general sense, it is emblematic of humility, evidently in allusion\nto its habit of growing as much as possible far from the high road, in\nthe depths of woods. But by consulting the Treatise of St. Hildegarde we\nlearn that the plant she calls _Fern_, or bracken, has magical\nproperties.\n\n\"Just as sunshine disperses darkness, says the Abbess of Rupertsberg,\nthe _Fern_ puts nightmares to flight. The devil hates and flees from it,\nand thunder and hail rarely fall on spots where it takes shelter; also\nthe man who wears it about him escapes witchcraft and spells.\"\n\n\"Then St. Hildegarde made a study of natural history in its relations to\nmedicine and magic?\"\n\n\"Yes; but the book remains unknown because it has never yet been\ntranslated.\n\n\"She sometimes assigns very singular talismanic virtues to certain\nflowers. Would you like some instances?\n\n\"According to her, the plantain cures anyone who has eaten or drunk\npoison, and the pimpernel has the same virtue when hung round the neck.\nMyrrh must be warmed against the body till it is quite soft, and then it\nnullifies the wizard's malignant arts, delivers the mind from phantoms,\nand is an antidote to philtres. It also puts to flight all lascivious\ndreaming, if worn on the breast or the stomach; only, as it eliminates\nevery carnal suggestion it depresses the spirit and makes it 'arid'; and\nfor this reason, adds the saint, it should never be eaten but under\ngreat necessity.\n\n\"It is true that as a remedy against the dejection caused by myrrh we\nmay apply the 'hymelsloszel' (Himmelschluessel), which is--or appears to\nbe--_Primula officinalis_, the cowslip, whose bunches of fragrant yellow\nblossoms are to be seen in moist woods and meadows. This plant is\n'warm,' and imbibes its qualities from the light. Hence it can drive\naway melancholy, which, says St. Hildegarde, spoils men's good manners,\nmaking them utter speech contrary to God, on hearing which words the\nspirits of the air gather about him who has spoken them, and finally\ndrive him mad.\n\n\"I may also tell you of the mandragora, a plant 'warm and watery,' that\nmay symbolize the human being it resembles; and it is more susceptible\nthan all other plants to the suggestion of the devil; but I would rather\nquote a recipe that you might perhaps think useful.\n\n\"Here is our Abbess's prescription _a propos_ to the iris or lily: Take\nthe tip of the root, bruise it in rancid fat, heat this ointment and rub\nit on any who are afflicted with red or white leprosy, and they will\nsoon be healed.\n\n\"But enough of these old-world recipes and counter-charms; we will study\nthe symbolism of plants.\n\n\"Flowers in general are emblematic of what is good. According to Durand\nof Mende, both flowers and trees represent good works, of which the\nvirtues are the roots; according to Honorius, the hermit, green herbs\nare for wisdom; those in flower are for progress; those in fruit are the\nperfect souls; finally, we are told by old treatises on symbolical\ntheology that all plants embody the allegory of the Resurrection, while\nthe idea of eternity attaches more particularly to the vine, the cedar\nand the palm.\"\n\n\"And you may add,\" the Abbe Gevresin put in, \"that in the Psalms the\npalm figures the righteous man, while according to the interpretation of\nGregory the Great its rugged bark and the golden strings of dates are\nemblematical of the wood of the Cross, hard to the touch, but bearing\nfruit that is sweet to those who are worthy to taste them.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Durtal, \"but supposing that Madame Bavoil should wish to\nplant a liturgical garden, what should she select for it?\n\n\"Can we, to begin with, compose a dictionary of plants representing the\ncapital sins and their antithetical virtues, sketch a basis of\noperations, and pick out by certain rules the materials at the command\nof the mystic gardener?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said the Abbe Plomb. \"At the same time, I should think\nit might be possible; only we should have to remember the names of the\nplants more or less exactly symbolizing those qualities and defects. In\nshort, what you need is a sort of language of flowers as applied to the\ncatechism. Let us try.\n\n\"For pride we have the pumpkin, which was worshipped of old as a\ndivinity in Sicyon. It bears indifferently the character of pride or of\nfertility; of fertility by reason of its multitude of seeds and its\nrapid growth, of which the monk Walafrid Strabo wrote in noble\nhexameters a whole chapter of his poem; and of pride by reason of its\nhuge hollow head and its bulk; and then we also have the cedar, which\nPeter of Capua and Saint Melito agree in accusing of pride.\n\n\"Avarice? I confess I know of no plant which represents it; we will come\nback to that.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said the Abbe Gevresin; \"Saint Eucher and Raban\nMaur speak of thorns as emblematical of riches which accumulate to the\ndetriment of the soul; and Saint Melito says that the sycamore means\ngreed of money.\"\n\n\"The poor sycamore!\" cried the younger priest. \"It has been served with\nevery sauce! Raban Maur and the Anonymous monk of Clairvaux also call it\na misbelieving Jew; Peter of Capua compares it to the Cross; Saint\nEucher calls it wisdom, and there are other meanings. But meanwhile I\nforget how far we had gone. Oh! lasciviousness; we here have ample\nchoice. Besides certain trees there is cyclamen, or sow-bread, which,\naccording to an ancient dictum of Theophrastus, is symbolical of this\nsin because it was used in the preparation of love-philtres; the nettle,\nwhich Peter of Capua says is emblematic of the unruly instincts of the\nflesh; and the tuberose, a more modern introduction, but known as far\nback as the sixteenth century, when a Minorite Father brought it to\nFrance. Its heady perfume, which disturbs the nerves, also, it is said,\nexcites the senses.\n\n\"For envy there are the bramble and the aconite, which, to be sure, is\nmore exactly assigned to calumny and scandal; and, again, the nettle,\nwhich, however, is also interpreted by Albertus Magnus as figuring\ncourage and expelling fear.\n\n\"Greediness?\" The Abbe paused to think. \"Carnivorous plants, perhaps, as\nthe fly-trap and the bog sundew.\"\n\n\"And why not the humbler _cuscuta_, the dodder, the cuttlefish of the\nvegetable kingdom, which shoots out the antennae of its stems as fine as\nthread, attaching itself to other plants by tiny suckers and feeding\ngreedily on their juices?\" asked the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Anger,\" the Abbe Plomb went on, \"is symbolized by a shrub with pinkish\nflowers, a kind of bitter-sweet, as it is popularly called, and by Herb\nBasil, which ever since the Middle Ages has had the same character\nascribed to it of cruelty and rage as to its namesake, the basilisk, in\nthe animal world.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Madame Bavoil, \"and we use it to season dishes and flavour\ncertain sauces.\"\n\n\"That is a serious culinary error and a spiritual danger,\" said the\npriest, smiling. He then went on:--\n\n\"Anger may also be figured by the balsam, which especially symbolizes\nimpatience by reason of the irritability of its seed-vessels, which fly\nat a touch and explode, sending them to some distance....\n\n\"Sloth finally has the whole tribe of poppies, which give sleep.\n\n\"As to the opposite virtues, the explanation they need is childish. For\nhumility you have the bracken, the hyssop, the knotweed, and the violet,\nwhich, says Peter of Capua, is, by that same token, emblematical of\nChrist.\"\n\n\"And likewise, according to Saint Melito, of the Confessors; or,\naccording to Saint Mechtildis, of widows,\" added the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"For indifference to the things of this world we find the lichen\nsymbolizing solitude; for chastity, the orange-flower and the lily; for\ncharity, the water-lily, the rose, and the saffron flower--so say Raban\nMaur and the Anonymous monk of Clairvaux; for temperance, the lettuce,\nwhich also stands for fasting; for meekness, mignonette; for\nwatchfulness, the elder, signifying zeal; and thyme, which, with its\nsharp, pungent aroma, symbolizes activity.\n\n\"You may dispense with the sins, which have no place in the precincts of\nOur Lady, and lay out your plots with the devout flowers.\"\n\n\"How is that to be done?\" asked the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Why,\" said Durtal, \"there are two plans. One would be to sketch the\nplan of a real church and supply the place of its statues with plants,\nwhich would be the better way from the point of view of art; or else to\ncompose a whole sanctuary with trees and shrubs.\"\n\nHe rose, and went to pick up a stick that was lying in the field.\n\n\"There,\" said he, tracing the cruciform outline of a church on the\nground, \"there you have the plan of our cathedral. Supposing now we\nbuild it, beginning at the end, the apse; there we naturally place the\nLady chapel, as we find it in most cathedrals.\n\n\"Plants emblematic of Our Lady's attributes are abundant.\"\n\n\"The mystical rose of the Litanies!\" exclaimed Madame Bavoil.\n\n\"H'm!\" said Durtal; \"the rose has been much bedraggled. Not only was it\nthe erotic blossom of Paganism, but in the Middle Ages Jews and\nprostitutes were compelled in many places to wear a rose as a\ndistinctive mark of infamy.\"\n\n\"True,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"and yet Peter of Capua uses it, with an\ninterpretation of love and charity, to figure the Virgin; Saint\nMechtildis, again, says that roses are symbolical of martyrs, and in\nanother passage of her work on 'Specific Grace,' she compares this\nflower to the virtue of patience.\"\n\n\"Walafrid Strabo, in his '_Hortulus_,' also speaks of the rose as the\nblood of the martyred saints,\" the Abbe Gevresin murmured.\n\n\"'_Rosae martyres, rubore sanguinis_,' according to the key of Saint\nMelito,\" the other priest added, in confirmation.\n\n\"We will admit that shrub,\" cried Durtal. \"Now for the lily--\"\n\n\"Here I must interrupt you,\" exclaimed the Abbe Plomb, \"for it must be\nat once understood that the lily of the Scriptures has nothing to do\nwith the flower we know by that name.\n\n\"The common white lily which grows in Europe, and which even before the\nMiddle Ages was regarded by the Church as emblematic of virginity, does\nnot seem to have existed in Palestine; and when, in the Song of Songs,\nthe mouth of the Beloved is compared to a lily, it is evidently not in\npraise of white, but of red lips. The plant spoken of in the Bible as\nthe lily of the valleys, or the lily of the fields, is neither more nor\nless than the anemone.\n\n\"This is proved by the Abbe Vigouroux. It abounds in Syria, round\nJerusalem, in Galilee, on the Mount of Olives; rising from a tuft of\ndeeply-cut, alternate leaves of a rich, dull green, the flower cup is\nlike a delicate and refined poppy; it has the air of a patrician among\nflowers, of a little Infanta, fresh and innocent in her gorgeous\nattire.\"\n\n\"It is certainly the fact,\" observed Durtal, \"that the innocence of the\nlily is far from obvious, for its scent, when you think of it, is\nanything rather than chaste. It is a mingling of honey and pepper, at\nonce acrid and mawkish, pallid but piercing; it is suggestive rather of\nthe aphrodisiac conserves of the East and the erotic sweetmeats of the\nIndies.\"\n\n\"But, after all,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"granting that there never\nwere lilies in the Holy Land--but is it so?--it is none the less certain\nthat a whole series of symbols were derived from this plant both by the\nancients and in mediaeval times.\n\n\"Look, for instance, at Origen; to him the lily is Christ, for Our Lord\nalluded to Himself when He said, 'I am the flower of the field and the\nlily of the valley;' and in these words, the field, meaning tilled land,\nrepresents the Hebrew people, taught by God Himself, while the valleys\nor fallow land are the ignorant, or, in other words, the heathen.\n\n\"Again, turn to Peter Cantor. According to him, the lily is the Virgin,\nby reason of its whiteness, of its perfume delectable above all others,\nof its healing virtues; and finally, because it grows in uncultivated\nground, as the Virgin was born of Jewish parents.\"\n\n\"As regards the therapeutic virtues mentioned by Petrus Cantor,\" said\nthe Abbe Plomb, \"I may add that the Anonymous English writer of the\nthirteenth century tells us that the lily is a sovereign remedy for\nburns, and for this cause is an image of the Virgin, who heals sinners\nof their burns--that is to say, of their vices.\"\n\n\"You may further consult Saint Methodus, Saint Mechtildis, Peter of\nCapua, and the English monk of whom you spoke, and you will find that\nthe lily is the attribute, not only of the Virgin Mary, but of virginity\nin general and of all virgins.\n\n\"And here is a posy of meanings culled from Saint Eucher, who compares\nthe whiteness of the lily to the purity of the angels; from Saint\nGregory the Great, who says its fragrance is like the works of the\nsaints; and again from Raban Maur, who speaks of the lily as emblematic\nof celestial beatitude, of the beauty of holiness, of the Church, of\nperfection, of chastity in the flesh.\"\n\n\"Not to forget that, according to the translation of Origen, the Lily\namong Thorns is the Church in the midst of its enemies,\" the Abbe Plomb\nput in.\n\n\"Then it is Jesus, His Mother, the Angels, the Church, the Virgins,\neverything at once!\" exclaimed Durtal. \"We cannot but wonder how these\nmystic gardeners could discern so many meanings in one and the same\nplant!\"\n\n\"Why, you can see: the symbolists not only considered the analogies and\nresemblances they discovered between the form, scent, and colour of a\nflower and the being with whom they compared it; they also studied the\nBible, especially the passages wherein a tree or flower was named, and\nthey then ascribed to it such qualities as were mentioned or could be\ninferred from the text. They did the same with regard to animals,\ncolours, gems, everything to which they could attribute a meaning. It is\nsimple enough.\"\n\n\"It is complicated enough!\" said Durtal. \"And now where was I?\"\n\n\"In the Lady chapel, planting roses and anemones. Now add to these a\nshrub which is the emblem of Mary according to the Anonymous monk of\nClairvaux, or of the Incarnation according to the Anonymous writer of\nTroyes, the walnut, of which the fruit is interpreted in the same sense\nby the Bishop of Sardis.\"\n\n\"And also mignonette,\" cried Durtal, \"for Sister Emmerich speaks of it\nfrequently and with much mystery. She says that this flower is very\ndear to Mary, who planted it and made much use of it.\n\n\"Then there is another plant which seems to me no less appropriate: the\nbracken--not by reason of the qualities ascribed to it by Saint\nHildegarde, but because it symbolizes the most secret and retiring\nhumility. Take one of the stoutest stems and cut it aslant, like the\nmouthpiece of a whistle, and you will find very distinctly imprinted in\nblack the form of a heraldic _fleur de lys_, as if stamped with a hot\niron. The scent being absent, we may here accept it as the symbol of\nhumility--a humility so perfect that it is undiscoverable but in death.\"\n\n\"Aha! our friend is not so ignorant of country lore as I had fancied,\"\nexclaimed Madame Bavoil.\n\n\"Oh, I wandered in the woods a little, as a child.\"\n\n\"For the choir no discussion is possible, I believe,\" said the Abbe\nGevresin. \"The eucharistic plants, the vine and corn are self-evidently\nappropriate.\n\n\"The vine, of which the Lord said '_Ego vitis sum_,' is also the emblem\nof communion and the image of the eighth beatitude; corn, which, as the\nSacramental element, was the object of peculiar care and respect in the\nMiddle Ages.\n\n\"You have only to recall the solemn ceremonial observed in certain\nconvents when the wafer was to be prepared.\n\n\"At Saint Etienne, Caen, the monks washed their face and hands, and\nkneeling before the altar of Saint Benedict, said Lauds, the seven\npenitential Psalms, and the Litanies of the Saints. Then a lay brother\npresented the mould in which the wafers were to be baked, two at a time;\nand on the day when this unleavened bread was prepared those who had\ntaken part in the ceremony dined together, and their table was served\nexactly like the Abbot's.\n\n\"At Cluny, again, three priests or three deacons, fasting after the\nabove-mentioned services of prayer, put on albs and invited the aid of\ncertain lay brethren. They mixed the flour of wheat that had been sifted\nby the novices, grain by grain, with a due quantity of water; and a monk\nwearing gloves baked the wafers one by one over a large fire of\nbrushwood, in an iron mould stamped with the proper symbols.\"\n\n\"That reminds me,\" said Durtal, as he lighted a cigarette, \"of the mill\nfor grinding the wheat for the offering.\"\n\n\"I am familiar with the mystical wine-press which was often represented\nby the glass-workers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,\" said the\nAbbe Gevresin. \"That was practically a paraphrase of Isaiah's prophetic\nverse: 'I have trodden the wine-press alone, and there was no man with\nme'; but the mystic mill is, I own, unknown to me.\"\n\n\"I have seen it once at Berne, in a window of the fifteenth century,\"\nsaid the Abbe Plomb.\n\n\"I also saw it in the cathedral at Erfurt, painted, not on glass, but on\na panel. The picture is by no known painter, and dated 1534. I can see\nit now: Above, God the Father, a good old man with a snowy beard, solemn\nand thoughtful; and the mill, like a coffee mill, fixed on the edge of a\ntable, with the drawer open below. The evangelical beasts are emptying\ninto the hopper, skins full of scrolls on which are written the\neffective Sacramental words. These scrolls are swallowed in the body of\nthe machine, and come out into the drawer, thence falling into a chalice\nheld by a Cardinal and Bishop kneeling at the table.\n\n\"And the texts are changed into a little Child in the act of blessing\nwhile the four Evangelists turn a long silver crank in the right-hand\ncorner of the panel.\"\n\n\"What seems strange,\" remarked the Abbe Gevresin, \"is that it should be\nthe formula of Transubstantiation and not the substance that is changed,\nand that the Evangelists, twice represented--under their animal and\ntheir human aspect--pour into the mill and grind. And also that the\nsacred oblation should be represented by the living flesh.\n\n\"Still, it is correct; since the consecrating words are uttered, the\nbread has ceased to be. This scheme of implied meaning, though somewhat\nstrange, in a literal presentment, a scene of actual grinding--the wheat\nin the grain, in flour, and in the Host--this obvious intention of\nignoring the species, the appearances, and substituting the reality\nwhich is invisible to sense, must have been adopted by the painter in\norder to appeal to the masses, to bear witness to the certainty of the\nMiracle and to make the mystery evident to the people. But let us return\nto the construction of our church. Where were we?\"\n\n\"Here,\" said Durtal, pointing with his stick to the side aisles as\ntraced in the sand. \"Now, to represent the side chapels we have a\nchoice. One we shall dedicate, of course, to Saint John the Baptist. To\ndistinguish it from the others we have the gilliflower and the\nground-ivy to which he has given his name, and more especially the St.\nJohn's wort, which if gathered on the eve of his festival and placed in\na room, destroys malignant spells and charms, is a protection against\nthunder, and hinders the walking of ghosts.\n\n\"It may be added that this plant, famous in the Middle Ages, was used as\na remedy for epilepsy and St. Vitus' dance, two maladies for which the\nintercession of the Precursor is most efficacious.\n\n\"We will dedicate another to Saint Peter. On his altar we may lay a posy\nof the herbs dedicated to his service by our forefathers: the primrose,\nthe wild honeysuckle, the gentian and soap-wort, pellitory and bindweed,\nwith others whose names escape me.\n\n\"But, first, will it not be our bounden duty to erect a tower for Our\nLady of the Seven Dolours, such as we find in many churches?\n\n\"The flower obviously indicated is the passion-flower; that unique\nblossom, of a purplish blue, its seed-vessel simulating the Cross, its\nstyles and stigma the Nails; its stamens mimicking the Hammer, its\nthread-like fringe the Crown of thorns--in short, it represents all the\ninstruments of the Passion. Add to this, if you will, a bunch of hyssop,\nplant a cypress, of which Saint Melito speaks as emblematical of the\nSaviour, and which Monsieur Olier regards as symbolical of death; a\nmyrtle, signifying compassion, according to a passage by Saint Gregory\nthe Great; and, above all, do not omit the buckthorn, or _Rhamnus_--for\nof that shrub the Jews twined the stems that formed Christ's crown--and\nyour chapel is complete.\"\n\n\"The buckthorn,\" said the Abbe Gevresin; \"yes, Rohant de Fleury says\nthat its thorny branches were used to crown the Son's head; but this\nleaves us wondering, when we remember that in the Old Testament, in the\nninth chapter of the Book of Judges, all the tall trees of Judaea bow\ndown before the Royalty prophetically prefigured by this humble shrub.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" replied the Abbe Plomb. \"But what is most curious is the\nnumber of absolutely dissimilar senses which the oldest symbolists\nattribute to the buckthorn. Saint Methodus uses it for virginity;\nTheodoret for sin; Saint Jerome ascribes it to the devil; and Saint\nBernard takes it as symbolizing humility. Again, in the '_Theologia\nSymbolica_' of Maximilian Sandaeus, this shrub is made to signify the\nworldly prelacy, while the olive, vine, and fig, with which the author\ncontrasts it, are the contemplative Orders. In this, no doubt, we may\nsee an allusion to the thorns which Bishops were not always unready to\nthrust on the long-suffering Heads of monasteries.\n\n\"You have forgotten, too, in the blazonry of your chapel, the reed which\nformed the sceptre of mockery forced into the Son's hands. But the reed,\nlike the buckthorn, is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. Saint Melito\ndefines it as the Incarnation and the Scriptures; Raban Maur as the\nPreacher, the hypocrite, and the Gentiles; Saint Eucher as the sinner;\nthe Anonymous monk of Clairvaux as Christ; and others which I have\nforgotten.\"\n\n\"These are many meanings for a single plant,\" observed Durtal. \"But now\nif we want to specialize some chapels as dedicated to saints, nothing\ncan be easier; at any rate, for such as have lent their names to plants.\n\n\"For instance, the Valerian, known as Herb Saint George, the white\nflower with a hollow stem, which grows in moist, places, and its popular\nname is quite intelligible since it was used in treating nervous\ndiseases, for which the saint's intercession was invoked.\n\n\"Then we have the plant or plants dedicated to Saint Roch: the\npennyroyal, and two species of _Inula_, one with bright yellow flowers,\na purgative that cures the itch. Formerly on Saint Roch's day branches\nof this herb were blessed and hung in the cow-houses to preserve the\ncattle from epidemics.\n\n\"Saint Anne's wort, a humble creeper, the samphire--an emblem of\npoverty.\n\n\"Herb Barbara, the winter-cress, a cruciferous plant, anti-scorbutic--a\npoverty-stricken flower, creeping along the wayside like a beggar.\n\n\"To Saint Fiacre is dedicated the mullein, with its emollient leaves;\nboiled to make a poultice, it relieves colic, which this saint has a\nreputation for curing.\n\n\"Saint Stephen's wort is the enchanter's nightshade, a beneficent plant\nwith red berries on a hairy stem. And there are many others.\n\n\"For the crypt, supposing we dig one out, it must certainly be filled\nwith the trees mentioned in the Old Testament, of which this portion of\nthe building is itself an allegory. In spite of climate we must grow the\nvine and the palm, emblems of eternity; the cedar, which by reason of\nits incorruptible wood is sometimes thought to symbolize the angels; the\nolive and the fig, emblems of the Holy Trinity and of the Word;\nfrankincense, cassia and _balsamodendron Myrrha_, a symbol of the\nperfect humanity of Our Lord; the terebinth--meaning exactly what?\"\n\n\"According to Peter of Capua, the Cross and the Church; but Saint Melito\nsays the saints. According to the monk of Clairvaux, it is the false\ndoctrine of the Jews and heretics; and as to the drops of resin, they\nare Christ's tears, if we may believe Saint Ambrose,\" replied the Abbe\nPlomb.\n\n\"And even so, our cathedral remains incomplete. We are but feeling our\nway, without logical sequence. I admit that at the entrance we must\nplant the purifying hyssop in the place of the holy-water vessel; but\nwith what can we build the walls unless we accept the alternative of a\nreal church having walls but unfinished?\"\n\n\"Take the figurative sense of the walls and translate that; the great\nwalls are representative of the four Evangelists, Can you find plants\nfor them?\"\n\nDurtal shook his head. \"The Evangelists are, of course, symbolized in\nthe fauna of mysticism by the animals of the Tetramorph; the twelve\napostles have their synonyms in the category of gems, and two of the\nEvangelists are naturally to be found there: Saint John is associated\nwith the emerald, the emblem of purity and faith; Saint Matthew with the\nchrysolite, the emblem of wisdom and watchfulness; but none, so far as I\nknow, has found a representative among either trees or flowers. And yet,\nto be sure, Saint John has the sun-flower, signifying divine\ninspiration; for he is represented in a window in the church of Saint\nRemy at Reims, his head crowned with a nimbus surmounted by two of these\nflowers.\"\n\n\"Saint Mark, too, has a plant--the tansy, so named in the Middle Ages.\"\n\n\"The tansy?\"\n\n\"Yes; a bitter, aromatic plant with yellow flowers, which grows in stony\nground, and is used in medicine as an anti-spasmodic. Like Saint\nGeorge's herb, it is used in nervous maladies, the intercession of\nSaint Mark being, it would seem, of sovereign efficacy.\n\n\"As to Saint Luke, he may be represented by clumps of mignonette, for\nSister Emmerich tells us that while he was a physician it was his\nfavourite remedy. He macerated mignonette in palm oil, and after\nblessing it, applied the unction in the form of a cross on the brow and\nmouth of his patients; in other cases he used the dried plant in an\ninfusion.\n\n\"Only Saint Matthew remains; but here I give in, for I know of no\nvegetable species that can reasonably be assigned to him.\"\n\n\"Nay, do not think it hopeless,\" cried the Abbe Plomb. \"A mediaeval\nlegend tells us that balms exuded from his tomb; hence he was\nrepresented as holding a branch of cinnamon, symbolical of the fragrance\nof virtue, says Saint Melito.\"\n\n\"Well, it would be better to accept the real walls of a church, making\nuse of the structure, and limiting ourselves to completing the idea by\ndetails borrowed from the symbolism of flowers.\"\n\n\"And the sacristy?\" suggested the Abbe Gevresin.\n\n\"Since, according to the _Rationale_ of Durand of Mende, the sacristy is\nthe very bosom of the Virgin, we will represent it by virginal plants\nsuch as the anemone, and trees such as the cedar, which Saint Ildefonso\ncompares to Our Mother. And now, if we are to furnish the instruments of\nworship, we shall find in the ritual of the liturgy and in the very form\nof certain plants almost precise guidance. Thus, flax, of which the\ncornice and altar napery is to be woven, is indispensable; the olive and\nthe _balsamum_, from which oil and balm are extracted, and frankincense,\nwhich sheds the drops of gum for the incense, are no less indicated. For\nthe chalice we may choose from among the flowers which goldsmiths take\nas their models: the white convolvulus, the frail campanula, and even\nthe tulip, though, having some repute as connected with magic, that\nflower is in ill odour. For the shape of the monstrance there is the\nsun-flower.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" interrupted the Abbe Plomb, wiping his spectacles, \"but these are\nfancies borrowed simply from superficial resemblance; it is modern\nsymbolism, which is really not symbolism at all. And is not this the\ncase to a great extent with the various interpretations that you accept\nfrom Sister Emmerich? She died in 1824.\"\n\n\"What does that matter?\" said Durtal. \"Sister Emmerich was a primitive\nsaint, a seer, whose body indeed lived in our day, but whose soul was\nfar away; she dwelt more in the Middle Ages than in ours. It might be\nsaid indeed that she was more ancient still, for, in fact, she was\ncontemporary with Christ, whose life she follows step by step through\nher pages.\n\n\"Hence her ideas of symbolism cannot be set aside. To me they are of\nequal authority with those of Saint Mechtildis, who was born in the\nearly part of the thirteenth century.\n\n\"In point of fact, the source whence they both alike derived them is the\nsame. And what is time, or past or present, when we speak of God?\n\n\"These women were the sieves through which His grace was poured, and\nwhat need I care whether the instruments were of yesterday or to-day?\nThe word of the Lord is supreme over the ages; His inspiration blows\nwhen and where it lists. Is not that true?\"\n\n\"I quite agree.\"\n\n\"And all this time,\" said the housekeeper, \"you do not think of making\nuse in your building of the iris, which my good Jeanne de Matel regards\nas an emblem of peace.\"\n\n\"Oh, we will find a place for it, Madame Bavoil, never fear. And there\nis yet another plant which we must not omit; the trefoil, for sculptors\nhave strewn it broadcast in their stony gardens, and the trefoil, like\nthe fruit of the almond tree, which shows the elongated nimbus, is an\nemblem of the Holy Trinity.\n\n\"Suppose we recapitulate:\n\n\"At the end of the nave, in the shell of the apse, in front of a\nsemicircle of tall bracken turned brown by autumn, we see a flaming\nassumption of climbing roses hedging a bed of red and white anemones,\nedged with the sober green of mignonette. And to give variety by adding\nsymbols of humility--the knotweed, the violet, and the hyssop--we may\nform a posy of which the meaning will represent the perfect virtues of\nOur Mother.\n\n\"Now,\" said he, pointing with his stick to the plan of the nave he had\ntraced, \"here is the altar, overgrown with red-leaved vines, purple or\npearly grapes, sheaves of golden corn. Ah! but we must have a cross over\nthe altar.\"\n\n\"That will not be difficult,\" replied the Abbe Gevresin. \"From the grain\nof mustard seed, which all the symbolists accept in a figurative sense\nas representing Christ, to the sycamore and the terebinth, you have a\nwide range; you can at pleasure have a tiny cross, a mere nothing, or a\ngigantic crucifix.\"\n\n\"Here,\" Durtal went on, \"along the bays where trefoils flourish,\ndifferent flowers rise from the ground, corresponding to the saints of\ntheir ascription; here is the chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Dolours,\nrecognizable by the passion-flower full blown on its creeping stem, with\nits many tendrils; and the background is a hedge of reeds and rhamnus,\nfull of sad meaning, mitigated by the compassionate myrtle.\n\n\"Here, again, is the sacristy, where smiles the soft blue flax on its\nlight stem, the abundant flowers of the convolvulus and campanula, tall\nsun-flowers, and, if you choose, a palm, for I recollect that Sister\nEmmerich speaks of this tree as a paragon of chastity, because, she\nsays, the male and female flowers are separate, and both kept modestly\nhidden. Another interpretation to the credit of the palm!\"\n\n\"But after all, you are absurd, our friend!\" cried Madame Bavoil. \"All\nthis will not hold together. Your plants are the growth of different\nclimates, and in any case they could not all be in bloom at the same\ntime; consequently, by the time you have planted this, that will be\ndead. You can never grow them side by side.\"\n\n\"That is symbolical of many unfinished cathedrals, where the building is\ncarried across from century to century,\" said Durtal, snapping his\nstick. \"But listen, fancy apart, there is something which may be done,\nand has not been done, for celestial botany and pious posies.\n\n\"That is, to make a liturgical garden, a true Benedictine garden, where\nflowers may be grown in succession for the sake of their relations to\nthe Scriptures and hagiology. Would it not be delightful to follow out\nthe liturgy of prayer with that of plants, to place them side by side in\nthe sanctuary, to deck the altars with flowers all having their meanings\naccording to the days and festivals; in short, to associate nature in\nits most exquisite manifestation--that is, its flowers--with the\nceremonies of divine worship?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed!\" exclaimed both the priests with one accord.\n\n\"Meanwhile, till these fine things are accomplished, I will be content\nto dig in my little kitchen garden with an eye to the savoury stews in\nwhich you shall share,\" said Madame Bavoil. \"There I am in my element; I\ndo not lose my footing as I do in your imitation churches.\"\n\n\"And I, on my part, will meditate on the symbolism of eatables,\" said\nDurtal, taking out his watch. \"It is near breakfast time.\"\n\nAs he was going off, the Abbe Plomb called him back and said,\nlaughing,--\n\n\"In your future cathedral you have forgotten to reserve a nook for Saint\nColumba, if, indeed, we can find some ascetic plant native, or at any\nrate common, to Ireland, the land where this Father was born.\"\n\n\"The thistle, figurative of mortification and penance and a memento of\nasceticism, is conspicuous as the badge of Scotland,\" replied Durtal.\n\"But why Saint Columba?\"\n\n\"Because of all saints he is the most neglected, the least invoked by\nthose of our contemporaries who ought to be most assiduous; since he is\nregarded in the attributions of special virtues as the patron saint of\nidiots.\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" cried the Abbe Gevresin. \"Why, if ever a man revealed a\nmagnificent comprehension of things human and divine, it was that great\nAbbot and founder of monasteries!\"\n\n\"Oh! there is no suggestion implied that Saint Columba was feeble of\nbrain; and as to why the mission was trusted to him rather than another\nof protecting the greater part of the human race, I do not know.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he may have cured lunatics and healed those possessed?\" the\nAbbe Gevresin suggested.\n\n\"At any rate,\" said Durtal, \"it would be vain to erect a chapel to him,\nsince it would always be empty; no one would come to entreat him, poor\nsaint! for the essential mark of an idiot is not to think himself one!\"\n\n\"A saint out of work!\" remarked Madame Bavoil.\n\n\"And who is not likely to find any,\" said Durtal, as he left them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nDurtal had begged his housekeeper, Madame Mesurat, to serve his coffee\nin his study. He thus hoped to escape having her constantly standing in\nfront of him, as she did all through his meal, asking him if his\nmutton-cutlet were good.\n\nAnd though that meat had a taste of flannel, Durtal had nodded a sketchy\naffirmative, knowing full well that if he ventured on the least comment\nhe would have to endure an incoherent harangue on all the butchers in\nthe town.\n\nAs soon as this woman, at once servile, despotic, and obsequious, had\nplaced his cup on the table, he buried his nose in a book, and by his\nrepellent attitude compelled her to fly.\n\nHe knew the book he was turning over almost by heart, for he had often\nread it between the hours of service at the cathedral. It was so\nentirely sympathetic to him, with its artless faith and ingenuous\nenthusiasm, that it was to him like the familiar speech of the Church\nitself.\n\nThe little volume contained the prayers composed in the fourteenth\ncentury by Gaston Phoebus, Comte de Foix. Durtal had it in two editions,\none printed in the original form of his authentic words and antiquated\nspelling, by the Abbe de Madaune; the other modernized, but with great\nskill and taste, by Monsieur de la Briere.\n\nDurtal, as he turned the pages, came on such lamentable and humble\nprayers as these: \"Thou who hast shapened me in my mother's womb, let me\nnot perish.... Lord, I confess my poverty.... My conscience gnaws me and\nshows me the secrets of my heart. Avarice constrains me, concupiscence\nbefouls me, gluttony disgraces me, anger torments me, inconstancy\ncrushes me, indolence oppresses me, hypocrisy beguiles me.... and these,\nLord, are the companions with whom I have spent my youth, these are the\nfriends I have known, these are the masters I have served.\" And further\non he exclaims, \"Sin have I heaped upon sin, and the sins which I could\nnot commit in very deed yet have I committed by evil desire.\"\n\nDurtal closed the volume, regretting that it should be so entirely\nunknown to Catholics. They were all busy chewing the cud of the old hay\nleft at the heading or end of the \"Christian's Day\" or \"The Eucologia,\"\nor meditating on the pompous prayers elaborated in the ponderous\nphraseology of the seventeenth century, in which there is no accent of\nsincerity to be found--nothing, not an appeal that comes from the heart,\nnot even a pious cry!\n\nHow far were these rhapsodies all cast in the same mould from this\npenitent and simple language, from this easy and candid communion of the\nsoul with God?\n\nThen Durtal dipped again here and there, and read:--\n\n\"My God and my Mercy, I am ashamed to pray to Thee for very shame of my\nevil conscience; give a fountain of tears to my eyes, and my hands\nlargess of alms and charity; give me a seemly faith, and hope, and\nabiding charity. Lord, Thou holdest no man in horror save the fool that\ndenies Thee. Oh, my God, the Giver of My Redemption and Receiver of my\nsoul, I have sinned and Thou hast suffered me!\"\n\nThen, turning over a few more pages, he came at the end of the volume to\na few passages collected by Monsieur de la Briere, among them these\nreflections on the Eucharist culled from a manuscript of the fifteenth\ncentury:--\n\n\"Not every man can assimilate this meat; some there be who eat it not,\nbut swallow it down in haste. It should be chewed as much as possible\nwith the teeth of the understanding, to the end that the sweet of its\nsavour be pressed out of it, and may come forth from it. Ye have heard\nit said that in nature, that which is most crushed is most nourishing;\nnow the crushing of the teeth is our deep and keen meditation on the\nSacrament itself.\"\n\nThen, after having elucidated the individual use of each tooth, the\nauthor adds, in speaking of the fifteenth, \"the Sacrament on the altar\nis not merely as meat to fill and refill us; but, which is more, to make\nus divine.\"\n\n\"Lord!\" murmured Durtal, laying down the book. \"O Lord! If we allowed\nourselves nowadays to use such materialistic comparisons and make use of\nsuch homely terms in speaking of Thy supremely adorable Body, what a\nclamour would arise from the 'respectable' among the worshippers and the\nblessed legion of the good women who have comfortable praying-chairs and\nreserved places near the altar--like front seats in a theatre--in the\nHouse where all are equal.\"\n\nAnd Durtal pondered over these reflections which assailed him every time\nhe happened to take up a clerical journal or one of the Manuals\nintroduced by some prelate's note of approval, like a clean bill of\nhealth.\n\nHe could never get over his amazement at the incredible ignorance, the\ninstinctive aversion for art, the type of ideas, the terror of words,\npeculiar to Catholics. Why was this? For after all there was no reason\nwhy believers should be more ignorant and stupid than any other folks.\nIndeed, the contrary ought to be the truth.\n\nWhence did this inferiority proceed? And Durtal could answer himself. It\nwas due to the system of education, to the training in intellectual\ntimidity, to the lessons in fear, given in a cellar, far from a vital\natmosphere and the light of day. It really seemed as if there were some\nintention of emasculating souls by nourishing them on dried-up\nfragments, literary white-meat; some set purpose of destroying all\nindependence and initiative in the disciples by levelling them, crushing\nthem all under the same roller, and restricting the sphere of thought by\nmaintaining a deliberate ignorance of art and literature.\n\nAnd all merely to avert the temptation of forbidden fruit, of which the\nidea was suggested under the pretext of inspiring dread of it. By this\nmethod curiosity with regard to the veiled unknown tormented their young\nbrains and excited their senses, for it was always in the background,\nand in a form all the more dangerous because it had the effect of a more\nor less transparent gauze. The imagination could not fail to exasperate\nitself by cogitating its desire to know and its fear of knowing, and it\nwas ready to fly off at the least word.\n\nUnder these circumstances the most anodyne book was a source of danger\nfrom the simple fact that love was alluded to, and woman depicted as an\nattractive creature; and this was enough to account for all--for the\ninherent ignorance of Catholics, since it was proclaimed as the\npreventive cure for temptations--for the instinctive horror of art,\nsince to these craven souls every written and studied work was in its\nnature a vehicle of sin and an incitement to fall.\n\nWould it not really be far more sensible and judicious to open the\nwindows, to air the rooms, to treat these souls as manly beings, to\nteach them not to be so much afraid of their own flesh, to inculcate the\nfirmness and courage needed for resistance? For really it is rather like\na dog which barks at your heels and snaps at your legs if you are afraid\nof him, but who beats a retreat if you turn on him boldly and drive him\noff.\n\nThe fact remains that these schemes of education have resulted, on the\none hand, in the triumph of the flesh in the greater number of men who\nhave been thus brought up and then thrown into a worldly life, and on\nthe other, in a wide diffusion of folly and fear, an abandonment of the\npossessions of the intellect and the capitulation of the Catholic army\nsurrendering without a blow to the inroads of profane literature, which\ntakes possession of territory that it has not even had the trouble of\nconquering.\n\nThis really was madness! The Church had created art, had cherished it\nfor centuries; and now by the effeteness of her sons she was cast into a\ncorner. All the great movements of our day, one after the\nother--romanticism, naturalism--had been effected independently of her,\nor even against her will.\n\nIf a book were not restricted to the simplest tales, or pleasing fiction\nending in virtue rewarded and vice punished, that was enough; the\npropriety of beadledom was at once ready to bray.\n\nAs soon as the most modern form of art, the most malleable and the\nbroadest--the Novel--touched on scenes of real life, depicted passion,\nbecame a psychological study, an effort of analysis, the army of bigots\nfell back all along the line. The Catholic force, which might have been\nthought better prepared than any others to contest the ground which\ntheology had long since explored, retired in good order, satisfied to\ncover its retreat by firing from a safe distance, with its old-fashioned\nmatch-lock blunderbusses, on works it had neither inspired nor written.\n\nThe Church party, centuries behind the time, and having made no attempt\nto follow the evolution of style in the course of ages, now turned to\nthe rustic who can scarcely read; it did not understand more than half\nof the words used by modern writers, and had become, it must be said, a\ncamp of the illiterate. Incapable of distinguishing the good from the\nbad, it included in one condemnation the filth of pornography and real\nworks of art; in short, it ended by emitting such folly and talking such\npreposterous nonsense, that it fell into utter discredit and ceased to\ncount at all.\n\nAnd it would have been so easy for it to work on a little way, to try to\nkeep up with the times, and to understand, to convince itself whether in\nany given work the author was writing up the Flesh, glorifying it,\npraising it, and nothing more, or whether, on the contrary, he depicted\nit merely to buffet it--hating it. And, again, it would have done well\nto convince itself that there is a chaste as well as a prurient nude,\nand that it should not cry shame on every picture in which the nude is\nshown. Above all, it ought to have recognized that vices may well be\ndepicted and studied with a view to exciting disgust of them and showing\ntheir horrors.\n\nFor, after all, this was the great theory of the Middle Ages, the\ntheological method in sculpture, the literary dogma of the monks of that\ntime; and this is the meaning and purpose of certain groups which even\nnow shock the propriety of our methodistical purists. These unseemly\nsubjects and images of indecency are very numerous at Saint Benoit on\nthe Loire, in the cathedral of Reims, at le Mans, in the crypt at\nBourges, everywhere in our churches; for in those where they do not\noccur, it is because the prudery which was most rife in the most immoral\ntimes, broke them by stoning them in the name of a morality very unlike\nthat which was inculcated by the mediaeval saints.\n\nThese subjects have for many years been the delight of Freethinkers and\nthe despair of Catholics; those see in them a scathing satire on the\nmanners of the monks and bishops, these lament that such turpitude\nshould ever have fouled the walls of the Temple. And yet it would have\nbeen so easy to explain the purpose of these scenes; far from seeking to\napologize for the tolerance of the Church that allowed them, her honesty\nand breadth should have been held up to admiration. By acting thus, the\nChurch manifested her determination to inure her sons by showing them\nthe ridiculous side of the temptations which assail them. It was, so to\nspeak, an object lesson or demonstration, and at the same time a bidding\nto self-examination before venturing into the sanctuary which was thus\nprefaced by a catalogue of sins as a reminder to confession.\n\nThis was part of her plan of education, for she aimed at moulding manly\nsouls and not crippled creatures such as are turned out by the spiritual\northopedists of our day; she dragged out vice and lashed it wherever it\nlurked, and did not hesitate to preach the equality of men before God,\ninsisting that bishops and monks should, when guilty, be placed in the\npillory of its doorways; nay, she gibbeted them more willingly than\nothers, to set an example.\n\nThese scenes were practically a comment of the Sixth (Seventh)\nCommandment, a sculptured paraphrase of the Catechism; the Church's\naccusation and teaching plainly expressed so as to be understood of all\nmen.\n\nAnd Our Mother did not restrict herself to one mode only of expressing\nHer warnings and reproofs; to reiterate them she borrowed the language\nof other arts. Literature and the pulpit were inevitably the\ninterpreters that she employed to vituperate the sins of the people.\n\nAnd they were not a whit more prudish or less audacious than sculpture.\nWe have only to open the books of the Church to convince ourselves of\nthe violent language in which she was wont to lash the sins of the\nflesh. Beginning with the Scriptures, the Bible itself--which no one\ndares read now but in mawkish French versions--what priest, for\ninstance, would venture to recommend to the nerveless spirit of his\nflock the study of the sixteenth chapter of Ezekiel or of the Song of\nSongs, that Epithalamium of Jesus and the Soul--down to the Fathers and\nthe Doctors?\n\nHow our modern Pharisees would reprove the uncompromising language of\nSaint Gregory the Great when he exclaims, \"Speak the truth! A scandal is\nbetter than a lie;\" or Saint Epiphanius' plain speaking in discussing\nthe Gnostics and describing in detail the abominations of that sect,\nquietly adding in the face of the congregation, \"Why should I shrink\nfrom speaking of the things you do not fear to do? By speaking thus, I\nhope to fill you with horror of the turpitude you commit.\"\n\nOr what would they think of Saint Bernard expatiating in his third\nmeditation on horrible physiological details to demonstrate the baseness\nof our carnal ambition and the foulness of our pleasures? Or of Saint\nHildegarde, who placidly discusses the various factors of such\npleasures, Saint Vincent Ferrier freely dealing in his sermons with the\nsins of Onan and of Sodom, using the simplest language, and comparing\nconfession to a purgative, and asserting that the priest, like a doctor,\nshould examine the excreta of the soul and prescribe for it?\n\nWhat reprobation would be poured on the splendid passage by Odo of Cluny\nquoted by Remy de Gourmont in his \"Latin Mystique,\" the passage where\nthat terrible monk analyzes the attractions of woman, turns them over,\neviscerates them, and flings them aside like a drawn rabbit on a\nbutcher's stall; and again on Clement of Alexandria, who sums the whole\nmatter up in two sentences:--\n\n\"I am not ashamed to name the parts of the body wherein the foetus is\nformed and nourished; and why indeed should I be, since God was not\nashamed to create them?\"\n\nNone of the great writers of the Church were prudish. This mock-modesty\nwhich has so long stultified us dates actually from the ages of impiety,\nthe period of paganism, the return on threadbare classicism which was\nknown as the Renaissance; and see how it has developed since! Its\nhot-bed and nursery ground lay in the lewd and gorgeous years of the\nso-called _Grand-siecle_; the virus of Jansenism, the old Protestant\ntaint mingled with the blood of Catholics, and pollutes it still.\n\n\"It is very true! And pretty results have come of this infection of\ndecency!\" Durtal burst out laughing as he thought of the cathedral at\nChartres.\n\n\"Here,\" said he to himself, \"we reach the climax; pious imbecility can\ngo no further. Among the subjects in sculpture in the ambulatory of the\nchoir there is a group representing the Circumcision, Saint Joseph\nholding the Infant while the Virgin has a napkin ready and the High\nPriest is preparing to operate. And there has been a priest so modest, a\ndivine so decorous as to regard this scene as licentious and to paste a\npiece of paper over the Child's nakedness!\n\n\"The indecency of God, the obscenity of a new-born Babe is too much!\n\n\"Bah!\" said he. \"The time has slipped away in all this meditation, and\nthe Abbe will be waiting.\"\n\nHe ran quickly downstairs and hurried across to the cathedral, where the\nAbbe Plomb was pacing to and fro in front of the northern porch,\nreciting his Breviary.\n\n\"The side where sinners and demons are figured is especially that of the\nVirgin, who saves those and crushes these,\" said the Abbe. \"The northern\nporch of a church is usually the most lively of all; here, however, the\nSatanic incidents are on the southern side, because they form part of\nthe Last Judgment represented over the south door. Otherwise Chartres,\nunlike her sister cathedrals, would have no scenes of that kind.\"\n\n\"Then the rule in the thirteenth century was to place the Virgin in the\nnorthern portion?\"\n\n\"Yes. To the men of that time the north meant the gloom of winter, the\ndejection of darkness, the misery of cold; the ice-bound chant of the\nwinds was to them the very blast of evil; to the north was the home of\nthe devil, the hell of nature, as the south was its Eden.\"\n\n\"But that is absurd!\" cried Durtal, \"the greatest blunder ever\nintroduced into the symbolism of the elements. The medieval sages were\nmistaken, for snow is pure and cold is chastity. It is the sun, on the\ncontrary, that is the active agent in developing the germs of\nrottenness, the ferment of vice!\n\n\"They forget that the third Psalm of Compline speaks of the hot hour of\nnoon as the most harassing and dangerous of all; they must have\noverlooked the horrors of sweat and unwholesome heat, the risks of\nrelaxed nerves, of loosened dresses, all the abominations of leaden\nclouds and hard blue skies!\n\n\"There are diabolical effluvia in the storm, and in weather when the air\nstirs like the vapours from a furnace, rousing evil instincts and\nbringing about us the raging swarm of evil angels.\"\n\n\"But remember the passages in which Isaiah and Jeremiah speak of Lucifer\nas dwelling in the blast of the north wind; and recollect that the great\ncathedrals did not originate in the south but in the middle and north of\nFrance; consequently, after having adopted this symbolism of seasons and\nweather, the pious architects dreamed of the horror of men buried in\nsnow, and longing for a gleam of sunshine and a bright day. Naturally\nthey thought of the east as the region of the original Paradise, and of\nthose lands as milder and less inclement than their own.\"\n\n\"That does not hinder the fact that this theory was controverted by Our\nLord Himself.\"\n\n\"Where do you find that?\" asked the Abbe Plomb.\n\n\"On Calvary; Jesus died\" turning His back to the south, which had\ncrucified Him, and extending His arms on the Cross to bless and embrace\nthe north. He seemed to be withdrawing His favours from the east, 'to\nbestow them on the west. Hence, if any region is accurst and inhabited\nby Satan, it is the south and not the north.\"\n\n\"You abominate the south and its races, that is evident,\" said the Abbe,\nlaughing.\n\n\"I do not love them. Their scenery, vulgarized by crude daylight, their\ndusty trees standing out against a sky of washerwoman's blue, have no\ncharm for me; as to the natives, hairy and noisy, with a blue bar under\ntheir nostrils if they shave, I flee from them!\"\n\n\"Here, in short, we are face to face with a fact which no discussions\ncan alter. This side of the church is dedicated to the Virgin. Shall we\nnow examine it, first as a whole, and then in detail?\n\n\"This portal, brought forward like an open porch, a sort of verandah in\nfront of the doors, is an allegory of the Saviour showing the way into\nthe heavenly Jerusalem. It was begun in the year 1215 under Philip\nAugustus, and finished by about 1275, under Philip the Bold; thus it was\nnearly sixty years in building, the greater part of the thirteenth\ncentury. It is divided into three parts, corresponding to the three\ndoors behind it; there are more than seven hundred statues grouped here,\nlarge and small, representing, for the most part, personages from the\nOld Testament.\n\n\"It forms, in fact, three deep bays or gulfs.\n\n\"The central portal, before which we are standing, and which leads to\nthe middle door, has for its subject the Glorification of the Virgin.\n\n\"The left-hand bay contains the life and virtues of the Virgin.\n\n\"The right-hand bay is devoted to images of Mary Herself.\n\n\"According to another interpretation, put forward by Canon Davin, this\nporch, which was built at the time when Saint Dominic instituted the\nRosary, is a reproduction in images of its mysteries.\"\n\n\"On that theory, the left-hand arch, containing the scenes of the\nAnnunciation, the Visitation, and the Nativity, answers to the Joyful\nMysteries; the central bay, containing the Assumption and Coronation of\nthe Virgin, to the Glorious Mysteries; and that to the right, where we\nfind a presentment of Job, precursor of the Crucifixion under the\nancient law, to the Sorrowful Mysteries.\"\n\n\"There is a third interpretation,\" said Durtal, \"but it is ridiculous.\nThat of Didron, who regards this front as the first page of the Book of\nChartres. He opens it at this porch, and asserts that the sculptors\nbegan to render the Encyclopedia of Vincent de Beauvais by representing\nthe creation of the world. But if so, where are those wonderful\nrepresentations of Genesis hidden?\"\n\n\"There,\" said the Abbe, pointing to a row of statuettes lost in a hollow\nmoulding at the very edge of the porch.\n\n\"But to ascribe so much importance to tiny figures which, after all, are\nthere merely to fill up, as stop-gaps--it is preposterous!\" cried\nDurtal.\n\n\"No doubt. But now let us examine the work.\n\n\"You will observe in the first place that, in opposition to the ritual\nobserved in most of the great churches of the time--those of Amiens,\nReims, and Paris, to name but three--it is not the Virgin who stands on\nthe pillar between the two halves of the door, but Her Mother, Saint\nAnne; and inside, in the windows, we find the same thing: Saint Anne, as\na negress, her head bound in a blue kerchief, holds Mary in her arms, as\nbrown as a half-caste.\"\n\n\"Why is this?\"\n\n\"No doubt because the Emperor Beaudouin, after the sack of\nConstantinople, bestowed that Saint's head on this cathedral.\n\n\"The ten colossal statues placed on each side of Her in the niches of\nthe porch are familiar to you, for they attend Our Lady in every\nsanctuary of the thirteenth century--in Paris, at Amiens, at Rouen,\nReims, Bourges, and Sens. The five to the left are a series figurative\nof the Son; the five on the right symbolize Our Lord Himself. They\nstand in chronological order: the prototypes of the Messiah, or the\nProphets who foretold His birth, death, resurrection, and everlasting\npriesthood.\n\n\"To the left, Melchizedec, Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and David; to the\nright, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Simeon, Saint John the Baptist, and Saint\nPeter.\"\n\n\"But why,\" remarked Durtal, \"is the son of Jonas in the midst of the Old\nTestament? His place is not there, but in the Gospels.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you will observe that Saint Peter here stands next to Saint\nJohn the Baptist; the two statues are side by side and touch each other.\nThen do you not perceive the meaning of this juxtaposition? One was the\nPrecursor and the other the Successor of Christ; the first anticipated\nHim, the second carried out His mission. It was quite natural to place\nthem together, and that the Chief of the Apostles should figure as the\nconclusion to the premisses set forth by the other statues of this\nportal.\n\n\"Finally, in addition to this series of patriarchs and prophets, you may\nsee there, in the hollow between the pilasters, a pair of statues, one\non each side of the door: Elijah the Tishbite, and Elisha his disciple.\n\n\"The first prefigures the Saviour's Ascension by his being carried up\nalive to Heaven in a chariot of fire; the second typifies Jesus saving\nand preserving mankind in the person of the Shunammite's son.\n\n\"Argument is vain,\" murmured Durtal, who was meditative. \"The Messianic\nprophecies are irresistible. All the logic of the Rabbins, the\nProtestants, the Freethinkers, all the ingenuity of the Germans, have\nfailed to find a crack or to undermine the old rock of the Church. There\nis such a body of evidence, such certainty, such demonstration of the\ntruth, such an indestructible foundation, that a man must be stricken\nwith spiritual blindness to dare deny it.\"\n\n\"Yes: and to the end that there should be no mistake, no possibility of\nalleging that the inspired Scriptures were written subsequent to the\narrival of the Messiah they prophesy, to prove that they were neither\ninvented nor added to after the event, it was God's pleasure that they\nshould be translated into Greek in the Septuagint version and known to\nthe whole world more than two hundred and fifty years before the birth\nof Christ.\"\n\n\"To imagine the impossible--supposing the Gospels were to be\nannihilated, they could, I suppose, be restored, and a brief history\nwritten of the Saviour's life as they relate it merely by studying the\nMessianic announcements in the books of the Prophets?\"\n\n\"No doubt; for, after all, and it cannot be too often repeated, the Old\nTestament is the story before the event of the Son of Man and the\nfounding of His Church; as Saint Augustine bears witness, 'the whole\nhistory of the Jewish people was a perpetual prophecy of the expected\nKing.'\n\n\"You will see, apart from personages prefiguring the Redeemer which you\nmay find in every page of the Bible: Isaac, Joseph, Moses, David, Jonah,\nto name five taken at random; apart, too, from the animals and objects\nthat symbolized Him under the Old Laws, as, for instance, the Paschal\nLamb, the Manna, the Brazen Serpent, and others, we can, if you please,\nsimply by quoting the Prophets, trace the broad outlines of Emmanuel's\nlife and epitomize the Gospels in a few words. Listen!\"\n\nThe Abbe paused for thought, his hand over his eyes.\n\n\"That he should be born of a Virgin is foretold by Isaiah, Jeremiah, and\nEzekiel--that this Advent should be preceded by a special messenger,\nSaint John, is noted by Malachi, whom Isaiah confirms, adding for\ngreater certainty that he should be as 'the voice of one crying in the\nWilderness.'\n\n\"The place of His birth, Bethlehem, is mentioned by Micah; the adoration\nof the Magi, offering gold, myrrh and frankincense, is announced by\nIsaiah and the Psalm ascribed to Solomon.\n\n\"His youth and His calling are clearly suggested by Ezekiel, who speaks\nof Him as seeking the lost sheep, and by Isaiah, who tells beforehand of\nthe miracles He would perform on the blind and the deaf and dumb, and\nwho finally declares that He will be 'a stone of stumbling' to the Jews.\n\n\"But it is when they speak of His Passion and Death that the prophecies\nbecome mathematically exact, incredibly precise. The offering of palm\nbranches, the betrayal by Judas, and the price of thirty pieces of\nsilver appear in Zechariah; and Isaiah takes up the parable to describe\nthe rejection and opprobrium of Calvary: 'He was wounded for our\ntransgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.... The Lord hath laid\non Him the iniquity of us all.... He was despised and rejected of men; a\nman of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.... He was brought as a lamb\nto the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb.'\n\n\"David expatiates on the dreadful scene: 'He was a worm and no man, a\nvery scorn of men and the outcast of the people.'\n\n\"Details are multiplied. The wounds in His hands are spoken of by\nZechariah; David enumerates the circumstances of the Passion, word for\nword: the pierced hands, the division of His raiment, casting lots for\nthe robe. The hooting of the Jews, bidding Him to save Himself if He be\nthe Son of God, is mentioned in chapter ii. of the Book of Wisdom, and\nagain by David; the gall and the vinegar offered Him on the Cross and\nthe very words of Jesus giving up the ghost are to be found in the\nPsalms.\n\n\"Nor is this the last of the prophecies to be found in the Old\nTestament.\n\n\"Its prophetic mission is carried out to the end. The establishment of\nthe Church in the place of the Synagogue is foretold by Ezekiel, Isaiah,\nJoel, and Micah; and the Mass, the Eucharistic Sacrament, is plainly\nadumbrated by Malachi, who declared that for the offerings of the Old\nLaw offered only in the Temple at Jerusalem shall be substituted 'a pure\noffering to be offered in every place and by all nations'--by priests\nchosen from among all people, Isaiah adds, and David says after the\norder of Melchizedec.\n\n\"Pascal very truly remarks that 'the fulfilment of the prophecies is a\nperpetual miracle, and that no other proof is needed to show the divine\norigin of the Christian Religion.'\"\n\nDurtal had gone closer to the statues, standing by Saint Anne, and was\nlooking at one on the left wearing a pointed cap, a sort of papal tiara\nwith a crown round the edge, robed in an alb girt round the middle with\nknotted cord, and a large cope with a fringe; the features were grave,\nalmost anxious, and the eye fixed with an absorbed gaze into the\ndistance. This figure held a censer in one hand, and in the other a\nchalice covered with a paten on which there was a loaf; and this image\nof Melchizedec, the King of Salem, threw Durtal into a deep reverie.\n\nHe was, in fact, one of the most mysterious types of the Holy\nScriptures--this monarch mentioned in Genesis as the Priest of the Most\nHigh God. He consummates the sacrifice of bread and wine, blesses Abram,\nreceives tithes from him, and then vanishes into the darkness of\nhistory. And suddenly his name is found in a psalm of David's, who\ndeclares that the Messiah is a priest for ever after the order of\nMelchizedec, and again he is lost without leaving a trace.\n\nThen quite unexpectedly he reappears in the New Testament, and what\nSaint Paul says of him in the Epistle to the Hebrews makes him more\nenigmatical than ever. The apostle speaks of him as \"without father,\nwithout mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days nor\nend of life, but made like unto the Son of God, abiding a priest\ncontinually.\" Saint Paul is explicit to show how great a person he\nwas--and the dim light he casts on this figure goes out.\n\n\"You must confess that this King of Salem is a puzzle. What do the\ncommentators think of him?\" asked Durtal.\n\n\"They say but little. Only Saint Jerome observes that when Saint Paul\nspeaks of him as without parents, without descent, without beginning,\nand without end, he does not mean to convey that Melchizedec came down\nfrom Heaven or was created _ab initio_ like the first man, by the\nAncient of Days. The phrase simply means that he is introduced into the\nhistory of Abraham without our knowing whence he came, who he was, when\nhe was born, or at what time he died.\n\n\"In fact, the inscrutable part played by this prototype of Jesus in the\ncanonical Scriptures has led to the most grotesque legends and heresies.\n\n\"Some have asserted that he was Shem, the son of Noah; others have\nthought that he was Ham. Simon Logothetes considers him an Egyptian;\nSuidas believes him to have belonged to the accursed race of Canaanites,\nand that this is why the Bible says nothing of his ancestry.\n\n\"The gnostics revered him as an Eon superior to Jesus; and in the third\ncentury Theodore le Changeur also asserted that he was not a man, but a\nvirtue transcending Christ, because Christ's priesthood was but a copy\nof Melchizedec's.\n\n\"According to another sect, he was neither more nor less than the\nParaclete. But come, in the absence of early Scriptures what do the\nseers say? Does Sister Emmerich speak of him?\"\n\n\"She tells us nothing precise,\" replied Durtal. \"To her he was a sort of\npriestly angel charged with the preparation for the great Act of\nRedemption.\"\n\n\"That is very much the view held by Origen and Didymus, who also\nascribed to him the angelic nature.\"\n\n\"Thus she perceives him long before the advent of Abram in various\ndesert spots of Palestine; he unlocks the springs of Jordan, and in\nanother passage of the life of Christ she adds that it was he who taught\nthe Hebrews the culture of wheat and of the vine. In fact, she throws no\nlight on this insoluble enigma.\"\n\n\"From the artist's point of view,\" Durtal went on, \"Melchizedec is one\nof the best statues in this porch. But what a strange face is that of\nhis neighbour Abraham, seen only three-quarters full, with hair like\nrolled grass, a beard like a river god, and a long nose straight from\nthe forehead, coming down between the eyes without a bridge, like the\nproboscis of a tapir, with cheeks that seem swollen with cold, and a\nlook--how shall I describe it?--of a conjuror who has made away with his\nson's head.\"\n\n\"In point of fact, he is listening to the commands of the angel, whom he\ncannot see; observe, below on the pedestal the ram caught in the\nthicket, and the symbolism is evident.\n\n\"This is the Father sacrificing his Son, and Isaac is the very image of\nthe Son--Isaac bearing the wood to fire the altar, as Jesus bore the\nCross; then the ram becomes figurative of the Saviour, and the bush in\nwhich he is caught by the horns is symbolical of the Crown of Thorns.\n\n\"To do full justice to this subject and to the teaching by figures that\nit contains, we ought also to have had the Patriarch's two wives carved\non the supporting pillar or plinth, and his other son Ishmael. For, as\nyou know, these two women are emblems, Hagar of the Old Dispensation,\nand Sarah of the New; the former disappears to make way for the second,\nthe Old Law being merely the preparation for the New; and the two sons\nborn of these two mothers are by analogy the children of the Books, and\nthus Ishmael represents the Israelites, and Isaac the Christians.\n\n\"Next to Abraham, the father of believers, stands Moses, as a symbol of\nChrist; for the deliverance of Israel is an image of the Redemption of\nMan snatched by the Saviour from the devil, just as the passage of the\nRed Sea is an image of Baptism. He holds the Table of the Law and the\nstaff round which the Brazen Serpent is twined. Then comes Samuel, in\nmany ways typical of Christ, the founder of the Royal Priesthood and of\nPontifical Kingship; and last of all, David holding the Lamb and Crown\nof Calvary.\n\n\"I need hardly remind you that this Prophet-King, more than any other\npersonage, prefigured the sorrows of the Messiah, and that he too, to\nmake the resemblance more perfect, had his Judas in the person of\nAchitophel, who, like the later traitor, hanged himself.\"\n\n\"You must admit,\" said Durtal, \"that these statues, before which the\nhistorians of this cathedral go into ecstasies, declaring in chorus they\nare the highest achievement of thirteenth-century sculpture, are far\ninferior to those of the twelfth century that adorn the great north\nporch. How evident is the lowering of the divine standard! Their action\nis freer, no doubt, and the play of drapery is broader. The rhubarb-stem\nplaits of the robes are fuller, and have some movement, but where is the\ngrace as of a sculptured soul that we see in the royal porch? All these\nstatues, with their massive heads, are thick-set and mute, devoid of\ncommunicative life. This is pious work--fine work, if you will--but\ndevoid of the 'beyond'; here is art indeed, but it has ceased to be\nmysticism.\n\n\"Look at St. Anne with her gloomy expression, either cross or\nsuffering--how far she is from the so-called Radegonde and Berthe!\n\n\"With the exception of two, St. John and St. Joseph over there in the\ninnermost part of the arch, these are familiar figures. They also occur\nat Reims and at Amiens. And do you remember the Simeon, the Virgin, and\nthe St. Anne at Reims? The Virgin so guilelessly charming, so\nexquisitely chaste, holding out the Infant to Simeon, who stands mild\nand devout in his solemn garb as High Priest. St. Anne--a head of the\nsame type as St. Joseph's, and as those of two angels on the same\nfrontal, standing by St. Nicasius, with his head cut off at the\nbrows--St. Anne with a smiling, arch expression and yet elderly--a sharp\nlittle chin, large eyes, a thin, long, pointed nose, the look of a\nyouthful duena, kindly but knowing.\n\n\"But, indeed, those image-makers excelled in creating these singular,\nindefinable countenances. Do you recall Our Lady of Paris, later, I\nbelieve, by a century? She is scarcely pretty, but so expressive, with\nthe smile of happiness parting such melancholy lips. Seen from one side\nShe is smiling at Jesus, watchful, almost sportive; it would seem as\nthough she were waiting for the Child to say some merry word before\nlaughing out; She is a girl-mother, not yet accustomed to her Child's\ncaress. Seen from another angle, this smile, apparently in the bud, has\nvanished. The mouth is puckered in sorrow, and promises tears.\n\n\"Perhaps when he succeeded in stamping on the face of Our Lady two such\nopposite expressions of peace and of fear, the sculptor intended to\nsuggest at once the joy of the Nativity and the anticipated anguish of\nCalvary. Thus he has portrayed in one and the same image, the Mother of\nSorrows and the Mother of Joy--has, without knowing it, embodied the\nprototypes of the Virgin of La Salette and the Virgin of Lourdes.\n\n\"And yet all this is inferior to the living and dignified art, so full\nof individuality and mystery, that we see in the royal porch of\nChartres!\"\n\n\"I will not contradict you,\" said the Abbe Plomb. \"Now that we have\nstudied the series of types placed on St. Anne's left hand, let us\nconsider the prophetic series on her right.\n\n\"First we see Isaiah; the pedestal on which he stands represents Jesse\nsleeping. The familiar stem, rooted in him, passes between the prophet's\nfeet, and the branches of the Virgin's ancestry according to the flesh\nand the spirit, as they rise, fill the four courses of moulding in the\ncentral arch. By his side is Jeremiah, who, meditating on the Passion of\nChrist, wrote this lamentable passage which is read in the fifth lesson\nof the second Nocturn on Easter Eve: 'All ye that pass by, behold and\nsee if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow.' Next Simeon holding the\nInfant whose Birth he had foreseen, at the same time with the sorrows of\nthe Virgin and the anguish of Golgotha; Saint John the Baptist, and\nfinally Saint Peter, whose dress is an interesting study since it is\ncopied from that of the thirteenth-century Popes.\n\n\"With what care is every detail wrought! Admire the treatment of the\nsandals, the gloves, the broidered amice, the alb, the maniple, the\ndalmatic, the pallium marked with six crosses, the triple crown, the\nconical tiara of brocaded silk, the pontifical breastplate, everything\nis chiselled, pierced, and patterned as if by a goldsmith.\"\n\n\"Very true. But how superior altogether is the Saint John to his fellows\non this front. What mastery we discern in that hollow, emaciated face,\nas expressive as the others are dull. He is apart from the conventional\nand hackneyed type. He stands upright, savage but mild, with his beard\nin curling prongs, his lean frame, his raiment of camel-skin; we can\nhear him speaking as he points to the Lamb carrying the hastate cross\nsurrounded by a nimbus, pressing it to his bosom with both hands. That\nstatue is sublime, and it is most certainly not by the same hand that\ncarved the Abraham, nor even his immediate neighbour, Samuel. This\nprophet appears to be offering to David, who cares not, a lamb he is\nfeeling, head downwards. He is a butcher pricing his goods, weighing the\nmeat, inviting you to feel it, and hesitating to sell till he gets the\nbest price. How different from the Saint John!\"\n\n\"The tympanum of the door will have no charm for us,\" the Abbe went on.\n\"The death of the Virgin, Her assumption and coronation are more curious\nto read of in the Golden Legend than to study in those has-reliefs which\nare but an epitome.\n\n\"We will proceed to the left-hand doorway.\n\n\"It is much mutilated, in a lamentable state of ruin. Most of the large\nstatues have disappeared. There were once, it would seem, as on the\nroyal porch of Notre Dame at Paris and the southern porch at Reims, the\nfigures of the Synagogue and the Church; also Leah and Rachel, typifying\nthe active and the contemplative life, of which we shall decipher the\ndetails recorded in the archivolt.\n\n\"Of the large figures that remain, three are regarded as masterpieces:\nthe Virgin, Saint Elizabeth, and Daniel.\n\n\"That is saying a great deal,\" cried Durtal. \"They are stupid-looking\nand the drapery is cold; the arrangement of their robes recalls the\nGreek peplum; they have a prophetic savour of the Renaissance.\"\n\n\"I will not contradict you; but what is really attractive is the scheme\nof ideas expressed by the figures in the hollow mouldings of the arch\nof this portal, based on an equilateral triangle. As to the tympanum,\nwhich displays the Nativity, the calling of the Shepherds of Bethlehem,\nthe dream and adoration of the Kings, it is marred and worn by time; nor\nis it in a style of art that can move us deeply.\n\n\"Study the mouldings of the arch with the four rows of images that adorn\nthem. First the inner one, with its ten torch-bearing angels; the\nsecond, illustrating the parable of the wise and foolish virgins; the\nthird, representing the _Psychomachia_, or struggle between the Virtues\nand the Vices; the fourth, a row of twelve queens embodying the twelve\nfruits of the Spirit; and linger over the enchanting series of statues\nin the moulding at the very edge of the archway of the porch,\nrepresenting the occupations of the active and the contemplative life.\n\n\"The active life, on the left, is imagined in accordance with the\npicture of the virtuous woman in the last chapter of Proverbs. She is\nseen washing wool in a bowl, carding it, stripping the flax, beating it,\nspinning it on a distaff, and winding it into hanks.\n\n\"On the right is seen the contemplative life; a woman praying, holding a\nclosed book, opening it, reading it; she shuts it to meditate on it,\nteaches others, and falls into an ecstasy.\n\n\"Finally, in the outermost hollow of the moulding of the arch, the\nnearest to us and the most visible, there are fourteen statues of\nqueens, leaning on shields with coats-of-arms, and formerly holding\nbanners. The meaning of these statuettes has been much discussed,\nespecially of the second figure on the left, which is named '_Libertas_'\nthe word being carved in the stone. Didron believed them to represent\nthe domestic and social virtues; but the question has been finally and\ndefinitively settled by the most erudite and clearsighted symbolist of\nour day, Madame Felicie d'Ayzac, who, in a very edifying pamphlet\npublished in 1843 on these statues and on the animals of the Tetramorph,\nhas proved to demonstration that these fourteen queens are none else\nthan the fourteen heavenly Beatitudes as enumerated by Saint Anselm:\nBeauty, Liberty, Honour, Joy, Pleasure, Agility, Strength, Concord,\nFriendship, Length of Days, Power, Health, Safety, and Wisdom.\n\n\"Is not this porch, as a whole, so closely set with imagery, one of the\nmost ingenious and interesting doorways known, from the points of view\nof theology and of mysticism alike?\"\n\n\"And no less from the point of view of art. You are perfectly right;\nthese toiling and meditative women are so delicate and so loving, that\nwe can but regret that they should be hidden in the shadow of a cavern.\nWhat artists must those have been who worked thus for the glory of God\nand for their own satisfaction, creating marvels while knowing that no\nman would see them!\"\n\n\"And they had not even the vanity to sign them; they were always\nanonymous.\"\n\n\"Ah! they were men of a different mould from us. Prouder souls, and\nhumbler.\"\n\n\"And holier,\" added the Abbe. \"Shall we now inquire into the iconography\nof the right-hand portal? It has suffered less, and may be explained in\na few words.\n\n\"This sculptured vault is, as you know, dedicated to types of Mary; but\nwe might more accurately say that it is devoted to prototypes of Christ,\nfor in this doorway, as in the other two, indeed, the image-makers of\nthe thirteenth century have made it their task to identity the Son with\nthe Mother.\"\n\n\"In fact, most of the personages we have already studied relate more\nespecially to Christ. What, then, are those in the Old Testament, which\nare more essentially proper to the daughter of Joachim, and transferred\nin images of stone to be deciphered here?\"\n\n\"The allegories of the Virgin in the Scriptures are numberless. Whole\nbooks, as the Song of Songs and the Book of Wisdom, allude in every\nverse to Her beauty and wisdom. As to the non-human emblems that may be\napplied to Her, you know them well: Noah's Ark, in which the Redeemer\ndwells; the Dove, the Rainbow, as a sign of alliance between the Lord\nand the earth; the burning bush whence came out the name of God; the\ncloud of fire guiding Israel in the desert; the Rod of Aaron which alone\nblossomed of those of the twelve tribes taken by Moses; the Ark of the\nCovenant; Gideon's fleece; and a whole series, if possible, more\nobviously representative; David's tower; Solomon's throne; the garden\nenclosed and the fountain sealed of the Canticle; the dial of Ahaz;\nElijah's saving cloud; Ezekiel's doorway--and I mention none but those\nof which the interpretation has received the seal and sanction of the\nFathers and Doctors of the Church.\n\n\"As to the living beings that prefigured Her on earth, instances abound;\nthe greater part of the famous women of the Old Testament are but\nanticipatory images of Her graces. Sarah, to whom an angel foretells the\nbirth of a son who is himself a type of the Son; Miriam, the sister of\nMoses, who, by saving her brother from the river, freed the Jews;\nJephthah's daughter; Deborah, the prophetess; Jael, who, like the\nVirgin, was called Blessed among women; Hannah, the mother of Samuel,\nwhose song of praise seems like a forecast of the _Magnificat_;\nJehosheba preserving Joash from the fury of Athaliah, as the Virgin\nafterwards saved Jesus from the wrath of Herod; Ruth personifying both\nthe contemplative and the active life; Rebecca, Rachel, Abigail,\nSolomon's mother, the mother of the Maccabees, who witnessed the death\nof her sons; and again those whose names are inscribed under these\narches; Judith and Esther, the first representative of courageous\nchastity, and the second of mercy and justice.\"\n\n\"However, to avoid confusion, we will follow the statues in order as\nthey stand in this porch, three on each side.\n\n\"On the left Balaam, the Queen of Sheba and Solomon.\n\n\"On the right, Jesus the son of Sirach, Judith or Esther, and Joseph.\"\n\n\"Balaam is this statue of a worthy peasant, smug and friendly, smiling\nin his beard, a stick in his hand and a hat like a pie-dish; and the\nQueen of Sheba, the woman who bends forward a little, looking as if she\nwere cross-questioning and arguing over some deed she condemned. But\nwhat have these two persons to do with the life of the Virgin?\"\n\n\"Balaam is a type of the Messiah. It was he who prophesied that a star\nshould come out of Jacob and a sceptre rise out of Israel. As to the\nQueen of Sheba, according to the teaching of the Fathers, she is an\nimage of the Church; Solomon's spouse, as the Church is the spouse of\nChrist.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" muttered Durtal to himself. \"The thirteenth century could\nnot give a fitting presentment of that queen, whom we picture to\nourselves as dressed with foolish magnificence, rocking on a camel\nacross the desert at the head of a caravan under the blazing sky across\nthe furnace of sand. Her charms have appealed to writers, and not the\nsmallest of them; Flaubert for one--this Queen Balkis, Mekida or\nNicaule. But in the '_Tentation de Saint Antoine_' she has failed to\nassume any form but that of a puerile and flimsy creature, a skipping\nand lisping puppet. In fact, no one but Gustave Moreau, the painter of\nSalome, could represent the woman, a virgin and a courtesan, a casuist\nand a coquette. He only could give life, under the flowered panoply of\ndress and the blazing gorget of jewels, to the crowned foreign face,\nwith its smile as of an artless sphinx, come from so far to ask enigmas.\nSuch a woman is too complicated for the spirit and the ingenuous art of\nthe Middle Ages.\n\n\"Indeed, the sculptured image is neither mysterious nor suggestive. She\nis hardly pretty, and stands in the obsequious attitude of an advocate.\nSolomon looks like a jovial good fellow. The two effigies on the other\nside of the door might perhaps invite attention if they were not so\ncompletely crushed by the third. Again a question. By what right does\nthe author of that admirable book 'Ecclesiastes' find a place in these\nranks of honour?\"\n\n\"Jesus the son of Sirach prefigures the Messiah as a Prophet and a\nDoctor. As to the figure next to him, it may equally well be Judith or\nEsther: her identity is doubtful; there is nothing that can help us to\ndetermine it.\n\n\"At any rate, as I told you but now, each is a harbinger of the Virgin.\nAs to Joseph persecuted and sold, a slave raised almost to the throne,\nthe merciful protector of his people, he is the prototype of Christ.\"\n\nDurtal paused to gaze up at the beardless face, with curling hair cut\nclose round. The youth wore a tunic under a surcoat embroidered round\nthe neck, and he stood motionless, a sceptre in his hand. He might be a\nvery young monk, humble, simple, and so far advanced in the mystic road\nthat he was unconscious of it. This statue was undoubtedly a portrait,\nand it seemed certain that some refined and innocent novice had served\nas a model to the artist. It was the work of a chastened and happy soul\nsuperior to the crowd. \"This one, even more than the St. John, is a\nperfect dream,\" said Durtal to the Abbe, who assented with a nod, and\nwent on,--\n\n\"The sculptures over the arches are practically invisible, for you must\ndislocate your neck to see them. Nor is the art they display exciting.\nOnly the subjects are interesting. Besides a row of angels bearing stars\nand torches, they represent the achievements of Gideon; the story of\nSamson, who, when a prisoner, rose in the night, and carrying away the\ngates of Gaza, escaped from the town, as Christ broke the gates of\ndeath, and escaped alive from His sepulchre; the history of Tobit, as a\ndivine paragon of mercy and patience; and finally, in the corner we find\na replica of the grand porch, the signs of the zodiac, and a calendar in\nsculptured stone.\n\n\"The tympanum, as you see, is divided into two portions.\n\n\"In the upper part we see the Judgment of Solomon, as figuring the Sun\nof Justice, Christ Himself.\n\n\"In the lower half Job lies stretched on his dunghill, and the Messiah,\nof whom he is a prototype, comes, supported by two angels, to give him a\npalm-branch.\n\n\"To complete the elucidation of the symbolism of these doorways, it now\nonly remains to glance at the three arches of the porch that precedes\nthem. Here we see chiefly the benefactors of the cathedral and the\nsaints of the See; also, mingled with these, certain prophets for whom\nthere was not room in the arches of the doors. This vestibule is, so to\nspeak, a postscript, a supplement added to the work.\n\n\"Here, where we stand in the right-hand arch are Saint Potentien, the\nfirst apostle of Chartres, and Saint Modesta, the daughter of Quirinus,\nthe Governor of the city, who killed her because she would not deny\nChrist. Here you see Ferdinand of Castille. He presented certain windows\ndistinguished by his arms, _gules, three castles or_, side by side with\nthe azure shield and fleur-de-lys of France, in the principal window of\nthis front. Next to him that shrewd and severe face is probably that of\nBaruch, the judge, and here, barefoot and burthened with a penitent's\nsatchel, you see Saint Louis, who loaded the cathedral with gifts and\ninaugurated its use.\n\n\"Under the porch of the middle door are two vacant pedestals, on which\nformerly stood the effigies of Philip Augustus and Richard Coeur de\nLion, two of the most liberal donors to the church. On the other plinths\nstand the Comte and Comtesse de Boulogne, a buxom dame with masculine\nfeatures, wearing a biretta; a prophet who is nameless, but no doubt\nEzekiel, for he is missing from the series in this porch; Louis VIII.,\nSaint Louis' father; and, finally, that king's sister Isabella, who\nfounded the Abbey of Longchamps under the rule of Saint Clare. She is\ndressed as a nun, and next her in the shadow is a personage of the Old\nDispensation carrying a censer, like Melchizedec. Remark, too, the firm\nand solemn mien of that priest, Zacharias, the father of John the\nBaptist, whose canticle '_Benedictus_' foretells the blessings of\nChrist.\n\n\"Thus ends our review of this wonderful text-book of the Old Testament\ntypes, and the historical memorial of those benefactors whose gifts\nendowed the church with this sculptured imagery of the Ancient Word.\"\n\nDurtal lighted a cigarette, and they walked up and down in front of the\npalace railing.\n\n\"Setting aside the question of art,\" said Durtal, \"in this long array of\nChrist's ancestors there is one--David--who really confounds me, for he\nis the most complex of all; at once so august and so small! he is quite\npuzzling!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, only think of the life of the man who was by turns shepherd,\nwarrior, and outlaw chief, an omnipotent king and a fugitive without\neither hearth or home; who was a wonderful poet and an exact prophet and\nseer! And is not the monarch's character even more enigmatical than his\ncareer?\n\n\"He was mild and indulgent, devoid of rancour and hatred, and yet he was\nferocious. Remember the punishments he inflicted on the Ammonites; his\nvengeance was appalling. He had them sawn asunder, cut them with harrows\nof iron, and made them pass through the brick-kiln.\n\n\"He was loyal, wholly devoted to the Lord, and just; but he committed\nthe crime of adultery, and ordered the death of the husband he had\nbetrayed. What contradictions!\"\n\n\"To understand David,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"you must not think of him\napart from his surroundings, nor take him out of the age in which he\nlived, otherwise you measure him by the ideas of our own time, and that\nis absurd. In the Asiatic conception of royalty, adultery was almost\npermitted to a being whom his subjects regarded as superior to the\ncommon run of humanity; besides, women were then as a species of cattle\nbelonging almost absolutely to him as the despot and supreme master. It\nwas but the exercise of his regal power, as has been plainly shown by\nMonsieur Dieulafoy in his study of that king. And, on the other hand, if\nhe is accused of tortures and bloodshed, why, the whole of the Old\nTestament is full of them! Jehovah Himself pours out blood like water,\nand exterminates men as if they were flies. It is well not to forget\nthat the world then still lived under the Law of Fear. So it is not very\nsurprising that, with a view to terrifying his enemies, whose manners\nand customs were not indeed any milder than his own, he should have\ntortured the inhabitants of Rabbah and baked the Ammonites.\n\n\"But in contrast to these acts of violence and the sins which he\nexpiated, see how generous he was to Saul, and admire the magnanimity\nand charity of the man whom the followers of Renan would have us regard\nas a bandit chief and outlaw. Remember, too, that he taught the world,\nas yet ignorant, the virtues which at a later time Christ was to\npreach--humility in its most touching form, and repentance in its\nbitterest shape. When the prophet Nathan reproved him for the murder of\nUriah, he confessed his sin with tears, fell on his face before God,\nbravely accepted the most terrible punishment: incest and murder in his\nfamily, the rebellion and death of his son, treason, misery, and a\ndesperate flight in the woods; and with what urgency he implores for\npardon in the '_Miserere_,' with what love and contrition he cries to\nthe God he had offended!\n\n\"He was a man whose vices were small and few if compared with those of\nthe kings of his time--of admirable and exceptional virtues if compared\nwith those of sovereigns of any time of every age. Why, then, fail to\nunderstand that God should have chosen him as a precursor? Besides,\nJesus came to ransom sinners, He took upon Himself the sins of the whole\nworld. Was it not natural, then, that He should take to prefigure Him, a\nman who, like others, had sinned?\"\n\n\"Yes; that is true, no doubt.\"\n\nAnd that evening, when he was away from the Abbe Plomb, from whom he\nparted on the church steps, as Durtal stretched himself on his bed, he\nrecapitulated in his memory this theory of the Old Testament personages\nand the sculpture in the porch.\n\n\"To epitomize this north front,\" said he to himself, \"it must be\nregarded as an abridged history of the Redemption prepared so long\nbeforehand, a table of sacred history, a compendium of the Mosaic Law,\nand at the same time foreshadowing the Christian law.\n\n\"The vocation of the Jewish nation is set forth in these three doorways,\ntheir whole mission from Abraham to Moses; from Moses to the Babylonian\nCaptivity; from the Captivity till the death of Christ, comprehending\nthree phases of its history: the making of Israel, its independent\nexistence, its life among the Gentiles.\n\n\"And how slowly, with what difficulty, was this fusion of tribes\nachieved! With what waste and what ejection of dross! What massacres\nwere needed to discipline those rapacious wanderers, to quell the greed\nand licentiousness of the race!\"\n\nAnd in a succession of bewildering images he beheld the irruption into\nJudaea of the headlong and indignant prophets, hurling imprecations\nagainst the crimes of the kings and the atrocities of that unstable race\nperpetually tempted by the voluptuous worships of Asia, always rebelling\nand complaining, and ready to break the iron bit with which Moses had\nsubdued them.\n\nAnd prominent in this group of declaiming judges, towering above the\nmasses, he saw Samuel, the man of contradictions, going whither the Lord\ndrove him, achieving work which he was destined to overthrow, creating\nthe monarchy which he reprobated, consecrating a fanatic king--a sort of\nmadman, who passes across behind the transparent sheet of history with\nfrantic and threatening gestures; and then Samuel has to overwhelm this\nextraordinary Saul under the burthen of his curses, to anoint David\nking--David, whom another prophet is to accuse of his crimes. And these\ninspired men succeed each other, continuing from year to year their task\nof guardians of the public soul, watching over the consciences of judges\nand kings, expectant of the Divine word, and ready to proclaim it over\nthe head of the crowd; announcing disasters, ending often as martyrs,\nprominent from beginning to end of the sacred annals till they disappear\nin John beheaded by an Herodias!\n\nThen came Elijah, cursing the worship of Baal, contending with the\ndreadful Jezebel; Elijah founding the first society of monks, the only\nman of the Old Testament history except Enoch who did not die; and\nElisha, his disciple; the greater prophets Isaiah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah,\nand Daniel, and the groups of minor prophets announcing the advent of\nthe Son, rising up in commination or lamentation, threatening or\ncomforting the people.\n\nThe whole history of Israel flowed along in a torrent of curses, rivers\nof blood, oceans of tears!\n\nThis dismal procession at last oppressed Durtal. With closed eyes he\nsuddenly beheld a patriarch who stood before him, and he recognized with\nawe that this was Moses, an old man with a beard like a cataract, hair\nsweeping his shoulders, a master workman whose powerful hands had\nkneaded those rough Hebrews and coagulated their medley hordes. He was\nindeed father and lawgiver to this people.\n\nFacing the scene on Calvary there rose before him the scene on Sinai,\nthe close and the opening of the great chronicle of the nation that was\ndispersed by its own crime, enclosing the whole purpose of its existence\nin the space between those two hills.\n\nA terrific spectacle! Moses alone on the smoking height, while\nlightnings rend the clouds and the mountain trembles at the sound of the\ninvisible trumpet. Below, the awe-stricken people fly; and Moses,\nunmoved amid the roar of thunder and the repeated fires of lightning,\nlistens to Him who Is, and who dictates the terms of His protection of\nIsrael; and then Moses, with shining face, descends from the Mount,\nwhich, according to St. John Damascene, is the type of the Virgin's\nWomb, as the smoke that rises from it is that of the desires and flames\nof the Holy Spirit.\n\nSuddenly this picture vanished; the Patriarch remained, and by his side\nappeared the first High Priest of the worship of Jehovah, whom the\nsculptors had omitted to represent on the exterior of the porch, but\nwhose image the glass-workers have portrayed in a window of the same\nfront; Aaron, the great Pontiff, anointed by Moses.\n\nAnd this ceremony, during which Moses conferred the order of priesthood\non the person and the descendants of his elder brother, arose before\nDurtal's fancy as a terrific scene. The details he had formerly read of\nthis ordination, the ceremonies lasting seven days, recurred to his\nmind. After ablution and the anointing with oil, the holocaust of\nvictims began. Flesh sputtered on the walls, mingling the black stench\nof burnt fat with the blue vapour of incense; the Patriarch anointed the\nright ear and thumb and foot of Aaron and his sons with blood; then,\ntaking up the flesh of the sacrifice, he placed them in the hands of the\nnew-made priests, who rocked first on one foot and then on the other,\nthus waving the offerings above the altar.\n\nThen all bowed their heads under a shower of oil mingled with blood with\nwhich the Consecrator inundated them. They looked like slaughterers from\nthe shambles and lamp trimmers, all sprinkled as they were with clots of\nred mire, on which glistened yellow eyes.\n\nAnd then, as in the swift change of magic-lantern slides, this savage\nscene, this worn-out symbol of a splendid and subtle liturgy, stammered\nout in a hoarse voice, disappeared, giving way to the solemn array of\nLevites and priests marching in procession under the guidance of Aaron,\nresplendent in his turban with the crown of gold above it, in his purple\nrobe, on its hem the open pomegranates of scarlet and blue, with\ntinkling bells of gold; and he wore the linen ephod, girt with a girdle,\nblue and purple and scarlet, and kept in its place by shoulder-pieces\nfastened with onyx stones, his breastplate in a blaze, flashing sparks\nthat lighted up as he moved in the twelve gems of the breastplate.\n\nAgain the scene changed. He beheld an amazing palace; under the shade of\nits domes of giddy height, tropical trees and flowers were planted by\ntepid pools; monkeys sported there, hanging in bunches to the boughs,\nwhile long-drawn, insinuating melodies were scraped on stringed\ninstruments, and the rattle of tambourines made the eyed plumes quiver\nin the peacocks' outspread tails.\n\nIn this strange hot-bed, filled with clumps of flowers and of women,\nthis immense harem where his seven hundred princesses and his three\nhundred concubines disported themselves, Solomon watched the whirl of\ndances, gazed at the living hedge of women, seen against the background\nof gold-plated walls, their bodies clothed only in the transparent veil\nof vapour rising from resins burning on tripods.\n\nHe appeared as a typical Eastern monarch, a sort of Khalif or Sultan, or\nfairy-tale Rajah--the prodigious king at once polygamous, unbridled,\ninsatiable by luxury, and learned, artistic, peace-loving, the wisest\namong men. In advance of the ideas of his time, he was the great builder\nin Israel, and the commerce of the country was of his making. He left\nsuch a reputation for wisdom and justice that he came at last to be\nregarded as an enchanter and wizard. Even Josephus tells us that he\nwrote a book of Magic, of incantations for laying evil spirits; in the\nMiddle Ages he was said to have owned a magic ring, charms, forms of\nevocation, secrets for exorcism; and in all these legends the image of\nthe king becomes confused.\n\nAnd he would remain to this day a figure out of the Thousand and One\nNights, were it not that in the decline of his glory we see him as a\ngrandiose image of the mournfulness of life, the vanity of joy, the\nnothingness of man.\n\nHis old age was melancholy. Exhausted and governed by women, he denied\nGod and sacrificed to idols. We discern in him wide gaps, vast clearings\nin the soul. Weary of everything, sick of enjoyment, and drunken with\nsin, he wrote some admirable reflections and anticipated the blackest\npessimism of our day, summing up the misery of him who endures the\ncondemnation of living, in phrases that are its final expression. What\ndistress is that of the Preacher: All the days of man are sorrow, and\nhis travail grief; better is the day of death than the day of birth; all\nis vanity and vexation of spirit.\n\nAfter his death, too, the old king remains a mystery. Had he expiated\nhis apostacy and his fall? Was he, like his fathers, received into\nAbraham's bosom? And the greatest writers of the Church have not agreed\nabout it.\n\nAccording to St. Irenaeus, St. Hilary, St. Cyril of Jerusalem, St.\nAmbrose, and St. Jerome, his penance was accomplished, and he is saved.\n\nAccording to Tertullian, St. Cyprian, St. Augustine, and St. Gregory the\nGreat, he did not repent to amendment, and so he is damned.\n\nDurtal turned over in his bed and tried to lose consciousness.\nEverything was in confusion in his brain, and at last he fell into\ndisturbed slumbers mingled with hideous nightmares, in which he saw\nMadame Mesurat standing in the place of the queen on a pedestal in the\nporch; and Durtal fumed at her ugliness, raging against the Canons, to\nwhom he vainly appealed to remove his housekeeper and replace the queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nThis church symbolism, this psychology of the cathedral, this study of\nthe soul of the sanctuary, so entirely overlooked since mediaeval times\nby those professors of monumental physiology called archaeologists and\narchitects, so much interested Durtal that he was able by its help to\nforget for some hours the turmoil and struggles of his soul; but the\nmoment he ceased to ponder on the inner sense of things seen, he was as\nbad as ever.\n\nThe sort of requisition he had laid before the Abbe Gevresin, to put an\nend to his tossing and decide for him one way or the other, was\ndistracting while it terrified him.\n\nThe cloister! He must reflect a long time before making up his mind to\nimprison himself. And the _pros_ and _cons_ tormented him in endless\nalternation.\n\n\"Here I am just where I was before I set out for La Trappe!\" said he to\nhimself, \"and the decision to be taken is even more serious; for Notre\nDame de l'Atre was but a temporary refuge. I knew when I went there that\nI should not stay; it was a painful time to be endured, but it was only\na short time; whereas at this moment I have to come to a determination\nfrom which there is no turning back, to go to a place where, if I once\nshut myself in, I must stay till I die. It is imprisonment for life,\nwith no mitigation of the penalty, no pardon and release; and the Abbe\ntalks as if it were the simplest thing!\n\n\"What am I to do? Renounce all freedom, be nothing but a machine, a\nchattel, in the hands of a man I do not know--God knows I am willing!\nBut there are other and more pressing questions from my point of view;\nin the first place, this matter of literature--to write no more, to give\nup what has been the occupation and aim of my life; that would be\npainful; still, it is a sacrifice I could make. But to write and then\nsee my language stripped and washed in pump-water, all the colour taken\nout by another man, who may be a learned man or a saint, but have no\nmore idea of art than St. John of the Cross! That is too hard. That\none's ideas should be picked over and weeded, from the theological point\nof view, I quite understand, nothing could be more just; but one's\nstyle! And in a monastery, so far as I can learn, nothing is printed\ntill the Prior has read it; and he has the right to revise everything,\nalter it--suppress it if he chooses. It would evidently be better not to\nwrite at all, but this again is not a matter of choice, since under the\nrule of obedience each one must submit to orders, and treat of any\nsubject in any way the Abbot commands.\n\n\"And unless the master were very exceptional, what a stone of stumbling!\n\n\"And then, besides this, which is to me the most important question of\nall, there are others worth considering. From the little I have been\ntold by my two priests, the blessed silence of the Cistercians is not\nthe rule with the black-frocked Orders. Now, however perfect these\ncenobites may be, they remain none the less men; or, to express it\notherwise, sympathy and antipathy live in constant and compulsory\nfriction; with very restricted subjects of discussion, living in\ncomplete ignorance of all that is going on outside, conversation must\ndegenerate into chatter; at last the only interest of life centres in\ntrivialities, in petty questions which in such an atmosphere assume the\nimportance of events.\n\n\"A man becomes an old maid, and how infinitely wearisome must this talk\nbe, unvaried by the unforeseen.\n\n\"Finally, there is the question of health. In the convent nothing but\nstews and salads! A disordered stomach before long, broken sleep,\ncrushing fatigue in an ill-treated frame--ah, all that is neither\nattractive nor amusing! Who knows whether, after a few months of this\nmental and physical rule, I should not have sunk into bottomless\ndejection, whether the sloth of those monastic gaols would not have\ncrushed me and left me absolutely incapable of thought or action?\"\n\nAnd he concluded:--\n\n\"It is madness to think of a cloistered life; I should do better to\nremain at Chartres.\"\n\nBut hardly had he made up his mind not to move, when the reverse of the\nmedal forced itself upon him.\n\nA convent! Why, it was the only logical existence, the only right life!\nAll these fears he suggested to himself were imaginary. In the first\nplace, as to his health. Had he forgotten La Trappe, where the food was\nfar more innutritious and the rule far stricter? Why be alarmed\nbeforehand?\n\nAnd, on the other hand, could he fail to perceive the need for\nconversation, the wisdom of speech, relieving the solitude of the\ncloister just when weariness might supervene? It was a remedy against\nconstant introspection, and exercise taken with others secured health to\nthe soul and gave tone to the body; and as for saying that these\nmonastic dialogues would be trivial, were the conversations he might\nhear in any other society more edifying? In short, was not the company\nof the Brethren far superior to that of men of any profession,\ncondition, or sort, whom he would be obliged to meet in the world\noutside?\n\nAnd what, after all, were these trifles, these minor details in the\nsplendid completeness of the cloister? What were these petty\nmatters--mere nothings--in the scale as against peace, the cheerfulness\nof the soul in the joy of the services and the fulfilment of the task of\npraise? Would not the tide of worship cleanse everything, and wash away\nthe small defects of men, like straws in a stream? Was it not the case\nof the mote and the beam, with the parts reversed--imperfections\ndiscerned in others, when he was so far their inferior?\n\n\"Constantly, at the end of every argument, I find my own lack of\nhumility,\" said he to himself. \"What efforts are needed to remove the\nmire of my sins! In a convent perhaps I might rub the rust off,\" and he\ndreamed of a purer life, a soul soaked in prayer, expanding in communion\nwith Christ, who might perhaps, without too much soiling Himself, come\ndown to dwell in him. \"It is the only life desirable,\" cried he. \"It is\nsettled!\"\n\nBut then, like a douche of cold water, a reflection overwhelmed him. It\nwould in any case be the life in common, school-life, which would begin\nagain for him; it would be the garrison-rule of a convent!\n\nThis floored him. Then he tried to fight against it, and lost patience.\n\n\"Come, come!\" he growled, \"a man does not shut himself up in an abbey to\ntake his ease there; a convent is not a pious Sainte-Perine; he retires\nthere, I suppose, to expiate his sins and prepare for death. What, then,\nis the use of expatiating on the kind of punishments to be endured? A\ndetermination to accept them is all, to endure them and be strong!\"\n\nDid he, then, sincerely long for suffering and penance? He dared not\nanswer himself. In the depth of his soul a hesitating \"Yes\" rose up,\nsmothered at once by the clamour of cowardice and fear. Why then go?\n\nHe was only bewildering himself, and when the worst of this turmoil was\nover he thought of a respite, or of some half-measure, some mild\nmortification quite endurable, some repentance so slight as to be none\nat all.\n\n\"I am an idiot,\" he concluded; \"I am fighting with the air; I am\npuzzling myself with words, about habits of which I have no knowledge.\nThe first thing to be done is to visit some Benedictine monastery--nay,\nseveral--to compare them, and to see for myself what the life is that is\nled there. Then the matter as to the oblates must be cleared up; if the\nAbbe Plomb is well informed, their fate depends on the caprice of the\nAbbot, who can tighten or loosen the halter according to his more or\nless domineering character. But is that quite certain? There were always\noblates throughout the Middle Ages; consequently they are controlled by\nthe secular law!\n\n\"And all this is so human, so vile! For it is not a matter of disputing\ntexts and more or less accommodating clauses. It is a case of subjection\nwithout reserve, of leaping boldly into the water; of giving oneself up\nentirely to God. Any other view of the cloister is to regard it as a\ncitizen's home, and that is absurd. My apprehensions, my antagonism, my\ncompromises, are disgraceful!\n\n\"Yes; but where can I find the necessary strength to brush myself clean\nfrom this dust of the soul?\"\n\nAnd at last, when he felt himself bruised by these alternating desires\nand fears, he took refuge with Notre Dame de Sous-Terre.\n\nThe crypt was closed in the afternoon, but he found his way in by a\nsmall door in the sacristy inside the cathedral, and descended into\nutter darkness.\n\nHaving reached the crypt in front of the altar, he round once more the\ndoubtful but soothing odour of that vault, smoked by burning tapers, and\nwent forward in the soft, warm atmosphere of frankincense and a cellar.\nIt was even darker than in the early morning, for the lamps were out;\nfloating wicks only, shining through what looked like very thin\norange-peel, threw gleams of tarnished gold on the sooty walls.\n\nAs he turned, with his back to the altar, he could see the low aisle in\nretreating perspective, and at the end, as in a tunnel, the light of\nday--unluckily, for it allowed him to discern certain hideous paintings\nof scenes commemorating the ecclesiastical glories of Chartres: the\nvisit paid to the cathedral by Mary de' Medici and Henri IV.; Louis\nXIII. and his mother; Monsieur Olier offering to the Virgin the keys of\nthe Seminary of Saint Sulpice with a dress of gold brocade; Louis XIV.\nat the feet of Notre Dame de Sous-Terre; by the grace of heaven, the\nremaining frescoes seemed extinct; at any rate, they lay in shadow.\n\nWhat was really blissful was to be alone with the Virgin, who looked\ndown, her dark face gleaming dimly in the gloom when a wick happened to\nflicker with short flashes of brighter light.\n\nDurtal, kneeling before Her, determined to address Her, to say to Her,--\n\n\"I am afraid of the future and of its cloudy sky, and I am afraid of\nmyself, for I am wasting in depression and bewilderment. Thou hast\nhitherto led me by the hand. Do not desert me; finish Thy work. I know\nthat it is folly thus to take care for the future, for Thy Son has said,\n'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.' Still, that depends on\ntemperament. What is easy to some is so hard for others. Mine is a\nrestless spirit, always astir, always on the alert. Do what I will, it\nwanders, feeling its way about the world, and gets lost! Bring it home,\nkeep it near Thee in a leash, kind Mother, and after so much weariness,\ngrant me to find rest!\n\n\"Oh! to be no longer thus torn in sunder, to be of one mind! Oh! to have\na soul so quenched that it should know no sorrows, no joys, but those of\nthe liturgy, that it might only be claimed, day by day, by Jesus or by\nThee, and follow Your lives as they are unfolded in the annual cycle of\nthe Church services! To rejoice at the Nativity, to laugh on Palm\nSunday, to weep in Holy Week, and be indifferent to all else, to cease\nto hold oneself as of any account, to care not at all for one's\nindividual self! What a dream! How easy it then would be to take refuge\nin a cloister!\n\n\"But is this possible to any but a saint? What a stripping of the soul\nit presupposes; what an emptying out of every profane idea, of every\nearthly image; what a taming of the subjugated imagination, never\nventuring forth but on one track, instead of wandering haphazard as mine\ndoes!\n\n\"And yet how foolish is every other care--for all that does not tend to\nHeaven is vain on earth. Aye, but as soon as I try to put these thoughts\ninto, practice, my jade of a soul plunges and rears; do what I will, it\nonly bucks and makes no advance.\n\n\"Alas! Blessed Virgin, I do not seek to excuse myself and my sins. And\nstill I dare confess to Thee that it is discouraging, heart-breaking, to\nunderstand nothing and see nothing! Is this Chartres where I am\nvegetating a waiting-place, a halting-place between two monasteries, a\nbridge leading from Notre Dame de l'Atre to Solesmes or some other\nAbbey? Or is it, on the contrary, the final stage where it is Thy will\nthat I should remain fixed? But then my life has no further meaning! It\nis purposeless, built and overthrown with the shifting of sands. To what\nend, if this be the case, are these monastic yearnings, these calls to\nanother life, this all but conviction that I have stopped at a station,\nand am not yet at the place whither I am to travel?\n\n\"If only it might be now, as on other occasions when I have felt Thee\nnear me, when in response to my questions Thou hast answered me, if only\nit might be here as at La Trappe, much as I suffered there! But no. I\nhear Thee not--Thou dost not heed me.\"\n\nDurtal was silent. Then he went on,--\n\n\"I am wrong to address Thee thus,\" he said. \"Thou dost not carry us in\nThine arms unless we be unable to walk; Thou hast care and caresses for\nthe poor soul born anew by conversion; but when it can stand it is set\ndown on the ground, and Thou lookest on while it makes trial of its\nstrength.\n\n\"This is meet and right; but it does alter the fact that the memory of\nthose celestial alleviations, those first, lost joys is crushing to the\nsoul.\n\n\"O Holy Virgin, Holy Virgin, have pity on the rickety souls that\nstruggle on so painfully when they are no longer upheld by Thee! Have\npity on the bruised souls to whom every effort is painful; on the souls\nwhom nothing can console, to whom everything is affliction! Take pity on\nthe homeless, outcast souls, the wandering souls, unable to settle and\ndwell with their kind, the tender, budding souls! Take pity on all souls\nsuch as mine! Have pity on me!\"\n\nAnd before quitting the Mother he would often visit Her in those depths\nwhere, since the Middle Ages, the faithful no longer seek her; he would\nlight an end of taper, and, turning aside from the nave of the crypt,\nfollow the curved line of the wall along the entrance passage as far as\nthe sacristy of this underground church, where in the ponderous\nstone-work was a door strengthened with iron-work.\n\nThrough and down a little flight of steps, he reached a cellar which was\nthe ancient martyrium where, of old, in time of war the ciborium was\nconcealed. An altar stood in the middle of this well, dedicated in the\nname of Saint Lubin. In the crypt the distant hum of the bells, the\nsounds of life in the cathedral above, could still be heard; here,\nnothing! It was like being in the tomb. Unfortunately, some squalid,\nsquare columns whitened with lime-wash, built on the altar to give\nsupport to Bridan's group in the choir above, spoilt the barbaric\nsimplicity of this _oubliette_, forgotten, lost in the night of ages,\nand underground.\n\nHe went up again comforted nevertheless, accusing himself of\ningratitude, and asking himself how he could dream of leaving Chartres\nand going away from the Virgin, with whom he could thus so easily\nconverse in solitude whenever he would.\n\nOn other days, when it was fine, he would take for the object of his\nwalk a convent whose existence had been revealed to him by Madame\nBavoil. One afternoon he had met her in the square, and she had said to\nhim,--\n\n\"I am going to see the little Jesus of Prague at the Carmelite convent\nhere. Will you come with me, our friend?\"\n\nDurtal had no liking for these petty pilgrimages made by good women; but\nthe idea of going to the Carmelite chapel, which was unknown to him,\ntempted him to accompany her, and she led the way to the Rue des\nJubelines, behind the railway line and beyond the station. They had to\ncross a bridge that groaned under the weight of rolling trains, and\nturned to the right down a path winding between the embankment on one\nside, and on the other thatched huts, and old sheds, and other houses\nless poverty-stricken, indeed, but closed and impenetrable after\ndaybreak. Madame Bavoil led him to where this alley ended under the arch\nof another bridge. Overhead was a siding, with its signals round and\nsquare, red and yellow, and posts with cast-iron ladders; and there\nalways in the same place an engine was being fired, or, with shrill\nwhistling, was moving out backwards.\n\nMadame Bavoil stopped at a door under a round arch in an immense wall,\nwhich not far off ran against the embankment, forming an impassable\nangle; it was built of millstone grit of the colour of burnt almonds,\nlike that used for the Paris reservoirs; here dwelt the nuns of Saint\nTheresa.\n\nMadame Bavoil, as being used to convent ways, pushed open the door which\nstood ajar, and Durtal saw before him a paved walk between strips of\nriver pebbles, dividing a garden stocked with fruit-trees and geraniums.\nTwo yews, clipped into spheres, with a cross on the top of each, gave\nthis priestly close a graveyard flavour.\n\nThe path led upwards, cut into steps. When they reached the top Durtal\nsaw a building of brick and plaster pierced with windows guarded by iron\nbars, and a grey door with a wicket bearing these words painted in\nwhite, \"O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who put our trust in\nThee.\"\n\nHe looked about him, surprised at seeing nobody, hearing nothing; but\nMadame Bavoil beckoned to him, made her way round the house, and led the\nway into a sort of vestibule along which clambered a vine wrapped in\nswathing, and she turned into a little chapel, where she knelt down on\nthe flagstones.\n\nDurtal, amazed, seemed to breathe the melancholy that weighed on this\nnaked sanctuary.\n\nHe was in a building of the end of the eighteenth century; in the\nmiddle, raised on eight steps, stood an altar of wax-polished wood in\nthe shape of a tomb; above it was a shrine covered with a curtain of\nwhite brocade and surmounted by a picture of the Annunciation, a washy\npainting mounted in a gilt frame. To the right and left were two\nmedallions in relief, on one side Saint Joseph and on the other Saint\nTheresa, and above the picture, close to the ceiling, were the arms of\nthe Carmelites, also in relief: a shield with a cross and stars beneath\na marquis's coronet, from which an arm emerges wielding a sword. This\nwas held up by fat little angels, the swollen infants of the sculptors\nof that period, and floating in the air was a scroll bearing the motto\nof the order: \"_Zelo, zelatus sum, pro Domino Deo Exercituum_.\"\n\nFinally, to the right of the altar, the iron grating of the nunnery was\nseen in an arch in the wall; and on the steps of the altar, inside the\nrailing for the communicants, an annoying statue was emerging from under\na gilt canopy--the Infant Christ holding a globe in one hand, and\nraising the other as if to command attention; a statue of painted\nplaster as of some precocious mountebank, with homage offered in this\ndeserted chapel, of two pots of hydrangea and a floating wick in a\ncrimson glass.\n\n\"How cold and dismal is such _rococo_!\" thought Durtal. He knelt down on\na chair, and by degrees his impressions underwent a change. This holy\nplace, saturated with prayer, seemed to let its ice melt and grow balmy.\nIt was as though visions percolated through the gate of the cloister and\nshed warm puffs of air in the place. A sense of warmth of soul stole\nover him, of being at home in this solitude.\n\nThe only astonishing thing was to hear, in such remote seclusion, the\nwhistling of trains and the rumbling of engines.\n\nDurtal went out before Madame Bavoil had finished the rosary. Standing\nin the doorway, he saw, just opposite, the cathedral in profile, but\nwith only one spire, the old belfry being hidden by the new. Under a\ncloudy sky it stood massively solid, green and grey, with its roof of\noxidized copper, and the pumice-stone hue of the tower.\n\n\"It is stupendous!\" said Durtal to himself, recalling the various\naspects it could assume according to the season and the hour, as the\ncolour of its complexion varied. \"The whole effect under a clear sky is\nsilvery grey, and if the sun lights it up it turns pale golden yellow;\nseen from near, its skin is like a nibbled biscuit, a siliceous\nlimestone eaten into holes; at other times, when the sun is setting, it\nturns crimson and appears like some vast and exquisite shrine, all rose\ncolour and green; and in the twilight it is blue, and seems to\nevaporate into violet.\n\n\"And those porches!\" he went on. \"That of the royal front is the least\nvariable; it remains of a cinnamon-brown half-way up, of a dull\npumice-grey as it rises; that on the south side, more eaten into by\nlichens, is wearing green, while the arches on the north, with their\nstones like concrete full of shells, suggest to the fancy a sea-grotto\nleft high and dry.\"\n\n\"Well, our friend, are you dreaming?\" said Madame Bavoil, tapping him on\nthe shoulder.\n\n\"This Carmelite convent you see is a very austere house,\" said she, \"and\nas you may suppose, grace abounds;\" and when Durtal murmured,--\n\n\"What a contrast between this dead spot and the railway that runs past\nit, always in a stir!\" she exclaimed,--\n\n\"Do you suppose that anywhere else you will find, side by side, such an\nimage of the contemplative life and the active life?\"\n\n\"And what must the nuns think as they hear these continual departures\nfor the outer world? Those who have grown old in the convent would, of\ncourse, despise these calls, these invitations to live; the quietude of\ntheir spirits must increase as they find themselves protected for ever\nfrom the perils which the noisy rush of the trains must bring before\nthem every hour of the day and night; they will feel more drawn to pray,\nfor those whom the chances of life carry away to Paris, or bring back to\nthe country, outcasts from the city. But the postulants--the novices? In\nthe hours of desertion, of doubt as to their vocation, which must come\nover them, is it not appalling to think of the constantly revived\nmemories of home, of friends, of all that they have left to shut\nthemselves up for ever in a convent?\n\n\"As each asks herself whether she can endure watching and fasting, must\nit not be a permanent temptation to rebel against being buried alive in\na tomb?\n\n\"And I cannot help thinking of the appearance as of a reservoir that the\nstyle of building gives to this Carmel. The image is precise, for the\nconvent is indeed a reservoir into which God dips to draw forth the good\nworks of love and tears, and restore the balance of the scales in which\nthe sins of the world are so heavy!\"\n\nMadame Bavoil smiled.\n\n\"A very old Carmelite nun,\" said she, \"who had gone into this House\nbefore railways were invented, died here hardly three months ago. She\nhad never been outside the walls, and never saw an engine or a railway\ncarriage. Under what form could she picture to herself the trains she\nheard thundering and shrieking?\"\n\n\"As some diabolical invention, no doubt, since these conveyances carry\nus to the wicked but delightful sins of towns,\" replied Durtal, smiling.\n\"But it is a curious case, nevertheless.\"\n\nHe was silent; then, changing the subject, he said,--\n\n\"And do you still hold communion with Heaven, Madame Bavoil?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, sadly. \"I no longer have any converse or any\nvisions. I am deaf and blind. God is silent to me.\"\n\nShe shook her head, and, after a pause, she added, speaking to\nherself,--\n\n\"Such a little thing is enough to displease Him. If He detects a trace\nof vanity in the soul on which He shines, He departs. And as the Father\ntells me, the mere fact of having spoken of the special graces\nvouchsafed to me by Jesus, proves that I am not humble. In short, His\nwill be done!--And you, our friend, do you still think of taking shelter\nin a cloister?\"\n\n\"I--my spirit still craves a truce; my soul is but shifting ballast.\"\n\n\"Because, no doubt, you are not honest in your dealings. You behave as\nif you meant to strike a bargain with Him; that is not the way to set to\nwork.\"\n\n\"What would you do in my place?\"\n\n\"I should be generous; I should say to Him, 'Here I am, do with me as\nThou wilt. I give myself unconditionally to Thee. I ask but one thing:\nHelp me to love Thee.'\"\n\n\"And do you suppose that I have not blamed myself for my cowardice of\nheart?\"\n\nThey walked on in silence. When they reached the cathedral, Madame\nBavoil proposed that they should pay a visit to Notre Dame du Pilier.\n\nThey seated themselves in the gloom of the side aisle of the choir,\nwhere the dark-toned windows were still further obscured by a poorly\nexecuted wooden niche, in which the Virgin, as dark as her namesake in\nthe crypt, Notre Dame de Sous-Terre, stood on a pillar, hung round with\nbunches of metal hearts and little lamps on coronas, from the roof.\nFrames of tapers on each side shot up little tongues of flame, and\nprostrate women were praying, their faces hidden in their hands or\nupturned to the dark countenance, on which the light did not fall.\n\nIt struck Durtal that the woes repressed in the morning hours were\npoured out in the twilight; the faithful did not now come for Her alone,\nbut for themselves; each one brought a load of sorrows and opened it\nbefore Her. What anguish of soul was poured out on the stones by these\nwomen, leaning prostrate against the railing that protected the pillar\nwhich each kissed as she rose.\n\nAnd the swarthy image, carved in the early part of the sixteenth\ncentury, had listened, Her face invisible, to the same sighs, the same\ncomplaints, from succeeding generations, had heard the same cries,\nechoing down the ages, for ever lamenting the bitterness of life, for\never expressing the desire, all the same, for length of days!\n\nDurtal looked at Madame Bavoil. She was praying with closed eyes,\nkneeling on the stones and sitting on her heels, her arms hanging, her\nhands clasped. How happy was she to be able thus to abstract herself.\n\nAnd he tried to force himself to say a prayer, quite a short one, in the\nhope that he might succeed in getting to the end without letting his\nmind wander. He began \"_Sub tuum_\"--\"Under Thy protection do we take\nrefuge; Holy Mother of God, despise not us.\" What it was really\nindispensable that he should obtain from the Father Superior was\npermission to take his books with him into the monastery, and to have at\nleast a few pious toys in his cell. Ah--but how could he explain that\nany profane literature was necessary in a convent, that, from an\nartist's point of view, it was requisite to refresh one's memory of the\nprose of Hugo, of Baudelaire, of Flaubert--\"I am at sea again!\" said\nDurtal suddenly to himself.\n\nHe tried to brush away these distractions, and went on: \"Despise not the\nprayers we put up to Thee in our needs--\" And he was off again at a\ngallop in his dreams--\"Even supposing that no difficulty were made about\nthis request, the question would still remain as to submitting\nmanuscripts for revision, obtaining the _imprimatur_; and how would that\nbe arranged?\"\n\nMadame Bavoil interrupted his wanderings by rising from her knees.\nRecalled to himself, he hastily finished his prayer--\"but deliver us\nfrom all perils, glorious and blessed Virgin; Amen.\" And he parted from\nthe housekeeper on the steps of the church, going home much vexed by his\ndissipation of mind.\n\nHe there found a note from the Editor of the _Review_, which had\npublished his paper on the Fra Angelico in the Louvre, asking him for\nanother article.\n\nThis diversion made him glad; he thought that this task might perhaps\npreserve him from vain thoughts of his discomfiture at Chartres and his\nfancy for the cloister.\n\n\"What can I send to the _Review_?\" said he to himself. \"Since what they\nchiefly ask for is criticism of religious art, I might write some short\nstudy of the early German painters. I have ample notes, made on the spot\nin the galleries there; let us see!\"\n\nHe turned them over, lingering to read a note-book containing his\nimpressions of travel. A summing up of his remarks on the School of\nCologne arrested his attention.\n\nAt every page he gave vent to his surprise in more and more vehement\nexclamations, at the false ideas and absurd theories put forward for so\nmany years with regard to these pictures.\n\nEvery writer, without exception, had expatiated, each more\nenthusiastically than the last, on the pure and religious art of these\nearly painters, speaking of them as seraphic artists who had depicted\nsuperhuman beauty, white and sylph-like Virgins all soul, standing out\nlike celestial visions, against backgrounds of gold.\n\nDurtal, prejudiced by the unanimity of this universal praise, expected\nto find almost impalpably fair angels, Flemish Madonnas, etherealized in\nsome sort, having shed their husk of flesh, rapturous Memlings with eyes\nfull of heaven, and bodies that had almost ceased to be--and he\nremembered his dismay on entering the galleries of the Cologne Museum.\n\nIn point of fact his disenchantment had begun as soon as he stepped out\nof the train. Carried in the course of a night from Paris to that city,\nhe had made his way through narrow streets where every basement window\nexhaled the fragrance of _sauerkraut_, and he had reached the cathedral\nsquare, beautified by Farina's shop-signs, where in front of the famous\nDom he had been obliged to confess that this facade, this exterior, was\na huge piece of patchwork--a delusion. Every part of it was furbished\nup, and the church sheltered no sculpture under its portals; it was\nsymmetrical, built by peg and line; its rigid forms, its hard outlines\nwere an offence.\n\nThe interior was better, in spite of the vulgar blaze, the cheap\nfireworks, of ignoble modern glass. And there, in a chapel near the\nchoir, might be seen, for a consideration, the most famous picture of\nthe German school, the _Dombild_, by Stephan Lochner, a triptych\nrepresenting the Adoration of the Magi on the centre panel, with St.\nUrsula on the left hand shutter and St. Gereon on the right.\n\nDurtal's consternation had risen to the highest pitch. The work was thus\narranged. Against a gold background, a Virgin, crowned, red-haired,\nbullet-headed, dressed in blue, held on her knees an Infant blessing the\nKings, two kneeling on each side of the throne. One, an old fellow with\na short beard like a retired officer, and hair curled like shavings over\nhis ears, was sumptuously arrayed in crimson velvet brocaded with gold,\nhis hands clasped; the other, a dandy with long hair and a large beard,\ndressed in green shot with gold and trimmed with fur, held up a golden\ncup. And behind each, other figures were standing, flourishing their\nswords and standards, in cavalier attitudes, and posing for the public,\nthinking much more of the visitors than of the Virgin.\n\nThis, then, was the type of Madonna, of the supersensual and sublimated\nVirgins of Cologne! This one was puffy, redundant, chubby; she had the\nneck of a heifer, and flesh like cream, or hasty pudding, that quivers\nwhen it is touched. Jesus, whose expression was the only interesting\nfeature of the picture, a certain manly gravity that was shown without\nany disfigurement of the character of childhood, was also round and\nwell-fed, and the scene took place on a lawn strewn with\nflowers--primroses, violets, and strawberries painted in fine stipple\nwith the touch of a miniaturist.\n\nYou might call this picture what you pleased, the execution, smooth and\nwavy, and cold in spite of the brilliant colours, was a finished piece\nof work, brilliant, dexterous--but not religious; it betrayed a\ndecadence; the work was laboured, complicated, pretty, but it was in no\nsense that of an early master.\n\nThis common, squat Virgin, fat and pudgy, was simply a good German girl,\nwell-dressed and squarely seated, but she could never have been the\necstatic Mother of God! Then these kneeling and standing men were not in\nprayer; there was no devotion in this picture; the personages were all\nthinking of something else, folding their hands and looking round at the\npainter who was depicting them. As to the wings, it were better to say\nnothing about them. What was to be thought of the Saint Ursula with a\nprominent forehead like a cupping-glass and a burly stomach, surrounded\nby other creatures as shapeless as herself, their squab noses poking out\nof the bladders of lard that did duty for their faces?\n\nAnd Durtal found the same impression of insensibility to mysticism in\nthe picture gallery. There he could study Stephan Lochner's precursor,\nMaster Wilhelm--the first early German painter whose name is known--and\nin this again he found the look of elaborate chubbiness as in the\nDombild. Wilhelm's Virgin was indeed less vulgar than the Virgin of the\ncathedral; but in feeling she was equally insipid, over-finished, and\neven more simperingly pretty. She was the triumph of delicate pertness,\nand had the look of a stage chamber-maid with her hair crimped over her\nforehead. And the child, twisted into an unnatural attitude, while he\ncaressed his Mother's chin, turned his face round to be the better seen.\n\nIn short, this Virgin was neither human nor divine; she had not even the\ntoo realistic touch of Lochner, and could, no more than the other, have\nbeen the chosen Mother of God.\n\nIt is indeed strange that these very early painters should have begun\nwhere painting as an art ends, in mere finish and smoothness; men who\nfrom the first put sugar in their new wine and betray their lack of\nenergy, of enthusiasm, of simplicity, while no faith projects itself\nfrom their work. They are the very converse of every other school; for\neverywhere else, in Italy, Flanders, Holland, Burgundy, pictures began\nby being clumsy and unfinished, barbarous and hard, but at least ardent\nand pious!\n\nAs he studied the other pictures in this collection, the mass of\nanonymous work, the paintings ascribed to the Master of the Lyversberg\nPassion, and the Master of the Saint Bartholomew, Durtal came to the\nconclusion that the School of Cologne had known nothing of mysticism\ntill it had felt the influence of the Flemish painters. It had needed a\nVan Eyck, and the yet more exquisite Roger van der Weyden, to breathe\nthe air of Heaven into these craftsmen. They thus had changed their\nmanner, had imitated the ascetic innocence of the Flemings, had\nassimilated their tender piety and simplicity, and, in their turn, had\nsung the glory of the Mother and mourned over the sufferings of the Son\nin ingenuous hymns.\n\n\"This school may be thus summed up,\" said Durtal. \"It is the triumph of\npadding and puffing, the apotheosis of fatness and sheen, and this has\nnothing to do with Christian art in the true sense of the word.\n\n\"If we want to understand the whole personal character of German\nreligious painting, we must study other schools than this, the only one\never spoken of, and always with praise. We must turn to the less\nfamiliar schools of Franconia and Swabia; there we find the very\nopposite. As art it is savage and rough, but it lives--it weeps, nay it\ncries aloud, but it prays. We must look at the works of these unkempt\ngeniuses, such as Gruenewald, whose Christs, rebellious and wrathful,\ngrind their teeth; or Zeitblom, whose 'Veronica's veil,' in the Berlin\nMuseum, is unpleasant, no doubt; the angels have black leather crosses\non their breasts, and the Saviour's head is terrible, horrible; still\nthere is such energy in the work, such decision, such crudity, that the\nvery sincerity of its ugliness is impressive.\n\n\"Certainly,\" Durtal went on, \"even setting apart such daring painters as\nGruenewald, I prefer many an unknown artist whose work is strange rather\nthan beautiful, but at any rate mystical, to the honey and lard of\nCologne; for instance, an anonymous painter who is to be found in the\nGrand Duke's collection at Gotha, as the author of one of those curious\nMass-scenes which in the Middle Ages were called the 'Mass of Saint\nGregory,' wherefore, we know not.\"\n\nDurtal turned over his note-book and read through the description he had\nrecorded of this work, which he remembered as an instance of a sort of\npious brutality.\n\nThe picture was set out on a gold background. A little above the altar,\nbut scarcely higher, a wooden sarcophagus, a sort of square bath, was\nseen, with a board over it from end to end. On this plank-bridge sat the\nChrist, His legs hidden in this tomb, holding a cross. His face was\nhaggard and hollow, He was crowned with green thorns, and His emaciated\nbody was spotted all over by the ends of the scourges as if the wounds\nwere flea-bites. Over Him, in the air, floated the instruments of the\nPassion: the nails, the sponge, a hammer and a spear; to the left, on a\nvery small scale, were the busts of Jesus and of Judas, near a pedestal\non which lay three rows of pieces of silver.\n\nIn front of this altar, adoring this truly hideous Saviour painted in\naccordance with the prophetic descriptions of Isaiah and David, were\nPope Gregory on his knees, his hands clasped, a grave Cardinal, whose\nhands were hidden under his robe, and a rough-looking Bishop, standing,\nin a dark green cloak embroidered with gold; he held a cross.\n\nIt was enigmatical and it was sinister, but those austere and commanding\nfaces were alive. There was a stamp of faith, indomitable and resolute,\nin those countenances. It was harsh to the palate, the roughest wine of\nmysticism; but at least it was not the mawkish syrup of the early\nCologne painters.\n\n\"Ah! that mystical breath by which the soul of the artist becomes\nincorporate in the colour on a canvas, in the lines of carved stone, in\nwritten words, and speaks to the souls of those who can understand! How\nfew have had it!\" thought Durtal, closing his notes of travel. In\nGermany it may be seen in the very bunglers among painters; in Italy,\nsetting aside Angelico, whose works reveal his saintly spirit and are\nthe coloured image of his secret soul, and his pupil, Benozzo Gozzoli,\nthe last of the Mediaeval painters; if we also except his precursors:\nCimabue, the survivors of the rigid Byzantines, Giotto--who thawed those\nfixed and puzzling figures, Orcagna, Simone di Martino, Taddeo\nGaddi--all the very early painters--how much dexterous trickery do we\nfind among the great painters, mimicking the religious note, and\nproducing a deceptive imitation by sheer sham.\n\n\"The Italians of the Renaissance, above all others, excelled in this\nspurious piety, and those are comparatively rare who, like Botticelli,\nwere honest enough to confess that their Virgins were Venuses and their\nVenuses Virgins.\n\n\"The Berlin gallery, where he is to be seen in some exquisite and\ntriumphant examples, shows this very plainly; we see the two versions of\nthe type side by side.\n\n\"First we have a wonderful Venus, nude, with pure gold hair brought\nround her body by one hand, standing out in her white flesh against a\nblack background, gazing with limpid grey eyes, liquid with the colour\nof stagnant water, and edged with lids like a young rabbit's--pink lids;\nshe must have wept much, and her disconsolate look, her drooping\nattitude, suggest some far-away thought of the unsatisfied weariness of\nthe senses and the intolerable unrest of horrible desires that nothing\ncan satisfy.\n\n\"And not far away is a Virgin, very like her--indeed her very self, with\nher sensitive, slightly upturned nose, her lips like a folded\nclover-leaf, her brackish eyes, her pink lids, her golden hair, her\ngreenish complexion, her strongly-moulded frame and large hands. The\ncountenance is the same, fretful and weary; it is evident that the same\nmodel sat for both. They are both purely pagan. For the Venus, well and\ngood! But the Virgin!\n\n\"It may be added that in this picture a row of torch-bearing angels\nmakes the result, if possible, even less Christian, for these delightful\ncreatures, with their ambiguous smiles and supple grace, have all the\ndangerous attraction of wicked angels. They are Ganymedes, borrowed from\nmythology, not from the Bible.\n\n\"How far we are from God with this paganism of Botticelli's!\" said\nDurtal to himself. \"What a difference between this painter and that\nRoger van der Weyden whose Nativity is the glory of one of the adjoining\nrooms in that magnificent Old Museum of Berlin!\"\n\nAy, that Nativity!--He had only to turn to his notes to see it plainly\nbefore him.\n\nPainted as a triptych, on the right wing was an old man in front of some\nwondering bystanders, burning incense to the Virgin, who is visible\nthrough an open window above a landscape in distant perspective with\navenues undulating to the horizon; while a woman, her head dressed in a\nmuffler that is almost a turban, touches the old man's shoulder with one\nhand and raises the other with an indescribable gesture of surprise and\njoy, her face expressive of ecstasy. On the left wing kneel the three\nKings, their hands uplifted, their eyes raised to Heaven, contemplating\nan Infant beaming from the heart of a star; nothing can be more\nbeautiful than these three transfigured faces; and these are praying\nwith all their heart, never troubling themselves about us.\n\nStill, these two divisions are but accessory to the central subject\nwhich they complement, and which is thus arranged:\n\nIn the middle, in front of a sort of ruined palace or columnar cow-shed\nwithout a roof, the Virgin kneels in prayer before the Babe; to the\nright the donor, the Chevalier Bladelin, is seen, also kneeling, and on\nthe left Saint Joseph, holding a lighted taper, gazes down on Jesus.\nThere are besides six little angels, three below at the door of the\nstable and three above in the air. This is the whole scene.\n\nIt is noteworthy that the goldsmith's work, the mingled splendour of\nOriental hangings, the brocades hemmed with fur and strewn with gems of\nwhich Van Eyck and Memling made such free use to array their figures of\nthe Virgin and the donors, are not to be seen in this panel. The\ntextures are rich and heavy, but have none of the gorgeous colouring of\nthe silks of Bruges or the carpets of Persia. Roger van der Weyden seems\nintentionally to have reduced the whole setting of the scene to its\nsimplest expression, and yet, while using an unaffectedly sober key of\ncolour, he has produced a masterpiece of pure and lucid harmony.\n\nMary, with no diadem, no jewelled band, not a bracelet or a gem, her\nhead simply crowned by a few golden rays, is seen in a white dress,\nclosed to the throat, and a blue cloak of which the ample folds lie on\nthe ground; the sleeves of her under dress, fastened at the wrists, are\nof a rich blue violet, more nearly black than red.\n\nHer face is indescribable; of superhuman loveliness, with long red-gold\nhair; the brow high, the nose straight, the lips full, the chin small;\nbut words are of no avail; what cannot be described is the expression of\ncandour and sadness, the tide of love that rises to those downcast eyes\nas she looks down on the tiny, helpless Babe, round whose head there is\na rosy nimbus starred with gold.\n\nNever was there a more unearthly and yet more living Virgin. Neither Van\nEyck, with his rather vulgar and never beautiful heads, nor\nMemling--more tender and refined, no doubt, but limited to his ideal of\na woman with a round forehead and a face shaped like a kite, wide above\nand pointed below--ever achieved the elegance of form or the purity of a\nwoman made divine by love, a being who, even apart from her surroundings\nand bereft of the attributes by which she is recognizable, could be none\nother than the Mother of God.\n\nBy her side the Chevalier Bladelin, dressed all in black, with his\nequine type of face, his shaven cheeks, his dignity, at once priestly\nand princely, is lost in contemplation, far away from the world; he is\npraying in good earnest. And Saint Joseph, opposite to him, represented\nas a bald old man, with a short beard, and wearing a red cloak, comes\nforward as if amazed at his happiness, and scarce daring to believe that\nthe moment has come when he may adore the Messiah born at last; he\nsmiles, deferentially, mildly stepping with the almost clumsy care of an\nold man who would fain be serviceable but fears to intrude.\n\nTo make the whole thing more than perfect, above the figure of Pierre\nBladelin extends a wondrous landscape, cut across by the High Street of\nMiddelburg, the town founded by this nobleman, a street bordered by\ncastellated houses with battlements and church towers, and vanishing in\na country scene lighted up by a clear sky, a blue spring day; above\nSaint Joseph a meadow and woods, sheep and shepherds, and three\nexquisite angels in robes, one of pinkish yellow, one of purple like a\ncampanula, and one of greenish citron hue; three really ethereal beings,\nhaving no relationship with the pertly innocent pages invented by the\nRenaissance.\n\nIf we sum up the whole impression produced by this work, we are led to\nthe conclusion that mystical art, still dwelling on earth, and not\nrestricted to scenes in Heaven, as Angelico had chosen to limit it in\nhis \"Coronation of the Virgin,\" has produced in Roger van der Weyden's\ntriptych the purest effluence of prayer to be found in painting. Never\nhas the Nativity been so gloriously set forth, nor, it may be said, more\nartlessly and simply expressed. The masterpiece of the Christmas\nfestival is at Berlin, just as the masterpiece of the Deposition is at\nAntwerp, in the agonized and magnificent work of Quentin Matsys.\n\n\"The early Flemish painters were the greatest that ever lived!\" said\nDurtal to himself, \"and this Roger Van der Weyden, or Roger de la\nPasture as he is sometimes called, crushed between the fame of van Eyck\nand of Memling--as Gherard David was later, and Hugo van der Goes,\nJustus of Ghent, and Dierck Bouts--was in my opinion superior to them\nall.\n\n\"And after them what a falling away! Theatrical Crucifixions, the fleshy\ncoarseness of Rubens which Vandyck tried to mitigate by making it\nleaner. We must leap into Holland to find the mystic accent once more,\nand it reveals itself in the soul of a Judaizing Protestant, under an\naspect so mysterious and eccentric that at first sight we hesitate,\nfeeling ourselves, as it were, to make sure that we are not mistaken in\nregarding this as religious art.\n\n\"Nor need we go to Amsterdam to verify the truth of this impression. It\nis enough to go to see the 'Disciples at Emmaus,' in the Louvre.\"\n\nDurtal, started on this theme, fell into a reverie over Rembrandt's\nstrange conception of Christian aesthetics. It is evident that in his\nmode of depicting Gospel scenes this painter still exhales a breath of\nthe Old Testament; his church, even if he had meant to paint it as it\nwas in his day, would still be a synagogue, so strong is the odour of\nthe Jew in all his work; he is possessed by the imagery, the prophecies,\nall the solemn and barbarous side of the East. And this we can\nunderstand when we know that he was the companion of Rabbis, whose\nportraits he has left us, and the friend of Manasseh ben Israel, one of\nthe most learned men of his age. On the other hand, we may admit that\nthis Protestant Dutchman engrafted on this stock of cabalistic learning\nand Mosaic ceremonial an attentive and assiduous study of the Old\nTestament, for he possessed a Bible, which was sold by auction with his\nfurniture to pay his debts.\n\nThis would be enough to justify his choice of subjects and the\ncomposition of his pictures; but the riddle remains unsolved of the\nresults achieved by an artist whom we cannot conceive of, after all, as\npraying before he would paint: like Angelico and Roger van der Weyden.\n\nBe this as it may, he, with the eye of a visionary, with his serious but\nfervid art, his genius for concentration, for getting a spot of the\nessence of sunlight into the heart of darkness, has accomplished great\nresults; and in his Biblical scenes has spoken a language which no one\nbefore him had even attempted to lisp.\n\nIs not this picture of the Pilgrims to Emmaus a typical instance of\nthis? Pull the work to pieces; it ought to seem dull, monotonous,\nvoiceless. As a composition it is utterly common: we see a sort of\ncellar of stone-work, a table facing us, behind which sits Jesus, His\nfeet bare, His lips colourless, His complexion muddy, His raiment of a\npinkish grey; He is breaking the bread, while, to His right, an apostle,\nclutching his napkin, looks at Him, fancies he recognizes Him, and on\nthe left another disciple, quite sure that he knows Him, clasps his\nhands--and this one utters a cry of joy that we can hear! A fourth\nfigure, with an intelligent profile, sees nothing, but, attentive to his\nduties, waits on the guests.\n\nIt is a meal of humble folk in a prison; the colours are limited to a\nkey of sad greys and browns, excepting in the case of the man who twists\nhis napkin, whose sleeves are thick with a vermilion like red\nsealing-wax, while the others might be painted with dust and pitch.\n\nThese are the literal facts; but they are not the truth, for everything\nis transfigured. The head of Christ is luminous merely by the way He\nlooks up; a pale radiance fills the room. This Jesus, ugly as He is,\nwith lips like death, asserts Himself by a gesture, a look of ineffable\nbeauty, as the murdered Son of a God!\n\nWe stand dumfounded, not even trying to understand; for this work,\nstamped with transcendent naturalism, is beyond and apart from painting;\nno one can copy or reproduce it.\n\n\"After Rembrandt,\" Durtal went on, \"there is an irremediable decay of\nreligious feeling in painting. The seventeenth century has not left a\nsingle picture in which there is a genuine stamp of manly devotion;\nexcepting, indeed, in Spain at the time when Saint Theresa and Saint\nJohn of the Cross flourished there; then the mystical realism of its\npainters produced some fiercely fervid works;\" and Durtal recalled a\npicture by Zurbaran he had seen and admired in the Gallery at Lyons,\nSaint Francis of Assisi standing upright in a habit of grey serge, the\ncowl over his head, his hands hidden in his sleeves.\n\nThe face looked as if it had been moulded or chiselled out of cinders;\nthe mouth was open, livid, below ecstatic eyes as white as if they had\nbeen blinded. It was a wonder how this corpse, of which nothing was left\nbut the bones, could hold itself up; and terror came over the beholder\nas he thought of the excessive maceration and overwhelming penances that\nmust have exhausted that frame and seamed that face.\n\nThis painting was the evident outcome of the relentless and terrible\nmysticism of Saint John of the Cross, the art of the rack, the _delirium\ntremens_ of divine intoxication here on earth; aye, but what a passion\nof adoration, what a voice of love stifled by anguish found utterance in\nthis canvas.\n\nAs to the eighteenth century, it was not worth a thought; that century\nwas the age of the belly and the bath-room; as soon as art tried to\ntouch the Church it only made a washing-basin into a holy-water stoup.\n\nIn our own time, again, there is nothing to note.\n\nOverbeck, Ingres, Flandrin--all sorry jades harnessed willy-nilly to\nreligious tasks by commissions from the pious. In the church of Saint\nSulpice Delacroix extinguishes all the feeble art that surrounds him,\nbut his sense of Catholic art is null.\n\nIn truth, faith is now dormant, and without that no mystical work is\npossible!\n\nAt the present moment Signol is dead, but Olivier Merson is left;\nvacuity all along the line. We need not take into account the got-up\nabsurdities and paintings to puzzle Rosicrucian simpletons; nor, again,\nthe feeble imagery of the wealthy idlers or the worthy youths who fancy\nthat if they paint a woman larger than life, that makes her mystical.\nSilence would befit the subject, only that, unluckily, a well-meaning\npublisher was struck by the idea of mobilizing the clerical forces to\nhail James Tissot as an evangelical painter. His Life of Christ is one\nof the least religious works conceivable, for, in fact, it might be\nregarded as a hesitating paraphrase of the Life of Jesus as narrated by\nthat cheerful apostate and terrible jester, Renan.\n\nThe firm of Mame has completed this artist's treason by the issue of\nthese melancholy chromo-lithographs. Under the pretext of realism, of\ninformation acquired on the spot, of authenticated costumes--all\nextremely doubtful, since we should be forced to conclude that nothing\nhas changed in Palestine in the course of nineteen centuries--Monsieur\nTissot has given us the basest masquerade that anyone has yet dared\npresent as an illustration of the Scriptures. Look at that disreputable\ntrull, a street slut tired of shouting \"This way to the boats!\" till she\nfalls fainting. This is the _Magnificat_, the Blessed Virgin. That\nepileptic boy with outstretched arms is Jesus in the Temple. Look at the\nBaptism, the Pharisee and the Publican, the Massacre of the Innocents,\nthe Saint Peter walking on the Sea, the Magdalen at the feet of Jesus,\nthe ridiculous _Consummatum est_--look at them all: these prints are\nmatchless for platitude, effeteness, poverty of spirit. They might have\nbeen designed by the first-comer, and are painted with muck, wine-sauce,\nmud!\n\nCertainly the hapless Catholics have no luck when once they try to\nmeddle with what they do not understand; their incurable lack of\nartistic sense is once more displayed in this attempt over which the\nwhole world of art and letters is laughing in their sleeve.\n\n\"Then is there nothing, absolutely nothing, to the credit side for the\nChurch?\" exclaimed Durtal. \"And yet some attempts at ascetic art have\nbeen made in this century. A few years since, the Benedictine House at\nBeuron, in Bavaria, tried to revive ecclesiastical art\"; and Durtal\nremembered having looked through some reproductions of mural frescoes\npainted by these monks in a tower at Monte Cassino.\n\nThese frescoes had gone back to the types of Assyria and Egypt, with\ntheir crowned gods, their sphynx-headed angels having fan-shaped wings\nbehind their heads, their old men with plaited beards playing on\nstringed instruments; and then the Friars of Beuron had given up this\nhieratic style, in which, it must be owned, they succeeded but ill, and\nin certain later works--especially in a volume of the Way of the Cross,\npublished at Freiburg in Breisgau--they had adopted a strange medley of\nother styles.\n\nThe Roman soldiers who figured in those pages were huge firemen, a\nbequest from the schools of Guerin and David; and then, unexpectedly, in\ncertain plates where the Magdalen and the Holy women appeared, a younger\nspirit seemed to prevail among the commonplace groups--Greek female\ntypes derived from the Renaissance, pretty and elegant, evidently\nimported from the works of the pre-Raphaelites, and strongly recalling\nWalter Crane's illustrations.\n\nThus the ideal at Beuron had developed into an alloy of the French art\nof the First Empire and contemporary English work.\n\nSome of these compositions were all but laughable, that of the Ninth\nStation, to mention one: Christ lying at full length on His face, and\nbeing pulled up by a rope tied to His bound hands; it looked as if He\nwere learning to swim. Still, but for feeble and vulgar incidents,\nclumsy and obvious details, what strange scenes suddenly rose before his\nmind, distinct from the mass: Veronica on her knees before Jesus, was\nreally distracted with grief, really fine; the borrowed or copied\nfigures of the other persons represented disappeared; even in the least\noriginal of these compositions the coarse, unsatisfactory utterances of\nthese monks spoke an almost eloquent language; and this because intense\nfaith and fervour lurked in the work. A breath had passed over those\nfaces, and they were alive; the emotion, the voice of prayer, was felt\nin the silence of this conventional crowd. This Way of the Cross was\nmatchless from this point of view: Monastic piety had introduced an\nunexpected element, giving evidence of the mysterious power it has at\nits command, infusing a personal emotion, a peculiar aroma, into a work\nwhich, without it, would never indeed have existed. These Benedictines\nhad suggested the sensation of kneeling worship and the very fragrance\nof the Gospel, as artists of wider scope had failed in doing.\n\nTheir attempt, however, had begotten no following, and at this day the\nschool is almost dead, producing nothing but feeble prints for old women\ndesigned by the lay-brothers.\n\nHow, indeed, could it have been anything but still-born? The idea of\ndoing for the West what Manuel Pauselinos did for the East, of\neliminating study from nature, imposing an uniform ritual of colour and\nline, of compelling every artistic temperament to squeeze itself into\nthe same mould, shows an absolute misapprehension of art in the mind of\nthe man who attempted it. The system was bound to end in ankylosis, in\nthe paralysis of painting, and this, in fact, was the result.\n\nAt about the same time with these Religious an unknown artist, living in\nthe country, and never exhibiting in Paris, was painting pictures for\nchurches and convents, working for the glory of God and refusing all\nremuneration from priests or monks. Durtal knew his pictures, and they\nhad suggested much the same reflections as those aroused by the\nBenedictine paintings of Beuron.\n\nAt first sight Paul Borel's work is neither cheerful nor attractive; the\nphrases he used might often have made a partisan of the modern smile;\nand besides, to judge his work fairly it is indispensable to get rid of\npart of it, to refuse to see anything but that which has evaded the\ntoo-familiar formulas of commonplace unction; and then what a spirit of\nmanly fervency, of ardent piety, filled and upheld it.\n\nHis most important paintings are buried in the chapel of the Dominican\nschool at Oullins, in a remote corner of the suburbs of Lyons. Among the\nten subjects that decorate the nave, we find Moses Striking the Rock,\nthe Disciples at Emmaus, the Healing of One Possessed, of One Born\nBlind, and of Tobit; but in spite of the calm energy shown in these\nfrescoes, they are disappointing by reason of their general heaviness\nand of the sleepy and unwonted effect of colour. Not till we reach the\nchoir, beyond the communion railing, do we find works of a quite\ndifferent kind of art, above some magnificent figures of saints of the\nOrder of Friars Preacher, amazing in the power of prayer, the essence of\nsaintliness that they diffuse.\n\nThere, too, Durtal had found two large compositions: one of the Virgin\nbestowing the Rosary on Saint Dominic, and the other of Saint Thomas\nAquinas kneeling before an altar on which stands a Crucifix radiating\nlight. Never since the Middle Ages had monks been so understood and so\npainted; never had a more impetuous fount of soul been revealed under so\nstern a casing of features. Borel was the painter of the Monastic\nSaints; his art, by nature rather torpid, soared up with them as soon as\nhe tried to paint them.\n\nAt Versailles, again, even better perhaps than in the chapel of the\nOullins seminary, the sincere and deeply religious work of Borel might\nbe studied. At the entrance to the chapel of the Augustine Sisters in\nthat town, of which Borel had painted the nave and the choir, there\nstood a figure of an Abbess of the fourteenth century, Saint Clare of\nMontefalcone, in the black robes of an Augustinian Nun, against the\nstone walls of her cell, an open book on one side of the figure and a\nbrass lamp on the other, somewhat behind her on a table.\n\nIn that face, bent over the Crucifix she was pressing to her lips, in\nthat countenance, at once sweet and hungering, in the movement of the\narms closely folded over her bosom, raised to her face, and themselves\nforming a cross, he had seen the complete absorption of a bride, the\nrapt, ecstatic joy of the purest love, and at the same time something of\nthe anxious affection of a mother cherishing the Christ she kissed, and\nseemed to shelter in her bosom like a suffering child.\n\nAnd this was all set forth without any theatrical attitude or forced\ngestures, with perfect simplicity. This Saint Clare has no ravings, no\noutcries, like Saint Magdalen of Pazzi; she does not soar with the\nflight of divine intoxication. The mystic possession manifests itself in\na mute rapture; her transports are controlled, and her inebriety is\ngrave; she does not diffuse herself, but opens her soul, and Jesus, as\nHe enters in, stamps her with His likeness, impresses her with the image\nof the Crucifix she holds, and of which the impress was found graven on\nher heart when it was examined after her death.\n\nThis was the most remarkable religious painting of our time, and it was\nachieved with no borrowing from the Early painters, no trickery of\nawkward attitudes supported by iron bars, no affectations, no artifice.\nAnd what a devout Catholic, what an emotionally pious artist must the\nman be who could produce such a work!\n\nAfter him the rest was silence. Among the religious youth of to-day no\none is to be found equal to the presentment of Church subjects. \"Only\none,\" said Durtal, thinking it over, \"gave any hope of such powers, for\nhe stands apart from the rest, and, at any rate, has talent.\"\n\nHe rose and went to turn over his portfolios, picking out the\nlithographs by Charles Dulac.\n\nThis artist had begun with a series of landscapes, idealizing nature, at\nfirst with a timid hand--extravagantly large pools, and trees with\nleaves that looked like wild wigs tossed by the wind; then he had\nproduced a rendering in black and white of a Canticle of the Sun, or of\nCreation, and had poured out in nine plates, printed in different states\nof tone, that effluence of mystical feeling which in his first set was\nstill latent and undecided.\n\nThe rather hackneyed dictum that \"a landscape is a state of mind,\" was\nstrictly appropriate to this work; the artist had stamped his faith on\nthese views, studied, no doubt, from nature, but seen, it was evident,\nnot by the eyes alone, but by a captivated spirit singing in the open\nair Daniel's hymn and David's psalm, as interpreted by Saint Francis,\nand repeating after them the thought that all the Elements shall sing to\nthe glory of Him who created them.\n\nAmong these plates two were genuinely inspiring: that with the title,\n_Stella Matutina_, and the other with the words, _Spiritus Sancte Deus_;\nbut another, the broadest, the most decisive, and the simplest of them\nall, bearing the title _Sol Justitiae_, seemed best of all to set forth\nthe individual sympathies of the artist.\n\nIt was thus composed: A light, remote, translucent distance was lost in\ninfinitude--a peninsula, a desert waste of waters with ribs of shore,\ntongues of land planted with trees repeated in the mirror of the lake;\non the horizon the sun, half set, cast its beams reflected by the sheet\nof waters; that was all, but amazing placidity and calm, a sense of\nfulness was shed over all. The idea of justice, to which that of mercy\nanswers as its inevitable echo, was symbolized in the serene solemnity\nof this expanse lighted up by the glow of a kindly season and mild\natmosphere.\n\nDurtal drew back to get a more complete view of the work as a whole.\n\n\"There is no denying it,\" said he; \"this artist has the instinct, the\nsubtle sense of aerial space, of expanse; he understands the soul of\ncalm waters flowing under a vast sky! And then, this print diffuses\nemanations as from a Catholic, which steal into us, slowly soak into our\nheart.\n\n\"And by this time,\" said he, closing the portfolio, \"I am far enough\naway from the original matter, and none the nearer to any article I can\nwrite for the _Review_. A paper on the primitive German painters would,\nindeed, be quite in its line; yes, but what an undertaking! I should\nhave to work up my notes, and after dealing with Meister Wilhelm,\nStephan Lochner, and Zeitblom, to speak of Bernhardt Strigel, an almost\nunknown painter, of Albert Duerer, Holbein, Martin Schongauer, Hans\nBalding, Burgkmayer, and I know not how many more. I should have to\naccount for whatever may have survived of orthodoxy in Germany after the\nReformation; to mention, at any rate, from the Lutheran point of view,\nthat extraordinary painter, Cranach, whose Adams are bearded Apollos of\nthe complexion of a Red Indian, and his Eves slender, chubby-faced\ncourtesans, with bullet heads, little shrimps' eyes, lips moulded out of\nred pomatum, breasts like apples close under the neck, long, slim legs,\nelegantly formed, with the calf high up, and large, flat feet with thick\nankles.\n\n\"Such a treatise would carry me too far. It is amusing to dream over,\nbut not to write. I should do better to seek a less panoramic, a\ncompacter subject. But what?--Well, I will see later,\" he concluded,\ngetting up, for Madame Mesurat jovially announced that dinner was ready.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nTo change his weariness of the place, Durtal one sunny afternoon went to\nthe further end of Chartres, to visit the ancient church of Saint Martin\ndu Val. It dated from the tenth century, and had served as the chapel by\nturns of a Benedictine House and of a Capuchin convent. Restored without\nany too flagrant heresies, it was now included in the precincts of an\nAsylum, and was reached by crossing a yard where blind folk in white\ncotton caps sat nodding on benches in the shade of a few trees.\n\nIts small, squat doorway and three little belfries, as if it had been\nbuilt for a village of dwarfs, attested its Romanesque origin; and, as\nat Saint Radegonde at Poitiers and Notre Dame de la Couture at le Mans,\nthe interior opened, under an altar very much raised above the ground,\ninto a crypt lighted by loopholes borrowing their light from the\nambulatory of the choir. The capitals of the columns, coarsely carved,\nresembled the idols of Oceania; under the pavement and in the tombs lay\nmany of the Bishops of Chartres, and newly-consecrated prelates were\nsupposed to spend the first night of their arrival at the See in prayer\nbefore these tombs, so as to imbue themselves with the virtues of their\npredecessors and enlist their support.\n\n\"The Manes of these Bishops might very well have whispered to their\npresent successor, Monseigneur des Mofflaines, some plan for purifying\nthe House of the Virgin by turning out the vile musician who degrades\nthe Sanctuary on Sundays to the level of a music hall!\" sighed Durtal.\n'But, alas! nothing disturbs the inertia of that aged, and invalid\nshepherd, who is, indeed, never to be seen either in his garden, in the\ncathedral, or in the town.\n\n\"Ah! But this is something better than all the vocal flourishes of the\nchoristers!\" said Durtal to himself as he listened to the bells aroused\nfrom silence to shed the blessed drops of sound over the city.\n\nHe called to mind the meanings ascribed to bells by the early\nsymbolists. Durand of Mende compares the hardness of the metal to the\npower of the preacher, and thinks that the blows of the tongue against\nthe side, aim at showing the orator that he should punish himself and\ncorrect his own vices before he blames those of others. The wooden\ncrossbeam to which the bell is suspended resembles in form the Cross of\nChrist, and the rope pulled by the ringer to set the bell going is\nallegorical of the knowledge of the Scripture which depends on the Cross\nitself.\n\nAccording to Hugh of Saint Victor, the tongue of the bell is the\nsacerdotal tongue, which, striking on both sides of the body, declares\nthe truth of both Testaments. Finally, to others the bell itself is the\nmouth of the Liturgy, and the tongue its tongue.\n\n\"In fact, the bell is the Church's herald, its outer voice, as the\npriest is its inward voice,\" Durtal concluded.\n\nWhile meditating in this wise, he had reached the cathedral, and for the\nhundredth time stood to admire those powerful abutments throwing out,\nwith the strong curve of a projectile, flying buttresses like spoked\nwheels, and, as usual, he was amazed by the flight of the parabola, the\ngrace of the trajectory, the sober strength of those curved supports.\n\"Still,\" said he to himself, as he studied the parapet raised above\nthem, bordering the roof of the nave, \"the architect who was content to\nstamp out those trefoil arches, as if they were punched in that stone\nparapet, was less happily inspired than certain other master-masons or\nstone-workers who enclosed the little gutter-path they made round church\nroofs with scriptural or symbolical images. Such an one was he who built\nthe cathedral at Troyes, where the top parapet is carved alternately\ninto fleur de lys and Saint Peter's keys; and he who at Caudebec\nsculptured the edge into gothic letters of a delightfully decorative\ncharacter, spelling a hymn to the Virgin, thus crowning the church with\na garland of prayer, wreathing its head with a white chaplet of\naspiration.\"\n\nDurtal left the north side of the cathedral, went past the royal door\nand round the corner of the old tower. With one hand he held on his hat,\nand with the other grasped the skirts of his coat, which flapped about\nhis legs. The storm blew permanently on this spot. There might be not a\nbreath of air anywhere else in the town, but here, at this corner,\nwinter and summer, there was always a blast that caught cloaks and\nskirts and lashed the face with icy thongs.\n\n\"That perhaps is the reason why the statues of the neighbouring north\ndoor, which are so incessantly scourged by the wind, stand in such\nshivering attitudes with narrow and tightly-drawn raiment, their arms\nand legs held close,\" thought Durtal, with a smile. \"And is it not the\nsame with that strange figure dwelling in companionship with a sow\nspinning--though it is not in fact a sow, but a hog--and an ass playing\non a hurdy-gurdy on the storm-beaten wall of the old tower?\"\n\nThese two animals, whose careless herd he seems to be, represent in\ntheir merry guise the old popular sayings: _Ne sus Minerveum_, and\n_Asinus ad lyram_, which may be freely rendered by \"Every man to his\ntrade,\" and \"Never force a talent;\" for we should but be as inept as a\npig trying to be wise or an ass trying to strike the lyre.\n\nBut this angel with a nimbus, standing barefoot under a canopy,\nsupporting a sun-dial against his breast, what does he mean, what is he\ndoing?\n\nA descendant of the royal women of the north porch, for he is like them\nin his slender shape, sheathed in a clinging robe with string-like\npleats, he looks over our heads, and we wonder whether he is very impure\nor very chaste.\n\nThe upper part of the face is innocent, the hair cropped round the head;\nthe face is beardless and the expression monastic, but between the nose\nand mouth there is a broad slope, and the lips, parting in a straight\ngash, wear a smile, which as we look seems just a little impudent, just\na little vulgar, and we wonder what manner of angel this may be.\n\nThere is in this figure something of the recalcitrant seminarist, and\nalso something of the virtuous postulant. If the sculptor took a young\nBrother for his model, he certainly did not choose a docile novice, such\nas he who no doubt served for the study of Joseph standing under the\nnorth door; he must have worked from one of the religious _Gyrovagoi_\nwho so tormented St. Benedict. A strange figure is this angel, who has a\nfather at Laon, behind the cathedral, and who anticipated by many\ncenturies the puzzling seraphic types of the Renaissance.\n\n\"What a wind!\" muttered Durtal, hastening back to the west front, where\nhe went up the steps and pushed the door open.\n\nThe entrance to this immense and obscure church is always coercive; we\ninstinctively bend the head and advance cautiously under the oppressive\nmajesty of its vault. Durtal stopped when he had gone a few steps,\ndazzled by the illumination of the choir in contrast with the dark alley\nof the nave, which only gained a little light where it joined the\ntransepts. The Christ had the legs and feet in shadow, the body in\nsubdued light, and the head bathed in a torrent of glory; Durtal gazed\nup in the air at the motionless ranks of Patriarchs, and Apostles, and\nBishops, and Saints in a glow as of dying fires, dimly lighted glass,\nguarding the Sacred Body at their feet, below them; they stood in rows\nalong the upper storey in huge pointed settings, with wheels above them,\nshowing to Jesus, nailed to earth, His army of faithful soldiers, His\nlegions as enumerated in the Scriptures, the Legends, the Martyrology;\nDurtal could identify in the armed throng of the painted windows St.\nLaurence, St. Stephen, St. Giles, St. Nicholas of Myra, St. Martin, St.\nGeorge of Cappadocia, St. Symphorian, St. Philip, St. Foix, St. Laumer,\nand how many more whose names he could not recollect--and paused in\nadmiration near the transept, in front of a figure of Abraham fixed for\never in a threatening gesture, holding a sword over a crouching Isaac,\nthe blade shining brightly against the infinite blue.\n\nHe stood admiring the conceptions and the craftsmanship of those\nthirteenth century glass-workers, their emphatic language, necessary at\nsuch great heights, the way in which they had made the pictures legible\nfrom a distance by introducing a single figure in each, whenever that\nwas possible, and painting it in massive outline, with contrasting\ncolours, so as to be easily taken in at a glance when seen from below.\n\nBut the triumph of this art was neither in the choir, nor in the\ntransepts of the church, nor in the nave; it was at the entrance, on the\ninner side of the wall, where on the outside stood the statues of the\nnameless queens. Durtal delighted in this glorious show, but he always\npostponed it a little to excite himself by expectancy, and revel in the\nleap of joy it gave him, repetition of the sensation not having yet\navailed to weaken it.\n\nOn this particular day, under a sunny sky, these three windows of the\ntwelfth century blazed with splendour with their broad short blades, the\nblade of a claymore, flat wide panels of glass under the rose that held\nthe most prominent place over the west door.\n\nIt was a twinkling sheet of cornflowers and sparks, a shifting maze of\nblue flames--a paler blue than that in which Abraham, at the end of the\nnave, brandished his knife; this pale, limpid blue resembled the flames\nof burning punch and of the ignited powder of sulphur, and the lightning\nflash of sapphires, but of quite young sapphires, as it were, still\ninfantine and tremulous. And in the right hand pointed window he could\ndistinguish in burning red the Stem of Jesse--figures piled up espalier\nfashion, in the blue fire of the sky; while to the left and in the\nmiddle, scenes were shown from the Life of Jesus--the Annunciation, Palm\nSunday, the Transfiguration, the Last Supper, and the Supper at Emmaus;\nand above these three windows Christ hurled thunder from the heart of\nthe great rose, the dead emerged from their graves at the trumpet-call,\nand St. Michael weighed souls.\n\n\"How did the glass-makers discover and compound that twelfth century\nblue?\" wondered Durtal. \"And why have their successors so long lost it,\nas well as their red?\n\n\"In the twelfth century glass-painters made use chiefly of three\ncolours; first, blue--that ineffable, uncertain sky-blue which is the\nglory of the Chartres windows; then red--a purplish red, full and\nimportant; and green--inferior in quality to the two others. For white\nthey preferred a greenish tinge.\n\n\"In the following century the palette is more extensive, but the stain\nis darker; the glass, too, is thicker. And yet, what a glowing blue of\npure, bold sapphire tone the artists of the furnace had at their\ncommand, and what a fine red they used, the colour of fresh blood!\nYellow, of which they were less lavish, was, if I may judge from the\nrobe of a king near the Abraham, in a window by the transept, a daring\nhue of bright lemon. But apart from these three colours, which have a\nsort of resonance, and burst forth like songs of joy in these\ntransparent pictures, others grow more sober; the violets are like\nOrleans plums or purple egg-fruit, the browns are of the hue of burnt\nsugar, the chive-coloured greens turn dark.\n\n\"But what masterpieces of colour they achieved by the harmony and\ncontrast of these tones, and with what skill did they handle the\nlead-lines, emphasizing certain details, punctuating and dividing these\nparagraphs of flame as if with lines of ink.\n\n\"And another thing which is amazing is the perfect agreement of all\nthese various crafts, practised side by side, treating the same\nsubjects, or supplementing each other--each, by its own mode of\nexpression, under one guiding mind, contributing to the whole; with what\na sense of fitness, with what skill were the posts distributed, the\nplaces assigned to each as beseemed the purpose of his craft, the\nrequirements of his art.\n\n\"Architecture having finished the lower portion of the edifice, retires\ninto the background to make way for Sculpture, giving it the fine\nopportunity of the doorways; and Sculpture, hitherto invisible at\nexcessive heights, as a mere accessory, suddenly finds itself supreme.\nWith due sense of justice it now comes forward where it can be seen, and\nthe sister art retires, leaving it to address the multitude, giving it\nthe noblest framework in those arched doorways, imitating a deeper\nperspective by their concentric arches, diminishing and retreating to\nthe door-frames.\n\n\"In other instances Architecture does not give everything to one art,\nbut divides the bounty of her great _facade_ between sculpture and\npainting; reserving to the former the hollows and nooks where statues\nmay find niches, and giving to glass-painters the tympanum of the great\ndoor, where at Chartres the image-maker has displayed the Triumph of\nChrist. This we see in the great west doors of Tours and of Reims.\n\n\"This plan of substituting glass for bas-reliefs had its disadvantages;\nseen from outside--their wrong side--these diaphanous pictures look like\nspiders' nets on an enormous scale and thick with dust. With the light\non them the windows are, in fact, grey or black; it is only by going\ninside and looking back that their fire can be seen flashing; the\noutside is here sacrificed to the inside. Why?\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Durtal, answering himself, \"it is symbolical of the soul\nhaving light inwardly, an allegory of the spiritual life--\"\n\nHe took in all the windows of the nave with a rapid glance, and it\nstruck him that their effect was a combination of the prison and the\ngrave, with their coals of fire burning behind iron bars, some crossed\nlike the windows of a gaol, and others twisting like black twigs and\nbranches. Is not glass painting of all arts that in which God does most\nto help the artist, the art which man, unaided, can never make perfect,\nsince the sky alone can give life to the colours by a beam of sunshine,\nand lend movement to the lines? In short, man fashions the form,\nprepares the body, and must wait till God infuses the soul.\n\n\"It is to-day a high-day of light and the Sun of Justice is visiting His\nMother,\" he went on, as he walked to where the pillared thicket of the\nchoir ended at the south transept, to look at the window known as Notre\nDame de la belle Verriere, the figure, in blue, relieved against a\nmingled background of dead-leaf olive, brown, iris violet, plum-green;\nShe gazed out with her sad and pensive pout--a pout very cleverly\nrestored by a modern glass-painter; and Durtal remembered that people\nhad come to pray to Her, as he now went to pray to the Virgin of the\nPillar and Notre Dame de Sous Terre.\n\nSuch devotion was a thing of the past; the men of our time need, it\nwould seem, a more tangible, a more material Virgin than this slender,\nfragile image, hardly visible in dark weather; nevertheless, a few\npeasants still kept up the habit of kneeling and offering a taper before\nHer, and Durtal, who loved these old neglected Madonnas, joined them and\ninvoked Her too.\n\nTwo other windows also appealed to him by the singularity of the\nfigures, perched very high up, in the depths of the apse, and serving as\nattendant pages, at a distance, to the Virgin holding Her Son in the\ncentre light commanding the whole perspective of the cathedral; these\neach contained in a light-toned lancet, a barbarous and grotesque\nseraph, with sharply-marked features, white wings full of eyes, and\nrobes with jagged, strap-like edges of a pale green colour; their legs\nwere bare, and they were represented as floating. These two angels had\njujube yellow aureoles tilted to the back like sailors' hats; and this\nragged attire, the feathers folded over the breast, the hat of glory,\nwith their general expression of refractory wilfulness, suggested the\nidea that these beings were at once paupers, Apaches or Mohicans, and\nseamen.\n\nAs to the remaining windows, especially those which included several\nfigures and were divided into several pictures, it would have needed a\ntelescope and have taken many days of study only to make out the story\nthey told, and discover the details; and months would not have sufficed\nfor the task, since the glass had been in many cases repaired and often\nreplaced without regard to order, so that it was especially difficult to\ndecipher it.\n\nAn attempt had been made to count the number of figures represented in\nthe cathedral windows; they were as many as 3889; in the mediaeval times\neverybody had been eager to present a glass picture to the Virgin. Not\ncardinals only, kings, bishops and princes, canons and nobles, but the\ncorporations of the town also had contributed these panels of fire; the\nrichest, such as the Guilds of Drapers and Furriers, of Goldsmiths and\nMoney-changers, had each presented five to Our Lady, while the poorer\ncompanies of the Master Scavengers and Water-carriers, the Porters and\nRag-pickers, each gave one.\n\nPondering on these things, Durtal wandered round the ambulatory and\npaused in front of a small stone Virgin ensconced at the foot of the\nstairs leading up to the chapel of Saint Piat, constructed in the\nfourteenth century as a sort of outbuilding behind the apse. This\nVirgin, dating from the same period, had shrunk into the shade, effacing\nHerself, deferentially leaving the more important places to the senior\nMadonnas.\n\nShe carried an Infant playing with a bird, in allusion, no doubt, to the\npassage in the apocryphal Gospels of the Infancy, and of Thomas the\nIsraelite, which shows us the Child Jesus amusing Himself by modelling\nbirds out of clay, and giving them life by breathing upon them.\n\nThen Durtal continued his walk through the chapels; stopping only to\nlook at one which contained relics of opposite utility and double\npurpose: the shrines of Saint Piat and Saint Taurinus. The bones of the\nformer saint were displayed to secure dry weather in times of rain, and\nthose of the second to invoke rain in times of drought. But what was\nfar less comforting and more irritating even than this array of\nside-chapels, with their wretched adornment--with names that had been\nchanged since their first dedication so that the tutelary protection\nearned by centuries of service had ceased to exist--was the choir,\nbattered, dirty, degraded as if on purpose.\n\nIn 1763 the old Chapter had thought fit to deface the Gothic columns,\nand to have them colour-washed by a Milanese lime-washer, of a yellowish\npink speckled with grey; then they had abandoned to the town-museum some\nmagnificent pieces of Flemish tapestry that screened the inner circuit\nof the choir aisles, and had put in their place bas-reliefs in marble\nexecuted by the dreadful bungler who had crushed the altar under the\ngigantic group of the Virgin. And mischance had helped. In 1789 the\nSansculottes were intending to destroy this mountainous Assumption, and\nsome ill-starred idiot saved it by placing a cap of liberty on the\nVirgin's head!\n\nTo think that some beautiful windows were knocked out in order to get a\nbetter light for this mass of lard! If only there were the slightest\nhope of ever getting rid of it; but alas! all such hopes are vain. Some\nyears ago, when Monseigneur Regnault was Bishop, the idea was indeed\nsuggested--not of making away with this petrified lump of tallow, but at\nleast of getting rid of the bas-reliefs.\n\nThen the prelate--who stuffed his ears with cotton for fear of taking\ncold--set his face against it; and for reasons of equal importance, no\ndoubt, the sacrilegious hideousness of this Assumption must be for ever\nendured, and the marble screens as well.\n\nBut though the interior of this choir was a disgrace, the groups round\nthe ambulatory of the apse and the outer wall of the choir were well\nworth lingering over.\n\nThese figures under canopies and tabernacles carved by Jehan de Beauce\nbegan on the right by the south transept, went round the horse-shoe\nbehind the altar, and ended at the north transept where the Black Virgin\nof the Pillar stands.\n\nThe subjects were the same as those treated in the small capitals of the\nroyal doorway, outside the church, above the panegyric of the kings,\nsaints, and queens. They were taken from the Apocryphal legends, the\nGospel of the Childhood of Mary, and the Protoevangelist James the Less.\n\nThe first of these groups was executed by an artist named Jehan Soulas.\nThe contract, dated January 2nd, 1518, between this sculptor and the\ndelegates of the authorities conducting the works of the church, still\nexisted. It set forth that Jehan Soulas, a master image-maker, dwelling\nin Paris at the cemetery of Saint Jehan in the parish of Saint Jehan en\nGreve, pledged himself to execute in good stone of the Tonnerre quarry,\nand better than the images that are round about the choir of Notre Dame\nde Paris, the four first groups, of which the subjects were prescribed\nand explained; in consideration of the sum of two hundred and eighty\n_livres Tournois_, which the Chapter of Chartres undertook to pay him as\nhe might require.\n\nSoulas, who had undoubtedly learned his craft from some Flemish artist,\nproduced certain little _genre_ pictures well adapted, by their spirit\nand liveliness, to cheer the soul that the solemnity of the windows\nmight have depressed; for in this aisle they really seemed to let the\nlight filter through Indian shawl-stuff, admitting only a few dull\nsparks and smoky gleams.\n\nThe second group, representing Saint Anna receiving from an unseen angel\nan order to go to meet Joachim at the Golden Gate, was a marvel of grace\nand subtle observation; the saint stood listening attentive in front of\nher fald-stool, by which lay a little dog; and a waiting-maid, seen in\nprofile, carrying an empty pitcher, smiled with a knowing air and a wink\nin her eye. And in the next scene, where the husband and wife were\nembracing each other with the trepidation of a worthy old couple,\nstammering with joy and clasping trembling hands, the same woman, seen\nfull-face this time, was so delighted at their happiness that she could\nnot keep still, but, holding up her skirts, was almost in the act of\ndancing.\n\nA little further on, the image-maker had represented the birth of Mary,\na thoroughly Flemish scene: in the background, a bed with curtains, on\nwhich Saint Anna reclined, watched by a maid, while the midwife and her\nattendant washed the infant in a basin.\n\nBut another of these bas-reliefs, close to the Renaissance clock, which\ninterrupts the series of this history told in the choir-aisle, was even\nmore astonishing. In this Mary was sewing at baby-clothes while reading,\nand Saint Joseph, asleep in a chair, his head resting on his hand, was\ninstructed in a dream of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin. And he\nnot only had his eyes shut, he was sleeping so soundly, so really, that\none could see him breathe, one felt his body stretching, relaxing, in\nthe perfect abandonment of his whole being. And how diligently the young\nmother stitched while she was absorbed in prayers, her nose in her book!\nNever, certainly, was life more closely apprehended, or expressed with\ngreater certainty and truth to life caught in the act, at the instant,\nere it moved.\n\nNext to this domestic scene, and the Adoration of the Shepherds and\nAngels, came the Circumcision of Jesus, with a white paper apron pasted\non by some low jester; then the Adoration of the Magi; and Jehan de\nSoulas and the pupils of his studio had finished the work on their side.\nThey were succeeded by inferior craftsmen, Francois Marchant of Orleans,\nand Nicolas Guybert of Chartres; and after them art went on sinking\nlower and lower, down to one Sieur Boudin, who had dared to sign his\nmiserable puppets, down to the stupid conventionality of Jean de Dieu,\nLegros, Tuby, and Mazieres, to the cold and pagan work of the\nseventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But there was an improvement in\nthe eight last groups opposite the Virgin of the Pillar--some simple\nfigures carved by the pupils of Soulas; these, however, were to some\nextent wasted, since they stood in the shadow, and it was almost\nimpossible to judge of them in that half-dead light.\n\nIn reviewing this ambulatory, in parts so pleasing and in others so\nunseemly, Durtal could not help recalling the details of a similar but\nmore complete work--one that had not been wrought in succeeding ages and\ndisfigured by discrepancies of talent and date. This work was at Amiens,\nand it, likewise, was the decoration of the outer aisle of a cathedral\nchoir.\n\nThis story of the life of Saint Firmin, the first Bishop and patron\nsaint of the city, and of the discovery and translation of his relics by\nSaint Salvo, was told in a series of groups that had been gilt and\npainted; then, to complete the circuit of the sanctuary, the life of the\nsecond patron of Amiens had been added, Saint John the Baptist; and in\nthe scene of the Baptism of Christ a fair-haired angel was represented\nholding a napkin, an ingenuous and arch being, one of the most adorable\nseraphic faces ever carved or painted by Flemish art in France.\n\nThis legend of Saint Firmin was set forth, like that of the Birth of the\nVirgin at Chartres, in separate chapters of stone, surmounted in the\nsame way with gothic canopies or tabernacles; and in the compartment\nwhere Saint Salvo, surrounded by the multitude, discerns the beams which\nradiate from a cloud to indicate the spot where the lost body of the\nMartyr had been buried, a man on his knees with clasped hands, seems to\npant, uplifted in prayer, burning, projected by the leap of his soul,\nhis face transfigured, turning a mere rustic into a saint in ecstasy,\nalready dwelling in God far above the earth.\n\nThis worshipper was the masterpiece of the ambulatory at Amiens, as the\nsleeping Saint Joseph was of the bas-reliefs at Chartres.\n\n\"Take it for all in all,\" said Durtal to himself, \"that work in the\nPicardy Cathedral is more explicit, more complete, more various, more\neloquent even than that of the church in La Beauce. Irrespective of the\nfact that the unknown image-maker who created it was as highly gifted as\nSoulas with acute observation, and persuasive and decided\nsimple-mindedness and spirit, he had besides a peculiar and more noble\nvein of feeling. And then his subjects were not restricted to the\npresentment of two or three personages; he frequently grouped a swarming\ncrowd, in which each man, woman, or child differed in individual\ncharacter and feature from every other, and was conspicuously marked by\nthat unlikeness, so clear and living was the realism of each small\nfigure!\n\n\"After all,\" thought Durtal, looking once more at the choir aisles as he\nturned away, \"though Soulas maybe inferior to the sculptor of Amiens, he\nis none the less a delightful artist and a true master, and his groups\nmay console us for the ignominious work of Bridan and the atrocious\ndecoration of the choir.\"\n\nHe then went to kneel before the Black Virgin, and returning to the\nNorth transept near which She stands, he gazed once more in amazement at\nthe incandescent flowers of the windows; again he was captivated and\nmoved by the five pointed windows under the rose, in which, on each side\nof the Mauresque Saint Anna, stood David and Solomon, a forbidding pair,\nin a furnace of purple, and Melchizedec and Aaron with tawny complexions\nand hairy faces, with enormous colourless eyes standing out passionless\nin a blaze of daylight.\n\nThe radiating rose-window above them was not of the vast diameter of\nthose in Notre Dame de Paris, nor of the incomparable elegance of the\nstar-patterned rose at Amiens. It was smaller and heavier, sparkling\nwith flowers like saxifrages of flame, opening in the pierced wall.\n\nDurtal turned on his heel to look at the South transept, where five\ngreat windows faced those on the North. There he saw, blazing like\ntorches on each side of the Virgin placed exactly opposite Saint Anna,\nthe four Evangelists borne on the shoulders of the four greater\nProphets--Saint Matthew on Isaiah, Saint Luke on Jeremiah, Saint John on\nEzekiel, Saint Mark on Daniel--each stranger than the other, with their\neyes like the lenses of opera-glasses, their hair in ripples, their\nbeards like the up-torn roots of trees; excepting Saint John, who was\nalways represented as a beardless youth in the Latin Mediaeval Church, to\nsymbolize his virginity; but the most grotesque of these giants' was\nperhaps Saint Luke, who, perched on Jeremiah's back, gently scratches\nthe prophet's head, as if he were a parrot, while turning woeful,\nmeditative eyes up to Heaven.\n\nDurtal went down the nave, darker than the choir; the pavement sloped\ngently to the door, for in the Middle Ages it was washed every morning\nafter the departure of the crowds who slept on it; and he looked down,\nin the middle, on the labyrinth marked out on the ground in lines of\nwhite stone and ribbons of blue stone, twisting in a spiral, like a\nwatch-spring. This path our fathers devoutly paced, repeating special\nprayers during the hour they spent in doing so, and thus performing an\nimaginary pilgrimage to the Holy Land to earn indulgences.\n\nWhen he was out in the square once more, he turned back to take in the\nsplendid effect of the whole before going home.\n\nHe felt at once happy and awe-stricken, carried out of himself by the\ntremendous and yet beautiful aspect of the church.\n\nHow grandiose and how aerial was this cathedral, sprung like a jet from\nthe soul of a man who had formed it in his own image, to record his\nascent in mystic paths, up and up by degrees in the light; passing\nthrough the contemplative life in the transept, soaring in the choir\ninto the full glory of the unitive life, far away now from the\npurgatorial life, the dark passage of the nave.\n\nAnd this assumption of a soul was attended, supported, by the bands of\nangels, the apostles, the prophets, and the righteous, all arrayed in\ntheir glorified bodies of flame, an escort of honour to the Cross lying\nlow on the stones, and the image of the Mother enthroned in all the high\nplaces of this vast reliquary, opening the walls, as it seemed, to\npresent to Her, as for a perpetual festival, their posies of gems that\nhad blossomed in the fiery heat of the glass windows.\n\nNowhere else was the Virgin so well cared for, so cherished, so\nemphatically proclaimed the absolute mistress of the realm thus offered\nto Her; and one detail proved this. In every other cathedral kings,\nsaints, bishops, and benefactors lay buried in the depths of the soil;\nnot so at Chartres. Not a body had ever been buried there; this church\nhad never been made a sarcophagus, because, as one of its\nhistorians--old Rouillard--says, \"it has the preeminent distinction of\nbeing the couch or bed of the Virgin.\"\n\nThus it was Her home; here She was supreme amid the court of Her Elect,\nwatching over the sacramental Body of Her Son in the sanctuary of the\ninmost chapel, where lamps were ever burning, guarding Him as She had\ndone in His infancy; holding Him on Her knee in every carving, every\npainted window; seen in every storey of the building, between the ranks\nof saints, and sitting at last on a pillar, revealing herself to the\npoof and lowly, under the humble aspect of a sunburnt woman, scorched by\nthe dog-days, tanned by wind and rain. Nay, She went lower still, down\nto the cellars of Her palace, waiting in the crypt to give audience to\nthe waverers, the timid souls who were abashed by the sunlit splendour\nof Her Court.\n\nHow completely does this sanctuary--where the sweet and awful presence\nis ever felt of the Child who never leaves His Mother--lift the spirit\nabove all realities, into the secret rapture of pure beauty!\n\n\"And how good must They both be,\" Durtal said to himself, as he looked\nround and found himself alone, \"never to abandon this desert, never to\nweary of waiting for worshippers! But for the honest country folk who\ncome at all hours to kiss the pillar, what a solitude it would be, even\non Sunday, for this cathedral is never full. However, to be just, at the\nnine o'clock mass on Sundays the lower end of the nave is thronged,\" and\nhe smiled, remembering that end of the church packed with little girls\nbrought in schools by Sisters, and with peasant women who, not being\nable to see there to read their prayers, would light ends of taper and\ncrowd together closely, several looking over one book.\n\nThis familiarity, this childlike simplicity of piety, which the dreadful\nsacristans of Paris would never endure in a church, were' so natural at\nChartres, so thoroughly in harmony with the homely and unceremonious\nwelcome of Our Lady!\n\n\"A thing to be ascertained,\" said Durtal, starting on a new line of\nthought, \"is whether this church has preserved its surface uninjured, or\nwhether it may not have been coloured in the thirteenth century. Some\nwriters assert that, in Mediaeval times, the interiors of cathedrals were\nalways painted. Is that the fact? Or, admitting that the statement is\ncorrect as to all Romanesque churches, is it equally so with regard to\nGothic churches?\n\n\"For my part, I like to believe that the sanctuary of Chartres was never\nbefooled with gaudiness, such as we have to endure at Saint Germain des\nPres, in Paris, and Notre Dame la Grande at Poitiers. In fact such\ncolour can only be conceived of--if at all--as used in small chapels;\nwhy stain the walls of a cathedral with motley? For this tattooing, so\nto speak, reduces the sense of space, brings down the roof, and makes\nthe pillars clumsy; in short, it eliminates the mysterious soul of the\nnave, and destroys the sober majesty of the aisle with its feebly vulgar\nfret or guilloche, lozenges or crosses, scattered over the pillars and\nwalls, in a paste of treacly yellow, endive-green, vinous purple, lava\ndrab, brick red--a whole range of dull and dirty colours; to say nothing\nof the horror of a vault dotted with stars that look as if they had been\ncut out of gilt paper and stuck against a smalt background, a sky of\nwashing-blue!\n\n\"It is endurable--if it must be--in the Sainte-Chapelle, because it is\nvery small, an oratory, a shrine; it might even be intelligible in that\nwonderful church at Brou, which is a boudoir; its vaulting and pendants\nare in polychrome and gold, and the ground has been paved with enamelled\ntiles, of which visible traces remain round the tombs. This gaudiness of\nthe roof and floor was in harmony with the filagree tracery of the\nwalls, the heraldic glass, and the clear windows, the profusion of\nlace-like carving and coats of arms in the stone-work, blossoming with\nbunches of daisies mingling with labels, mottoes, monograms, Saint\nFrancis' girdles and knots. The colouring was in keeping with the\nalabaster retables, the black marble tombs, the pinnacled tabernacles\nwith their crockets of curled and dentate foliage. We can then quite\neasily imagine the columns and walls painted, the ribs and bosses washed\nwith gold, and making a harmonious whole of this _bonbonniere_, which\nindeed is a piece of jewelry rather than of architecture.\n\n\"This building at Brou was the last effort of mediaeval times, the last\nrocket flung up by the flamboyant Gothic style--a Gothic which though\nfallen from its glory struggled against death, fought against returning\npaganism and the invading Renaissance. The era of the great cathedrals\nended in the production of this exquisite abortion, which was in its way\na masterpiece, a gem of prettiness, of ingenuity, of tormented and\ncoquettish taste.\n\n\"It was emblematic of the soul of the sixteenth century, already devoid\nof reserve; the sanctuary, too brightly lighted, was secularized; we\nhere see it fully blown, and it never folded up or veiled itself again.\nWe discern in this a lady's bower, all paint and gold; the little\nchapels (or pews) with chimney-places where Margaret of Austria could\nwarm herself as she heard Mass, furnished with scented cushions,\nprovided with sweetmeats and toys and dogs.\n\n\"Brou is a fine lady's drawing-room, not the house for all comers. Then,\nnaturally, with its screen-work, and the carving of the rood-loft\nstretching like a lace portal across the entrance to the choir, it\ninvites, it almost requires some skilful tinting of the details, the\ntouches of colour that complete it, and harmonize it finally with the\nelegance of the founder, the Princess Marguerite, whose presence is far\nmore conspicuous in this little church than is that of the Virgin.\n\n\"Even then it would be satisfactory to know whether the walls and\npillars at Brou ever were really painted; the contrary seems proven. But\nin any case, though a touch of _rouge_ might not ill beseem this curious\nsanctum, it would not be so at Chartres, for the only suitable hue is\nthe shining, greasy patina, grey turning to silver, stone-colour turning\nbuff--the colouring given by age, by time helped by accumulated vapours\nof prayer and the fumes of incense and tapers!\"\n\nAnd Durtal, arguing over his own reflections, ended by reverting, as he\nalways did, to his own person, saying to himself,--\n\n\"Who knows that I may not some day bitterly regret this cathedral and\nall the sweet meditations it suggests; for, after all, I shall have no\nmore opportunities for such long loitering, such relaxation of mind,\nsince I shall be subject to the discipline of bells ringing for\nconventual drill if I suffer myself to be locked up in a cloister!\n\n\"Who knows whether, in the silence of a cell, I should not miss even the\nfoolish cawing of those black jackdaws that croak without pause,\" he\nwent on, looking up with a smile at the cloud of birds that settled on\nthe towers; and he recalled a legend which tells that since the fire in\n1836 these birds quit the cathedral every evening at the very hour when\nthe conflagration began, and do not return till dawn, after spending the\nnight in a wood at three leagues from Chartres.\n\nThis tale is as absurd as another, also dear to the old wives of the\ncity, and which tells that if you spit on a certain square of stone, set\nwith black cement into the pavement behind the choir, blood will exude.\n\n\"Hah, it is you, Madame Bavoil.\"\n\n\"Yes, our friend, I myself. I have just been on an errand for the\nFather, and am going home again to make the soup. And you, are you\npacking your trunks?\"\n\n\"My trunks?\"\n\n\"Why, are not you going off to a convent?\" said she, laughing.\n\n\"Would not you like to see it?\" exclaimed Durtal. \"Catch me at that!\nEnlisting as a private subject to a pious drill, one of a poor squad,\nwhose every movement must mark time, and who, though he is not expected\nto keep his hands over the seam of his trowsers, is required to hide\nthem under his scapulary--\"\n\n\"Ta, ta, ta,\" interrupted the housekeeper, \"I tell you once more, you\nare grudging, bargaining with God--\"\n\n\"But before coming to so serious a decision it is quite necessary that I\nshould argue all the pros and cons; in such a case some mental\nlitigation is clearly permissible.\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders; and there was such peace in her face, such a\nglow of flame lurked behind the liquid blackness of her eyes, that\nDurtal stood looking at her, admiring the honesty and purity of a soul\nwhich could thus rise to the threshold of her eyes and come forth in her\nlook.\n\n\"How happy you are!\" he exclaimed.\n\nA cloud dimmed her eyes, and she looked down.\n\n\"Envy no one, our friend,\" said she, \"for each has his own struggles and\ngriefs.\"\n\nAnd when he had parted from her, Durtal, as he went home, thought of the\ndisasters she had confessed, the cessation of her intercourse with\nHeaven, the fall of a soul that had been wont to soar above the clouds.\nHow she must suffer!\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, \"the service of the Lord is not all roses. If we\nstudy the lives of the Saints we see these Elect tormented by dreadful\nmaladies, and the most painful trials. No, holiness on earth is no\nchild's play, life is not amusement. To Saints, indeed, even on earth\nexcessive suffering finds compensation in excessive joys; but to other\nChristians, such small fry as we are, what distress and trouble! We\nquestion the everlasting silence and none answers; we wait and none\ncomes. In vain do we proclaim Him as Illimitable, Incomprehensible,\nUnthinkable, and confess that every effort of our reason is vain, we\ncannot cease to wonder, and still less cease to suffer! And yet--and yet\nif we consider, the darkness about us is not absolutely impenetrable,\nthere is light in places and we can discern some truths, such as this:\n\n\"God treats us as He treats plants. He is, in a certain sense, the\nsoul's year; but a year in which the order of the seasons is reversed;\nfor the spiritual seasons begin with spring, followed by winter, and\nthen autumn comes, followed by summer.\n\n\"The moment of conversion is the spring, the soul is joyful and Christ\nsows the good seed; then comes the cold and all is dark, the\nterror-stricken soul believes itself forsaken and bewails itself; but\nwithout its feeling it during the trials of the purgatorial life, the\nseed germinates in the contemplative peace of autumn and flourishes in\nthe summer life of Union.\n\n\"Aye; but each one must be the helping gardener of his own soul,\nlistening to the instructions of the Master who plans the task and\ndirects the work. Alas, we are no more the humble labourers of the\nMiddle Ages, who toiled, giving God thanks, who submitted without\ndiscussion to the Master's orders. We, by our little faith, have\nexhausted the value of prayer, the panacea of aspirations; consequently\nmany things seem to us unjust and cruel, and we rebel, we ask for\npledges; we hesitate to begin our task, we want to be paid in advance,\nand our distrust makes us vile!--O Lord, give us grace to pray, and\nnever dream of demanding an earnest of Thy favours! Give us grace to\nobey and be silent!\n\n\"And I may add,\" said Durtal to himself as he smiled on Madame Mesurat,\nwho opened the door in answer to his ring, \"Grant me, Lord, the grace\nnot to be too much irritated by the buzzing of this great fly, the\ninexhaustible flow of this good woman's tongue!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\n\"What a fearful muddle, what a sea of ink is this menagerie of good and\nevil emblems!\" exclaimed Durtal, laying down his pen.\n\nHe had harnessed himself that morning to the task of investigating the\nsymbolical fauna of the Middle Ages. At first sight the subject had\nstruck him as newer and less arduous, and certainly as less lengthy,\nthan the article he had thought of writing on the Primitive German\nPainters. But he now sat dismayed before his books and notes, seeking a\nclue to guide him through the mass of contradictory evidence that lay\nbefore him.\n\n\"I must take things in their order,\" said he to himself, \"if indeed any\nprinciple of selection is possible in such confusion.\"\n\nThe Beast-books of Mediaeval times knew all the monsters of\npaganism--Satyrs, Fauns, Sphinxes, Harpies, Centaurs, Hydras, Pygmies,\nand Sirens; these were all regarded as various aspects of the Evil\nSpirit, so no research is needed as to their meaning; they are but a\nresiduum of Antiquity. The true source of mystic zoology is not in\nmythology, but in the Bible, which classifies beasts as clean and\nunclean, makes them symbolize virtues and vices, some species being\nallegorical of heavenly personages, and other embodying the Devil.\n\nStarting from this base, it may be observed that the liturgical\ninterpreters of the animal world distinguished beasts from animals,\nincluding under the former head wild and untamable creatures, and under\nthe second gentle and timid creatures and domestic animals.\n\nThe ornithologists of the Church, furthermore, represent birds as being\nthe righteous, while Boetius, on the other hand, often quoted by\nMediaeval writers, credited them with inconstancy, and Melito compares\nthem in turn to Christ, to the Devil, and to the Jewish nation. It may\nbe added that Richard of Saint Victor, disregarding these views, sees in\nwinged fowl a symbol of the life of the soul, as in the four-footed\nbeast he sees the life of the body--\"And that gets us no further!\"\nsighed Durtal.\n\n\"This is beside the mark. We must find some other symbolism, closer and\nclearer.\n\n\"Here the classification of naturalists would be useless, for a biped\nand a reptile not unfrequently bear the same interpretation as emblems.\nThe simplest plan will be to divide the Church menagerie into two large\nclasses, real beasts and monsters; there is no creature that we may not\ninclude in one or the other category.\"\n\nDurtal paused to reflect:\n\n\"Nevertheless to arrive at a clearer notion and better appreciate the\nimportance of certain families in Catholic Mythography, we had better\nfirst take out all those animals which symbolize God, the Virgin, and\nthe Devil, setting them aside to be referred to when they may elucidate\nother figures; and at the same time weed out those which apply to the\nEvangelists and are combined in the figures of the Tetramorph.\n\n\"The surface thus being removed, we may investigate the remainder, the\nfigurative language of ordinary or monstrous beings.\n\n\"The animal emblems of God are numerous; the Scriptures are filled with\ncreatures emblematic of the Saviour. David compares Him, by comparing\nhimself, to the pelican in the wilderness, to the owl in its nest, to a\nsparrow alone on the house-top, to the dove, to a thirsting hart; the\nPsalms are a treasury of analogies with His qualities and His names.\n\n\"Saint Isidor of Seville--Monseigneur Sainct Ysidore, as the naturalists\nof old are wont to call him--figures Jesus as a lamb by reason of his\ninnocence, as a ram because He is the head of the Flock, even as a\nhe-goat because the Redeemer was subject to the flesh of iniquity.\n\n\"Some took as His image the ox, the sheep, and the calf, as beasts meet\nfor sacrifice, and others those animals that symbolize the elements: the\nlion, the eagle, the dolphin, the salamander--the kings of the earth,\nair, water, and fire. Some again, as Saint Melito, saw Him in the kid,\nthe deer, and even in the camel, which, however, according to another\npassage of the same author, personifies a love of flattery and of vain\npraise. Others again find Him in the scarabaeus, as Saint Euchre does in\nthe bee; still, the bee is regarded by Raban Maur as the unclean sinner.\nChrist's Resurrection is, to yet other writers, symbolized by the\nPhoenix and the cock, and His wrath and power by the rhinoceros and the\nbuffalo.\n\n\"The iconography of the Virgin is less puzzling; She may be symbolized\nby any chaste and gentle creature. The Anonymous Englishman in his\n_Monastic Distinctions_, compares Her to the bee, which we have seen so\nvilified by the Archbishop of Mayence, but the Virgin was most\nespecially represented by the dove, the bird of all others whose Church\nfunctions are most onerous.\n\n\"All authorities agree in taking the dove as the image at once of the\nVirgin and of the Paraclete. According to Saint Mechtildis, it is the\nsimplicity of the heart of Jesus; with others it signifies the\npreachers, the active religious life, as contrasted with the turtle\ndove, which personifies the contemplative life, since the ring-dove\nflies and coos in company, whereas the turtle dove rejoices apart and\nalone.\n\n\"To Bruno of Asti the dove is also an image of patience, a figure of the\nprophets.\n\n\"As to the beasts symbolizing Hell and evil, they are almost without\nnumber; the whole creation of monsters is to be found there. Then among\nreal animals we find: the serpent--the aspic of Scripture, the scorpion,\nthe wolf as mentioned by Jesus Himself, the leopard noted by Saint\nMelito as being allied to Antichrist, the she-tiger representing the\nsins of arrogance, the hyena, the jackal, the bear, the wild-boar,\nwhich, in the Psalms, is said to destroy the vineyard of the Lord, the\nfox, described as a hypocritical persecutor by Peter of Capua and as a\npromoter of heresy by Raban Maur. All beasts of prey; and the hog, the\ntoad--the instrument of witchcraft, the he-goat--the image of Satan\nhimself, the dog, the cat, the ass--under whose form the Devil is seen\nin trials for witchcraft in the Middle Ages, the leech, on which the\nanonymous writer of Clairvaux casts contumely; the raven that went forth\nfrom the ark and did not return--it represents malice, and the dove\nwhich came back is virtue, Saint Ambrose tells us; and the partridge\nwhich, according to the same writer, steals and hatches eggs she did not\nlay.\n\n\"If we may believe Saint Theobald, the Devil is also symbolized by the\nspider, for it dreads the sun as much as the Evil One dreads the Church,\nand is more apt to weave its net by night than by day, thus imitating\nSatan, who attacks man when he knows him to be sleeping and powerless to\ndefend himself.\n\n\"The Prince of Darkness is also to be seen as the lion and the eagle\ninterpreted in an evil sense.\n\n\"This,\" reflected Durtal, \"is the same fact as we find in the expressive\nsymbolism of colours and flowers; constantly a double meaning. The two\nantagonistic interpretations are almost invariably met with in the lore\nof hieroglyphics, excepting only in that of gems.\n\n\"Thus it is that the lion, defined by Saint Hildegarde as the image of\nzeal for God, the lion, figuring the Son Himself, becomes to Hugh of\nSaint Victor the emblem of cruelty. Basing their argument on a text in\nthe Psalms, certain writers identify it with Lucifer. He is in fact the\nlion who seeks whom he may devour, the lion who rushes on his victim.\nDavid speaks of him with the dragon to be trodden under foot, and Saint\nPeter in his first Epistle describes him as roaring in quest of a\nChristian to devour.\n\n\"It is the same with the eagle, which Hugh of Saint Victor calls the\nstandard of Pride. Chosen by Bruno of Asti, Saint Isidor and Saint\nAnselm to represent the Saviour, the Fisher of Men, because he pounces\nfrom the highest sky on fish swimming on the surface of the water and\ncarries them up, the eagle, classed in Leviticus and Deuteronomy with\nthe unclean beasts, is transformed, as being a bird of prey, into a\npersonification of the Devil snatching away souls to gnaw and tear them.\n\n\"Thus every ferocious beast or bird and every reptile is a manifestation\nof the Evil One,\" Durtal concluded.\n\nTo pass to the Tetramorph. The evangelistic animals are well known:--\n\nSaint Matthew, who expatiates on the subject of the Incarnation and sets\nforth the human genealogy of the Messiah, is symbolized by a man.\n\nSaint Mark, who more especially devotes his book to the miracles of the\nSon, saying less about His doctrine than about His acts and His\nresurrection, has the Lion for his attribute.\n\nSaint Luke, who writes more especially of the virtues of Jesus, of His\npatience, meekness, and mercy, and who dwells at length on His\nsacrifice, is distinguished by the Ox or Calf.\n\nSaint John, who preaches above all else the Divinity of the Word, is\nrepresented by the Eagle.\n\nAnd the meaning assigned to the ox, the lion, and the eagle, is in\nperfect accordance with the character and personal aim of each Gospel.\n\nThe lion, emblematical of Omnipotence, is also the apt allegory of the\nResurrection. All the primitive naturalists, Saint Epiphanius, Saint\nAnselm, Saint Yves of Chartres, Saint Bruno of Asti, Saint Isidor,\nAdamantius, all accept the legend that the lion-cub after its birth\nremains lifeless for three days; then on the fourth day it awakes as it\nhears its father's roar and springs full of life out of the den. Thus\nChrist, rising at the end of three days, escapes from the tomb at the\ncall of His Father.\n\nThe belief still prevailed that the lion sleeps with its eyes open;\nhence it became the emblem of vigilance, and Saint Hilary and Saint\nAugustine read in this manner of taking repose an allusion to the Divine\nnature, which was not extinguished even in the sepulchre, though the\nhuman nature of the Redeemer was in truth dead.\n\nFinally, as it was considered certain that this animal effaced the\ntraces of its steps in the sand of the desert with its tail, Raban Maur,\nSaint Epiphanius, and Saint Isidor regarded it as signifying the Saviour\nveiling His Godhead under the forms of the flesh.\n\n\"Not an ordinary beast--the lion!\" exclaimed Durtal. \"Well,\" he went on,\nconsulting his notes, \"the ox is less pretentious! It is the paragon of\nstrength with humility; according to Saint Paul it is emblematical of\nthe priesthood; of the preacher, according to Raban Maur; of the Bishop,\naccording to Peter Cantor, because, says this writer, the prelate wears\na mitre of which the two horns resemble those of an ox, and he uses\nthese horns, which are the wisdom of the Two Testaments, to rip up\nheretics. Still, in spite of these more or less ingenious\ninterpretations, the ox is in fact the beast of immolation and\nsacrifice.\n\n\"Turning to the eagle, it is, as we have seen, the Messiah pouncing on\nsouls to catch them; but other meanings are ascribed to it by Saint\nIsidor and by Vincent of Beauvais. If we believe them, the eagle that\ndesires to test the prowess of his eaglets takes them in his talons and\ncarries them out into the sun, compelling them to look with their eyes\nas they begin to open, on the blazing orb. The eagle which is dazzled by\nthe fire is dropped and cast away by the parent bird. Thus doth God\nreject the soul which cannot gaze on him with the contemplative eye of\nlove!\n\n\"The eagle, again, is typical of the Resurrection; Saint Epiphanius and\nSaint Isidor explain it thus: The eagle in old age flies up so near to\nthe sun that its feathers catch fire; revived by the flames, it drops\ninto the nearest spring, bathes in it three times and comes out\nregenerate: is not this indeed the paraphrase of the Psalmist's verse,\n\"Thy youth shall be renewed as the eagle's\"? Saint Madalene of Pazzi,\nhowever, regards it differently, and takes it to typify faith leaning on\ncharity.\n\n\"I shall have to find a place for all these documents in my article,\"\nsighed Durtal, placing these notes in a separate wrapper.\n\nNow for the chimerical fauna introduced from the East, imported into\nEurope by the Crusaders, and travestied by the illuminators of missals\nand by image-makers.\n\nForemost, the dragon, which we already find rampant and busy in\nmythology and in the Bible.\n\nDurtal rose and went into his library to find a book, \"Traditions\nteratologiques,\" by Berger de Xivrey. It contained long extracts from\nthe \"Romance of Alexander,\" which was the delight of the grown-up\nchildren of the Middle Ages.\n\n\"Dragons,\" says this narrative, \"are larger than all other serpents, and\nlonger.... They fly through the air, which is darkened by the disgorging\nof their stench and venom ... This venom is so deadly that if a man\nshould be touched by it or come nigh it, it would seem to him a burning\nfire, and would raise his skin in great blisters, as though he had been\nscalded.\" And the author adds: \"The sea is swollen up by their venom.\"\n\nDragons have a crest, sharp talons, and a hissing throat, and are almost\nunconquerable. Albertus Magnus tells us, however, that magicians, when\nthey wish to subdue them, beat as loudly as they can on drums, and that\nthe dragon, imagining that it is the roll of thunder, which they greatly\ndread, let themselves be handled quietly and are taken.\n\nThe enemy of this winged reptile is the elephant, which sometimes\nsucceeds in crushing it by falling on it with all its weight; but most\ntimes it is killed by the dragon, which feeds on its blood, of which the\nfreshness allays the intolerable burning caused by its own venom.\n\nNext to this monster comes the gryphon, a combination of the quadruped\nand the bird, for it has the body of the lion and the head and talons of\nthe eagle. Then the basilisk, regarded as the king of serpents; it is\nfour feet long, and has a tail as thick as a tree, and spotted with\nwhite. Its head bears a tuft in shape like a crown; it has a strident\nvoice, and its eye is murderous, \"A look,\" says the \"Romance of\nAlexander,\" \"so piercing, that it is pestilential and deadly to all\nbeasts, whether venomous or no.\" Its breath is no less fetid, nor less\ndangerous, for, \"by its breath are all things infected, and when it is\ndying it is fain to disgorge it; it stinks so that all other beasts flee\nfrom it.\"\n\nIts most formidable foe is the weasel, which bites its throat, \"though\nit be a beast no bigger than a rat,\" for \"God hath made nothing without\nreason and remedy,\" the pious Mediaeval writer concludes.\n\nWhy the weasel? There is nothing to show; nor was this little creature,\nwho did such good service, honoured by our forefathers as having a\nfavourable meaning.\n\nIt is symbolical of dissimulation and depravity, and taken to typify the\ndegrading life of the mountebank. It may also be remembered that this\ncarnivorous beast, which was supposed to carry its young in the mouth\nand give birth to them through the ear, is numbered among the unclean\nanimals in the Bible.\n\n\"This zoological homoeopathy is rather inconsistent,\" observed Durtal,\n\"unless the similar interpretation given to these two creatures, hating\neach other, may signify that the Devil devours himself.\"\n\nNext we have the phoenix, \"a bird of very fine plumage resembling the\npeacock; it is very solitary, and feeds on the seeds of the ash;\" its\ncolour, moreover, is of purple overshot with gold; and because it is\nsaid to rise again from its ashes, it is always typical of the\nResurrection of Christ.\n\nThe unicorn was one of the most amazing creatures in mystical natural\nhistory.\n\n\"It is a very cruel beast, with a great and thick body after the fashion\nof a horse; it hath for a weapon a great horn, half a fathom in length,\nso sharp and so hard that there is nothing it cannot pierce.... When men\nneed to take it they bring a virgin maid to the place where they know\nthat it has its abode. When the unicorn sees her and knows that she is a\nvirgin, it lieth down to sleep in her lap, doing her no harm; then come\nthe hunters and kill it.... Likewise, if she be not a pure maid the\nunicorn will not sleep, but killeth the damsel who is not pure.\"\n\nWhence we conclude that the unicorn is one of the emblems of chastity,\nas also is another very strange beast of which Saint Isidor speaks: the\nporphyrion.\n\nThis has one foot like that of the partridge, and the other webbed like\nthat of a goose, its peculiarity consists in mourning over adultery, and\nloving its master so faithfully that it dies of pity in his arms when it\nlearns that his wife has deceived him. So that this species was soon\nextinct!\n\n\"There must be some more fabulous beasts to be included,\" murmured\nDurtal, again turning over his papers.\n\nHe found the wyvern, a sort of Melusina, half woman and half serpent; a\nvery cruel beast, full of malice and devoid of pity, Saint Ambrose tells\nus; the manicoris, with the face of a man, the tawny eyes and crimson\nmane of a lion, a scorpion's tail, and the flight of an eagle; this sort\nis insatiable by human flesh. The leoncerote, offspring of the male\nhyena and the lioness, having the body of an ass, the legs of a deer,\nthe breast of a wild beast, a camel's head, and armed with terrible\nfangs; the tharanda, which, according to Hugh of Saint Victor, has the\nshape of the ox, the profile of the stag, the fur of the bear, and which\nchanges colour like the cameleon; finally, the sea-monk, the most\npuzzling of all, since Vincent of Beauvais describes it as having its\nbody covered with scales, and it is furnished, in lieu of arms, with\nfins all over claws, besides having a monk's shaven head ending in the\nsnout of a carp.\n\nOthers were also invented, as for instance the gargoyles, hybrid\nmonsters, signifying the vomiting forth of sin ejected from the\nsanctuary; reminding the passer-by who sees them pouring forth the water\nfrom the gutter, that when seen outside the church, they are the\nvoidance of the spirit, the cloaca of the soul!\n\n\"But,\" said Durtal to himself, \"that seems to me enough of the matter.\nFrom the point of view of symbolism this menagerie is not particularly\ninteresting since these monsters--the wyvern, the manicoris, the\nleoncerote, the tharanda and sea-monk--all mean the same thing, and all\nembody the Spirit of Evil.\"\n\nHe took out his watch.\n\n\"Come,\" said he, \"I have still time enough before dinner to go through\nthe list of real animals.\"\n\nAnd he turned over his notes on birds.\n\n\"The cock,\" said he, \"is prayer, watchfulness, the preacher, the\nResurrection, since it is the first to wake at daybreak; the peacock,\nthat has, as an old writer says, \"the voice of a devil and the feathers\nof an angel,\" is a mass of contradictory symbols: it typifies pride,\nand, according to Saint Antony of Padua, immortality, as well as\nvigilance by reason of the eyes in its tail. The pelican is the image of\ncontemplation and of charity; of love, too, according to Saint Madalene\nof Pazzi; the sparrow symbolizes penitential solitude; the swallow, sin;\nthe swan, pride, according to Raban Maur; diligence and solicitude\naccording to Thomas de Catimpre; the nightingale is mentioned by Saint\nMechtildis as meaning the tender soul; and the same saint compares the\nlark to persons who do good works with cheerfulness; it is to be noted\ntoo that in the windows of Bourges the lark means charity to the sick.\n\n\"Here are others specified by Hugh of Saint Victor. To him the vulture\nmeans idleness; the kite, rapacity; the raven, detraction; the white\nowl, hypochondria; the common owl, ignorance; the magpie, chattering\ntalk; and the hoopoe, sluttishness and evil report.\n\n\"This is all a sorry medley!\" said Durtal, \"and I fear it will be the\nsame with the mammalia and other beasts!\"\n\nHe compared a few passages. The ox, the lamb, the sheep, we have seen.\nThe sheep is the type of timidity and meekness, and Saint Pacomius\nembodies in him the monk who lives punctual and obedient, and loving his\nbrethren. Saint Melito on his part ascribes hypocrisy to the ostrich,\ntemporal power to the rhinoceros, human frailty to the spider; we may\nalso mention among the crustacea, the crab as symbolizing heresy and the\nsynagogue, because it walks backwards and away from the path of\nrighteousness. Among fish, the whale is the emblem of the tomb, just as\nJonas, who came out of it after three days, is typical of Jesus risen\nfrom the dead. Among rodents the beaver is the image of Christian\nprudence, because, says the legend, when he is pursued by hunters he\ntears with his teeth the pouch containing castoreum and flings it at the\nfoe. For this reason it is likewise the animal representative of the\ntext in the Gospel which declares that a man must cut off the offending\nmember which is an occasion of sin.\n\nLet us pause before the den of wild beasts.\n\nAccording to Hugh of Saint Victor the wolf is avarice; the fox is\ncunning; Adamantius says that the wild boar represents blind rage; the\nleopard wrath, ambush and daring; the tiger, and the hyena, which can\nchange its sex at will and imitate the voice of man, signifies\nhypocrisy; while Saint Hildegarde shows that the panther, by reason of\nthe beauty of its spots, is typical of vain-glory.\n\nWe need not dwell on the bull, the bison and the buffalo; the symbolists\nregard them as emblems of brute force and pride; while the goat and\nboar-pig are vessels of lust and filth.\n\nThey divide this honour with the toad, an unclean reptile; the\nhabitation of the Devil, who assumes its form to show himself to the\nfemale saints--for instance to Saint Theresa. As to the hapless frog it\nis equally defamed because of its likeness to the toad.\n\nThe stag is in better odour. Saint Jerome and Cassiodorus say it\nexemplifies the Christian who overcomes sin by the sacrament of penance,\nor by martyrdom. Representing God in the Psalms, it is also taken as the\nheathen desiring baptism; a legend attributes to it so vehement a horror\nof the Serpent, in other words of the Devil, that whenever it can it\nattacks and devours him, but if it subsequently goes for three hours\nwithout drinking, it dies; hence after that meal it runs to and fro in\nthe forest seeking a spring of which, if it finds one, it drinks, and is\nthen many years younger. The she-goat is sometimes held in ill-fame as\nbeing akin to the he-goat, but it more often is regarded as the\nWell-Beloved, to which the Bride in Canticles compares it. The hedgehog,\nhiding in crannies, is interpreted by Saint Melito as the sinner, by\nPeter of Capua as the penitent. As to the horse, as a creature of vanity\nand pride, it is opposed by Peter Cantor and Adamantius to the ox, which\nis all gravity and simplicity. It is well, however, to observe that to\nconfuse the matter, by presenting the horse under another aspect, Saint\nEucher compares it to a saint, and the Anonymous Monk of Clairvaux\nidentifies the Devil with the ox. The poor ass is no better treated by\nHugh of Saint Victor, who accuses it of stupidity, by Saint Gregory the\nGreat, who taxes it with laziness, and Peter of Capua, who speaks of its\nlust. It must, however; be observed that Saint Melito compares it with\nChrist for its humility, and that the exegetists explain the ass's foal\nridden by Christ on Palm Sunday as an image of the Gentiles, as they\ninterpret the she-ass that threw Him to mean the Jews.\n\nFinally, two domestic animals dear to man, the cat and the dog, are\ngenerally contemned by the mystics. The dog, typical of sin, says Peter\nCantor, and the most quarrelsome of beasts, adds Hugh of Saint Victor,\nis the creature that returns to his vomit; it also prefigures the\nreprobates of whom the Apocalypse speaks, who are to be driven out of\nthe heavenly Jerusalem; Saint Melito speaks of it as the apostate, and\nSaint Pacomius as the rapacious monk, but Raban Maur redeems it a little\nfrom this condemnation by specifying it as emblematic of confessors.\n\nThe cat, which is but once mentioned in the Bible--in the Book of\nBaruch--is invariably abhorred by the primitive naturalists, who accuse\nit of embodying treachery and hypocrisy, and of lending its skin to the\nDevil, to enable him to appear in its shape to sorcerers.\n\nDurtal turned over a few more pages, discovering that the hare typified\ntimidity and cowardice, and the snail laziness; noting the opinion of\nAdamantius, who ascribes levity and a mocking spirit to the monkey; that\nof Peter of Capua and of the Anonymous writer of Clairvaux, that the\nlizard, which crawls and hides in cracks in the walls, is, as well as\nthe serpent, an emblem of evil; and he recorded the special ascription\nof ingratitude by Christ Himself to the viper, for He gives the name to\nthe Jewish race. Durtal then hastily dressed, fearing to be late, as he\nwas dining with the Abbe Gevresin and the Abbe Plomb. Pursued by Madame\nMesurat, who insisted on dealing him one more blow with the\nclothes-brush, he rushed downstairs, and was soon at his friend's door.\n\nMadame Bavoil, who opened it, appeared in a cap all askew and hair\nloose, up-turned sleeves and scorched arms, with cheeks crimson from the\nkitchen fire. She confessed to the concoction of a dish of beef _a la\nmode_ softened by calf's foot jelly and strengthened by a dash of\nbrandy, and fled, alarmed by the impatient call of a saucepan, of which\nthe contents were boiling over on the hot plates of the stove, with a\nnoise like cats swearing.\n\nDurtal found the old Abbe tormented by rheumatism, but as ever, patient\nand cheerful. They talked a little while; then, seeing that Durtal was\nlooking at some little lumps of gum lying on his writing table, the Abbe\nsaid,--\n\n\"That is incense from the Carmel of Chartres.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes, the Carmelites are accustomed to burn none but genuine true\nincense. So I begged them to trust me with a specimen that I might\nprocure the same quality for our cathedral.\"\n\n\"It is everywhere adulterated, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes. This substance is found in commerce under three forms: male\nincense, which is the best if unadulterated; female incense, which is\nmixed with reddish fragments and dry grains called _marrons_; finally\nincense in powder, which is for the most part a mixture of inferior\nresin and benzoin.\"\n\n\"And what have you there?\"\n\n\"This is male incense; do you see those oblong tears, those almost\ntransparent drops of faded amber? how different from that which they use\nat Notre Dame; it is earthy, broken, full of scraps, and it is safe to\nwager that those knobs are crystals of carbonate of lime and not beads\nof pure resin.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Durtal, \"this substance suggests to me the idea of a\nsymbolism of odours; has it ever been worked out?\"\n\n\"I doubt it; but in any case it would be very simple. The aromatic\nsubstances used in the Liturgy are reduced to three, frankincense,\nmyrrh, and balm.\n\n\"Their meaning is known to you. Incense is the Divinity of the Son, and\nour prayers which rise up like vapours in the presence of the Most High,\nas the Psalmist says. Myrrh is repentance, the sufferings of Jesus, His\ndeath, the martyrs, and also, according to Monsieur Olier, the type of\nthe Virgin who heals the souls of sinners as myrrh cauterizes the\nfestering of wounds; balm is another word for virtue.\n\n\"But though there are few Liturgical savours, it is not so with regard\nto mystical effluences which vary infinitely. We have, however, but\nlittle information on the subject.\n\n\"We merely know that the odour of sanctity is antithetical to that of\nthe Devil; that many of the Elect have diffused, during their lifetime\nand after their death, an exquisite fragrance which cannot be analyzed;\nsuch were Madalene of Pazzi, Saint Etienne de Muret, Saint Philip Neri,\nSaint Paternianus, Saint Omer, the Venerable Francis Olympus, Jeanne de\nMatel and many more.\n\n\"We know too that our sins stink, each according to its nature; and the\nproof of this is that the saints could detect the state of men's\nconsciences merely by the smell of their bodies. Do you remember how\nSaint Joseph of Cupertino exclaimed to a sinner whom he met: 'My friend,\nyou smell very badly; go and wash.'\n\n\"To return to the odour of sanctity: in certain persons it has been\nknown to assume a natural character almost identical with certain\nfamiliar scents. Saint Treverius exhaled a fragrance compounded of\nroses, lilies, balm, and incense; Saint Rose of Viterbo smelt of roses;\nSaint Cajetan of orange-blossom; Saint Catherine of Ricci of violets;\nSaint Theresa by turns of lily, jasmine and violet; Saint Thomas Aquinas\nof incense; Saint Francis of Paul of musk;--I mention these at random as\nthey occur to me.\n\n\"Yes, and Saint Lydwine, when so ill, diffused a fragrance which also\nimparted a flavour. Her wounds exhaled a cheerful savour of spice and\nthe very essence of Flemish home cooking--a refined extract of\ncinnamon.\"\n\n\"On the other hand,\" the Abbe went on, \"the stench of wizards and\nwitches was notorious in the Middle Ages. On this point all exorcists\nand writers on Demonology are agreed; and it is almost invariably\nrecorded that after an apparition of the devil a foul odour of sulphur\nwas left in the cells, even when the Saints had succeeded in dislodging\nhim.\n\n\"But the essential odour of the devil is amply recorded in the life of\nChristina of Stumbela. You are not ignorant, I suppose, of the exploits\nin which Satan indulged against that saint?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I am, Monsieur l'Abbe.\"\n\n\"Then I may tell you that the narrative of these assaults has been\npreserved by the Bollandists, who have included the life of this pious\nwoman in their biographies. It was written by Peter of Dacia, a\nDominican, and her confessor.\n\n\"Christina was born early in the thirteenth century--1242, I believe--at\nStumbela, near Cologne.\n\n\"She was persecuted by the devil from her infancy. He exhausted the\narmoury of his arts against her, appeared to her under the form of a\ncock, a bull, an apostle; covered her with lice, filled her bed with\nvermin, poisoned her blood, and as he could not make her deny God, he\ninvented fresh torments.\n\n\"He turned the food she put into her mouth into a toad, a snake, a\nspider, and disgusted her so effectually with all food, that she was\ndying for want of it. She spent her days in vomiting, and prayer to God\nto rescue her, but He was silent.\n\n\"Still, to sustain her in such trials, the Sacrament was left to her.\nSatan, knowing this, determined to deprive her of this sustenance, and\nappeared in the form of these creatures even in the host when she\nreceived it. Finally, to conquer her, he took the form of a huge toad,\nand established himself in her bosom. At first Christina fainted with\nfright, but then God intervened; by His order she wrapped her hand in\nher sleeve, slipped it between her body and the belly of the reptile,\ntore away the toad, and flung it on the stones.\n\n\"It was dashed to pieces, with a noise, said the saint, like an old\nshoe.\n\n\"These persecutions continued till Advent in 1268; and from that time\nthe plague of filth began.\n\n\"Peter of Dacia relates that one evening Christina's father came to\nfetch him from his convent in Cologne, and begged him to go with him to\nhis daughter, tormented by the devil. He and another Dominican, Brother\nWipert, set out, and on arriving at Stumbela they found in the haunted\nhut the Priest of the district, the Reverend Father Godefried, Prior of\nthe Benedictines of Brunwilre, and Cellarer of that convent. As they\nstood warming themselves they discoursed of the pestilential incursions\nof the devil, when suddenly the performance was repeated. They were all\nbespattered with filth, Christina being caked with it, to use the\nFriar's expression; and 'strange to say,' adds Peter of Dacia, 'this\nmatter, which was but warm, burned Christina, raising blisters on her\nskin.'\n\n\"This continued for three days. At length, one evening, Friar Wipert,\nquite exasperated, began to recite the prayers for exorcism; but a\nterrific uproar shook the room, the candles went out, and he was hit in\nthe eye by something so hard that he exclaimed, 'Woe is me! I am blind\nof an eye!'\n\n\"He was led, feeling his way, into an adjoining room, where the garments\nthey changed were dried, and where water was constantly heated for their\nablutions; he was cleansed, and his eye washed. It had suffered no\nserious injury, and he returned to the other room to say Matins with the\ntwo Benedictines and Peter of Dacia. But before chanting the service he\nwent up to the patient's bed and clasped his hands in amazement.\n\n\"She was covered with filth indeed, but all was changed. The smell,\nwhich had been supernaturally foul, was changed to angelic fragrance;\nChristina's saintly resignation had routed the tempter of souls; and\nthey all joined in praising God. What do you say to that narrative?\"\n\n\"It is astounding, certainly; but is this the only instance of such\ninfernal filth?\"\n\n\"No; in the next century analogous circumstances haunted Elizabeth de\nReute, and likewise the Blessed Betha. Here again Satan allowed himself\nsuch filthy sport. It may also be noted that in modern times acts of the\nsame kind were observed in the house of the Cure d'Ars.\"\n\n\"But in all this I see nothing to illustrate the symbolism of perfumes,\"\nremarked Durtal. \"At any rate, the subject would seem to be narrow or\nill-defined, and the number of odours that can be named is small.\n\n\"There are certain essences mentioned in the Old Testament prefiguring\nthe Virgin. Some of them are interpreted in other senses, as spikenard,\ncassia, and cinnamon. The first represents strength of soul; the second,\nsound doctrine; and the third, the sweet savour of virtue. Then there\nis the essence of cedar, which in the thirteenth century symbolized the\nDoctors of the Church; and there are three specifically liturgical\nperfumes: incense, balm, and myrrh; besides the odour of sanctity, which\nin the case of some saints could be analyzed; and the demoniacal stench,\nfrom a mere animal smell to the horrible nastiness of rotten eggs and\nsulphur.\n\n\"We must now inquire whether the personal fragrance of the Elect is in\nharmony with the qualities or acts of which each was, on earth, the\nexample or the doer; and it would seem to have been so, when we remark\nthat Saint Thomas Aquinas, who composed the admirable sequence on the\nHoly Sacrament, exhaled a perfume of incense, and that Saint Catherine\nof Ricci, who was a model of humility, smelt of violets, the emblem of\nthat virtue, but--\"\n\nThe Abbe Plomb now came in, and being informed by Durtal of the subject\nunder discussion, he said,--\n\n\"But you have omitted from your diabolical flavours the most\nconspicuous.\"\n\n\"How is that, Monsieur l'Abbe?\"\n\n\"Certainly, for you have taken no account of the false fragrance which\nSatan can diffuse. In fact, his baleful effluvia are of two kinds: one\ncharacterized by the stench of sulphurous waters and drains; the other\nby a false odour of sanctity, delicious gusts of sweetness and\ntemptation. This is how the Evil One tried to seduce Dominico de Gusman;\nhe bathed him in delicious vapours, hoping thus to inspire him with\nnotions of vain-glory; thus, too, did he to Jourdain of Saxony, who\nexhaled a sweet odour when saying Mass. God showed him that this\nphenomenon was of infernal origin, and it then ceased.\n\n\"And I recollect a singular anecdote told by Quercetanus concerning a\nmistress of Charlemagne's who died. The king, who worshipped her, could\nnot bear to have her body interred, though it was decomposing, exhaling,\nhowever, a perfume of violets and roses. The body was examined, and in\nits mouth a ring was found, which was removed. The demoniacal\nenchantment forthwith ceased, the body became foul, and Charlemagne\nallowed it to be buried.\n\n\"We may add to this diabolical odour of seduction another, which is, on\nthe contrary, fetid, and is used to annoy the believer, to hinder him in\nprayer, to estrange him from his fellows, and drive him, if possible,\nto despair; still, this smell with which the devil infects a being may\nbe included in the category of the smells of temptation--not, indeed, to\npride, but to weakness and fear.\n\n\"Meanwhile, I have something else for you,\" said the Abbe, addressing\nDurtal. \"Here are the titles I have collected for you of some works on\nthe symbolical animals of the Middle Ages. You have read '_De Bestiis et\naliis rebus_,' by Hugh of Saint Victor?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Very good; you may further consult Albertus Magnus, Bartholomew de\nGlanville, and Pierre de Bressuire. I have noted on this paper a series\nof such beast-books: those of Hildebert, Philippe de Thann, Guillaume de\nNormandie, Gautier de Metz, and Richard de Fournival. Only you would\nhave to go to Paris to procure them in the public libraries.\"\n\n\"And that would not help me much,\" replied Durtal. \"I have, ere now,\nlooked through many of these works, and they contain no information that\ncan be of use from the point of view of symbolism. They are mere\nfabulous descriptions of animals, legends as to their origin and habits.\nThe _Spicilegium Solesmense_ and the _Analectae_ of Dom Pitra are far\nmore instructive. By his help, with that of Saint Isidor, Saint\nEpiphanius, and Hugh of Saint Victor, we can decipher the figurative\nmeaning of monsters.\n\n\"They are all alike; there has been no complete or serious work produced\non symbolism since the Middle Ages, for the Abbe Auber's work on the\nsubject is a delusion. In vain will you seek for a treatise on flowers\nwhich even alludes to the Catholic significance of plants. I do not, of\ncourse, mean those silly books compiled for lovers, and called the\nLanguage of Flowers, which you may find on the bookstalls with old\ncookery-books and dream-books. It is the same with regard to colours;\nnothing proven or authentic has been written concerning infernal or\ncelestial hues; for in fact the treatise by Frederic Portal is\nworthless. To explain Angelico's work I had to hunt here and there\nthrough the Mystics, to discover where I might the meanings they ascribe\nto colours; and I see plainly that I must do the same for my article on\nthe emblematical fauna. There is, on the whole, nothing to be found in\ntechnical works; it is in the Bible and in the Liturgy, the\nfountain-head of symbolical lore, that I must cast my net. By the way,\nMonsieur l'Abbe, had you not some remarks to communicate on the zoology\nof the Scriptures?\"\n\n\"Yes, we will go--\"\n\n\"To dinner, if you please,\" said Madame Bavoil.\n\nThe Abbe Gevresin said grace, and when they had eaten the soup the\nhousekeeper served the beef.\n\nIt was strengthening, tender, savoury to its inmost fibre, penetrated by\nthe rich and highly-flavoured sauce.\n\n\"You don't get the like at La Trappe, our friend, eh?\" said Madame\nBavoil.\n\n\"Nor will he get anything so good at any other religious retreat,\" said\nthe Abbe Plomb.\n\n\"Do not discourage me beforehand,\" said Durtal, laughing; \"let me enjoy\nthis without a pang--there is a time for all things.\"\n\n\"Then you are fully determined,\" said the Abbe Gevresin, \"to write a\npaper for your _Review_ on allegorical beasts?\"\n\n\"Yes, Monsieur l'Abbe.\"\n\n\"I have made a list for you from the works of Fillion and of Lesetre of\nthe blunders made by the translators of the Bible when they disguised\nreal beasts under chimerical names,\" said the Abbe Plomb. \"This, in a\nfew words, is the upshot of my researches.\n\n\"There was never any mythological fauna in the Sacred Books. The Hebrew\ntext was misread by those who translated it into Greek and Latin, and\nthe strange zoology that we find in certain chapters of Isaiah and Job\nis easily reduced to the nomenclature of well-known creatures.\n\n\"Thus the onocentaurs and sirens, spoken of by the Prophet, are neither\nmore nor less than jackals, if we examine the Hebrew original. The\nlamia, a vampire, half woman and half serpent like the wyvern, is a\nnight bird, the white or the screech owl; the satyrs and fauns, the\nhairy beasts spoken of in the Vulgate, are, after all, no more than wild\ngoats--'schirim,' as they are called in the Mosaic original.\n\n\"The reptile so frequently mentioned in the Bible under the name of\n'dragon' is indicated in the original by various words, which sometimes\nmean the serpent or the crocodile, sometimes the jackal, and sometimes\nthe whale; and the famous unicorn of the Scriptures is merely the\nprimaeval bull or auroch, which is to be seen on the Assyrian\nbas-reliefs--a race now dying out, lingering only in the remotest parts\nof Lithuania and the Caucasus.\"\n\n\"And Behemoth and Leviathan, spoken of by Job?\"\n\n\"The word Behemoth is a plural form in Hebrew meaning Excellence. It\ndesignates a prodigious and enormous beast--the rhinoceros, perhaps, or\nthe hippopotamus. As to Leviathan, it was a huge reptile, a gigantic\npython.\"\n\n\"That is a pity,\" said Durtal. \"Imaginary zoology was far more\namusing!--Why, what is this vegetable?\" he inquired, as he tasted a\ncurious stew of greens.\n\n\"Dandelions cut up and boiled with shreds of bacon,\" replied Madame\nBavoil. \"Do you like the dish, our friend?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do. Your dandelions are to garden spinach and chicory what the\nwild duck is to the tame, or the hare to the rabbit. And it is a fact\nthat garden plants are generally poor and tasteless, while those that\ngrow wild have a certain astringency and pleasant bitter flavour. It is\nthe venison of vegetables that you have given us, Madame Bavoil!\"\n\n\"I fancy,\" said the Abbe Plomb, who had been thoughtful, \"that just as\nwe tried to compile a mystic flora the other day, we might make a list\nof the deadly sins as represented by animals.\"\n\n\"Obviously, and with very little trouble. Pride is embodied in the bull,\nthe peacock, the lion, the eagle, the horse, the swan, and the wild\nass--according to Vincent de Beauvais. Avarice by the wolf, and, says\nSaint Theobald, by the spider; for lust, we have the he-goat, the boar,\nthe toad, the ass, and the fly, which, Saint Gregory the Great tells,\ntypifies the turbulent cravings of the senses; for envy, the\nsparrow-hawk, the owl, and screech-owl; for greediness, the hog and the\ndog; for anger, the lion and wild boar, and, according to Adamantius,\nthe leopard; for sloth, the vulture, the snail, the she-ass, and, Raban\nMaur says, the mule.\n\n\"As to the virtues antithetical to these vices, humility may be typified\nby the ox and the ass; indifference to worldly possessions by the\npelican, the emblem of the contemplative life; chastity by the dove and\nthe elephant, though it is true that this interpretation of Peter of\nCapua is contradicted by other mystics, who accuse the elephant of\npride, and speak of him as an 'enormous sinner'; charity by the lark and\nthe pelican; temperance by the camel, which, taken in another sense,\ntypifies under the name of _gamal_ extravagant fury; vigilance by the\nlion, the peacock, the ant--quoted by the Abbess Herrade and the\nAnonymous monk of Clairvaux--and especially by the cock, to which Saint\nEucher attributes this virtue in common with all other symbolists.\n\n\"I may add that the dove alone epitomizes all these qualities and is the\nsynthesis of all virtue.\"\n\n\"Yes, and she alone is never spoken of as having any evil significance.\"\n\n\"A distinction she shares with white and blue, the only colours which\nare exempt from the law of antithesis and are never ascribed to any\nvice,\" said Durtal.\n\n\"The dove!\" cried Madame Bavoil, who was changing the plates; \"she plays\na beautiful part in the story of Noah's Ark. Ah! our friend, you should\nhear what Mother Jeanne de Matel says of her.\"\n\n\"What does she say, Madame Bavoil?\"\n\n\"The admirable Jeanne begins by saying that original sin produced in\nhuman nature the deluge of sin from which the Virgin alone was exempted\nby the Father, who chose Her to be His one Dove.\n\n\"Then she relates how Lucifer, represented by the raven, escaped from\nthe ark through the window of free will; then God, to whom Mary had\nbelonged from all eternity, opened the window of the Will of His\nProvidence, and from His own bosom, from the heavenly Ark, He sent the\noriginal dove on the earth where she gathered a spray of the olive of\nHis mercy, took her flight back to the Ark of Heaven, and offered this\nbranch for the whole human race; She then implored Divine grace to abate\nthe deluge of sin, and besought the Heavenly Noah to descend from that\nhigh Ark; then, without quitting the bosom of the Father from whom He is\ninseparable, He came down.\"\n\n\"_Et Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis_,\" the Abbe Gevresin\nadded, in conclusion.\n\n\"This prefiguration of the Word by Noah is certainly curious,\" remarked\nDurtal.\n\n\"Animals are also introduced in the iconography of the saints,\" the\nAbbe Plomb resumed. \"So far as I can recollect, the ass is the attribute\nof Saint Marcellus, of Saint John Chrysostom, of Saint Germain, of Saint\nAubert, of Saint Frances of Rome, and of some others; the stag of Saint\nHubert and Saint Rieul; the cock of Saint Landry and Saint Vitus; the\nraven of Saint Benedict, Saint Apollinarius, Saint Vincent, Saint Ida,\nSaint Expeditus; the deer of Saint Henry; the wolf of Saint Waast, Saint\nNorbert, Saint Remaclus, and Saint Arnold; the spider betokens Saint\nConrad and Saint Felix of Nola; the dog accompanies Saint Godfrey, Saint\nBernard, Saint Roch, Saint Margaret of Cortona, and Saint Dominic, when\nit bears a burning torch in its mouth; the doe is the badge of Saint\nGiles, Saint Leu, Saint Genevieve of Brabant, and Saint Maximus; the pig\nof Saint Anthony; the dolphin of Saint Adrian, of Saint Lucian, and\nSaint Basil; the swan of Saint Cuthbert and Saint Hugh; the rat is seen\nwith Saint Goutran and Saint Gertrude; the ox with Saint Cornelius,\nSaint Eustachius, Saint Honorius, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Saint Lucy,\nSaint Blandina, Saint Bridget, Saint Sylvester, Saint Sebaldus, Saint\nSaturninus; the dove belongs to Saint Gregory the Great, Saint Remi,\nSaint Ambrose, Saint Hilary, Saint Ursula, Saint Aldegonde, and Saint\nScholastica, whose soul flew up to Heaven under that form.\n\n\"And the list might be indefinitely extended. Shall you mention in your\narticle these accompaniments to the saints?\"\n\n\"In point of fact,\" replied Durtal, \"most of these attributes are based\non history or legend, and not on symbolism; so I shall not devote any\nparticular attention to them.\"\n\nThere was a silence.\n\nThen, abruptly, the Abbe Plomb, looking at his brother priest, said to\nDurtal,--\n\n\"I am going to Solesmes again a week hence, and I told the Reverend\nFather Abbot that I should take you with me.\"\n\nThen, seeing Durtal's amazement, he smiled. \"But I will not leave you\nthere,\" he went on, \"unless you wish not to return to Chartres. I only\npropose that you should pay a visit there, just long enough to breathe\nthe atmosphere of the convent, to make acquaintance with the Benedictine\nFathers, and try their life.\"\n\nDurtal was silent, somewhat scared; for this proposal, simple enough as\nit was, that he should go to live for some days in a cloister, had\nstartled him into a strange, a grotesque notion that if he should\naccept, it would be playing away his last card, risking a decisive step,\ntaking a sort of pledge before God to settle there and end his days in\nHis immediate presence.\n\nBut what was most strange was that this idea, so imperative and\noverpowering that it excluded all possible reflection, bereft him of all\nhis powers of self-protection, left him disarmed at the mercy of he knew\nnot what--this idea, which nothing justified, was not centred, not fixed\non Solesmes; whither he should retreat was for the moment of small\nimportance; that was not the question; the only point to settle was\nwhether he meant to yield at all to a vague impulse, to obey\nunformulated orders which were nevertheless positive, and give an\nearnest to God, Who seemed to be harassing him without any sufficient\nexplanation.\n\nHe felt himself inexorably condemned, tacitly compelled to pronounce his\ndecision then and there.\n\nHe tried to struggle, to reason, to recover his self-possession; but the\nvery effort was fatal. He felt a sort of inward syncope, as though,\nwhile his body was still upright, his soul was fainting within him with\nfatigue and terror.\n\n\"But this is madness!\" he cried. \"Madness!\"\n\n\"Why, what is the matter?\" cried the two priests.\n\n\"I beg your pardon. Nothing.\"\n\n\"Are you in pain?\"\n\n\"No, it is nothing.\"\n\nThere was an awkward pause which he was determined to break.\n\n\"Did you ever take laughing gas?\" said he; \"the gas which sends you to\nsleep and is used in surgery for short operations? No? Well, you feel a\nbuzzing in your brain, and just as you hear a great noise of falling\nwaters you lose consciousness. That is what I am feeling; only the\nexperience is not in my brain, but in my soul, which is giddy and\nhelpless, on the point of fainting away.\"\n\n\"I should like to think,\" said the Abbe Plomb, \"that it is not the\nthought of a visit to Solesmes that has thus upset you.\"\n\nDurtal had not courage enough to own the truth; he was afraid of\nseeming ridiculous if he confessed to such a panic; so to avoid a direct\nanswer he vaguely shook his head.\n\n\"And I cannot help wondering why you should hesitate, for you will be\nwelcomed with open arms. The Father Abbot is a man of the highest merit,\nand, moreover, no enemy to art. Besides--and this I hope will suffice to\nreassure you--he is a most simple and kind-hearted monk.\"\n\n\"But I have to finish my article.\"\n\nThe two priests laughed.\n\n\"You have a week before you to write your article in.\"\n\n\"And then, to get any benefit from a monastery, I ought not be in the\nstate of dryness and diffusion in which I find myself vegetating,\"\nDurtal went on with difficulty.\n\n\"The saints themselves are not free from distractions,\" replied the Abbe\nGevresin. \"For instance, think of the monk of whom Tauler speaks, who,\non quitting his cell in the month of May, would cover his face with his\nhood, that he might not see the country, and so be hindered from\ncontemplating his soul.\"\n\n\"Oh, our friend, must that gentle Jesus, as the Venerable Jeanne says,\nbe for ever the poor man pining for admittance at the door of our heart?\nCome, just a little goodwill--open yours to Him,\" cried Madame Bavoil.\n\nAnd Durtal, finally driven into his last intrenchments, by a nod\nsignified acquiescence in the wish of all his friends. But he did it\nwith deep reluctance, for he could not rid himself of a distracting idea\nthat this concession implied a vow on his part to God!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nThis idea, which had taken firm possession of him for a few minutes,\nseemed to fade away, and by the morrow there only remained a startled\nexcitement which nothing could account for; he now shrugged his\nshoulders, but still, at the bottom of his soul a vague sense of dread\nwould surge up.\n\nWas not the very absurdity of it a proof that this notion was one of the\npresentiments that we sometimes feel without understanding it? Was it\nnot, again, for lack of a command plainly given by some inward voice, a\nwarning, a direct and secret hint, that he should be on his guard not to\nthink of this visit to a cloister as a mere pleasure trip?\n\n\"But this is monstrous!\" Durtal exclaimed at last. \"When I went to La\nTrappe for my great purification, I was not harassed by apprehensions of\nthis kind; when I have gone there again several times since, it never\noccurred to me that I should really bury myself in a monastery; and now\nthat it is a matter merely of a short visit to a Benedictine monastery,\nI am trembling and recalcitrant.\n\n\"Such a commotion is quite childish! And yet no, not so very childish,\"\nhe suddenly told himself. \"When I have been to Notre-Dame de l'Atre I\nhave been sure that I should not remain, since I knew that I could not\nendure more than a month of their austere Rule; so there was nothing to\nfear; whereas in a Benedictine Abbey, where the Rule is lighter, I am\nnot certain that I could not stay.\n\n\"In that case--well, well, so much the better! for after all sooner or\nlater I must decide, I must make up my mind as to what I really mean;\nhave some definite notion of the value of my promissory notes, of the\ngreater or less strength of my energy, my fitness, my limitations.\n\n\"A few months ago I longed for the monastic life, that is beyond\ndoubt--and now I am wavering. I have abortive gushes of feeling,\nineffectual projects, inclinations which fail, wishes which come\nshort--I will and I will not. Still it is needful to understand oneself;\nbut of what use is it for me to try to sound the well of my own soul? If\nI go down into it, I find everything dark and cold and empty.\n\n\"I am beginning to think that by dint of staring into that darkness I am\nbecoming like a child that fixes its eyes on the blackness of night; I\nend by creating phantoms and inventing terrors. That is certainly the\ncase as regards this excursion to Solesmes, for there is nothing,\nabsolutely nothing to justify my alarms.\n\n\"How silly this all is; how much simpler it would be to allow myself to\nlive, and, above all, to be led!\"\n\n\"I have hit it,\" he went on after a moment's reflection. \"The cause of\nthis turmoil is evident. It is my lack of self-abandonment, my want of\nconfidence in God--yes, and my little love, my dryness of spirit, which\nhave brought me to this state.\n\n\"In the lapse of time this disorder has brought on the malady from which\nI am suffering, an utter anaemia of the soul, aggravated by the patient's\nterrors, since he, unaware of the nature of the complaint, exaggerates\nits importance.\n\n\"Thus stands my balance-sheet since I came to Chartres.\n\n\"The position is very different from what it was in Paris. For the phase\nI am going through is the very contrary to that in which I previously\nlived; in Paris my soul was not dry and friable, but dank and soft; it\nwas saponaceous; the foot sank in it. In short, I was melting away, in a\nstate of langour, more painful perhaps than this state of drought which\nis toughening me to horniness. Still on close examination, though the\nsymptoms have changed, the evil persists; softness or dryness, the\nresults are identical.\n\n\"At the same time it seems strange that this spiritual anaemia should now\nexhibit such opposite symptoms. On one hand I am conscious of weariness,\nindifference, and torpor in prayer; it seems to me, bitter, vain, and\nhollow, so badly do I pray; I am inclined to let everything go, to cease\nthe attempt, to wait for a glow of fervour which I cannot hope for; on\nthe other hand, I am at the same time conscious of a persistent and\nobstinate yearning, an invisible touch, a craving for prayer, a\nconstant invitation from God keeping me alert. And there are times, too,\nwhen, though I can prove to myself that I am not stirring, I fancy I am\ntrembling and shall be swept away by a tide.\n\n\"That is very much of what I feel. In this frame of mind, half\nstay-at-home, half gipsy-like, if I take up a book of the higher\nmysticism--Saint Theresa or Saint Angela--that subtle touch gains\ndefiniteness, I am aware of shocks running through me; I fancy that my\nsoul is convalescent, that it is young again, and breathes once more;\nbut if I try to take advantage of this lucid moment to collect myself\nand to pray, it is all over--I flee from myself--nothing will work. What\nmisery, and how pitiable!\n\n\"The Abbe Gevresin has guided me so far, but how?\n\n\"He has trusted chiefly to the method of expectancy, restricting himself\nto combating my generally flaccid state, and invigorating me rather than\ncontending with details. He has prescribed the heroic remedies of the\nsoul, desiring me to communicate when he found me weak. But, if I am not\nmistaken, he is now turning his batteries. Either he is giving up a line\nof attack which has failed, or else, on the contrary, he is improving\nit, his treatment having produced, without my being aware of it, the\neffects he was aiming at; in either case, to promote or complete the\ncure, he wants to send me to a convent.\n\n\"The plan seems to be, indeed, part of his system, for he did the same\nthing when he was helping in my conversion. He sent me off to a health\nresort for the soul--and the waters were powerful indeed and terrible;\nnow he thinks I no longer need have so severe a treatment inflicted on\nme, and he is persuading me to stay in a more restful place, a less\nbracing air--is that it?\n\n\"Even his way of coming up unexpectedly and hurling his opinion at me is\nnot quite the same as it was. This time, it was, indeed, not he who\nundertook to crystallize my irresolution by announcing my departure for\nSolesmes; but it comes to the same thing. For, after all, there is\nsomething not quite above board in this affair. Why did the Abbe Plomb\npromise the Benedictines that he would take me with him?\n\n\"He certainly acted on the request of the Abbe Gevresin. There can have\nbeen no other reason for his talking of me to the Fathers. I have,\nindeed, spoken to him of my distress of mind, of my vague craving for\nretirement, and my love for monasteries. But I certainly did not suggest\nthat he should thus take the lead, and hurry matters on so!\n\n\"Here I am, as usual, imagining plots and schemes, looking for things\nthat never existed, and discerning motives where perhaps there are none.\nAnd even if there were! Is it not for my benefit that these good friends\nare laying their heads together?\n\n\"I have only to hear and obey. Now to have done with this and return to\nthe Bestiary; for I want to finish this work before I go.\" And posting\nhimself in front of the cathedral, he studied the south porch, which had\nmost of zoological mysticism and devilries.\n\nBut he did not find the monstrosities of his fancy. At Chartres the\nVices and Virtues were not symbolized by more or less chimerical\ncreatures, but by human faces. After careful search he discovered on\nsome of the pillars of the middle doorway the Vices embodied in small\ncarved groups: Lust, as a woman fondling a young man; Drunkenness as a\nboor about to hit a bishop; Discord by a husband quarrelling with his\nwife, while an empty bottle and a broken distaff lie near them.\n\nBy way of infernal monsters, the utmost he could discern,--and that by\ndislocating his neck--were two dragons in the right-hand bay, one\nexorcised by a monk and the other bridled by a Saint with his stole.\n\nOf divine beasts he could distinguish in the row of Virtues certain\nfemale figures with symbolical creatures by their side: Docility\naccompanied by an ox; Chastity by a phoenix; Charity by a sheep;\nMeekness by a lamb; Fortitude by a lion; Temperance by a camel. Why\nshould the phoenix here typify Chastity, for it is not used generally in\nthat sense in the Bird-books of the Middle Ages?\n\nSomewhat disconcerted by the poverty of the fauna of Chartres, he\ncomforted himself by a study of this southern porch; it was a match for\nthat on the north, and repeated, with a variant, the subject of the west\nfront--the glorification of Christ, but in His function as the Supreme\nJudge, and in the person of His Saints.\n\nThis front, begun in the time of Philip Augustus, and built at the cost\nof the Comte de Dreux and his wife Alice of Brittany, was not completed\ntill the time of Philippe le Bel. It was divided, like the other two,\ninto three portions: a central door with a tympanum in a pointed arch\nbearing the presentment of the Last Judgment; one on the left devoted to\nthe Martyrs, and one on the right dedicated to the Confessors.\n\nThe central bay suggested the form of a boat set on end, its prow in the\nair; its deeply spreading sides contained in their niches six Apostles\non each, and in the middle, between the doors, stood a single statue of\nChrist.\n\nThis statue, like that at Amiens, was famous; every guidebook sings the\npraises of the regular features, the calm expression of the face; in\nreality the countenance is particularly fatuous and cold, beautiful but\nlifeless. How inferior to that of the twelfth century, the expressive\nand living God seated between the symbols of the Tetramorph in the\ntympanum of the royal front.\n\nThe Apostles were perhaps rather more refined, rather less squat than\nthe patriarchs and prophets supporting Saint Anne under the north porch,\nbut their quality as works of art was less striking. They resembled the\nChrist, Whom they escorted with decent duty: it was honest work,\nphlegmatic sculpture, so to speak.\n\nThey held the instruments of their death with placid propriety, like\nsoldiers presenting arms.\n\nOn the right hand stood Saint Peter, holding the cross on which he was\nbound head downwards; Saint Andrew, with a Latin cross, however, and not\nthe X-shaped cross to which he was nailed; then Saint Philip, Saint\nThomas, Saint Matthew, Saint Simon, all armed with the sword, though\nSaint Philip was crucified and stoned, Saint Thomas pierced with a\nlance, and Saint Simon sawn asunder.\n\nTo the left were Saint Paul, substituted for Saint Matthias, chosen to\nsucceed Judas; he carried a sword; Saint John, bearing his Gospel; Saint\nJames the Great, with a sword; Saint James the Less, with a fuller's\nclub; Saint Bartholomew, with the knife that served to flay him, and\nSaint Jude with a book.\n\nPerched on twisted columns, they trampled under their feet--bare, in\ntoken of their apostleship--the executioners of their martyrdom. They\nhad long flowing hair, and forked beards cut into two points, excepting\nSaint John, who was beardless, and Saint Paul, who, tradition says, was\nbald; and they were all dressed alike in cloaks hanging in formal\ncurves. Saint James the Great was alone distinguished by a tunic\nsprinkled with shells, like that of the pilgrims who were wont to visit\nhim at Compostella in one of the huge sanctuaries erected in his honour\nin Mediaeval times.\n\nHe was the patron Saint of Spain; but did he really ever preach in those\nlands, as Saint Jerome and Saint Isidor assert, and the Toledo Breviary?\nSome doubt it. At any rate his story, as related by Durand of Mende, in\nthe thirteenth century, was as follows: Being sent into Spain to convert\nthe idolaters, he failed, and returned to Jerusalem, where he was\nbeheaded by Herod. His body was subsequently carried to Spain, and his\nremains performed such miracles as he had never wrought in his lifetime.\n\n\"Indeed,\" reflected Durtal, \"we have singularly little information with\nregard to the Apostles. They appear, for the most part, only\nincidentally in the Gospels; and excepting a few--Saint Peter, Saint\nJohn, and Saint Paul--whose figures are more or less definite, they\nfloat past like shades, lost, veiled as it were, in the halo of glory\nshed about Him by Jesus Christ. And after His death they vanish into\nthin air, and their very existence is only sketched in a few vague\nlegends.\n\n\"Take Saint Thomas, the Treasure of God, as Saint Bridget calls him:\nwhere was he born? We are not told. What were the circumstances and\nreasons of his call? None knows. In what lands did he preach the new\nfaith? Here disputes begin. Some report him among the Medes, the\nParthians, the Persians, in Ethiopia, in Hindustan. He is commonly\nrepresented with a cubit-measure and a square, for it is said that he\nbuilt a church at Meliapore; for which reason he was taken in the Middle\nAges as the patron Saint of architects and masons.\n\n\"According to the Roman Breviary he was killed at Calamine by a\nspear-thrust; according to the Golden Legend he was killed with the\nsword in an uncertainly described place; the Portuguese assert that they\nhave his relics at Goa, the chief of their Indian possessions.\n\n\"In the thirteenth century this saint was regarded as the type of\nperverse disbelief. Not satisfied with having failed to believe in\nChrist until he had seen and put his finger into His wounds, he was\nequally incredulous, if our forefathers are to be believed, when he was\ntold of the Assumption of the Virgin, and Mary was fain to show Herself\nto him and throw down Her girdle to convince him.\n\n\"Saint Bartholomew is even more obscure, lost in the thick shade of the\nages. He was the best educated of the Apostles, says Sister Emmerich,\nfor the others, particularly Peter and Andrew, had preserved rough\nmanners and a clumsy exterior from their humble origin.\n\n\"It is supposed that his name was Bartholomew. The Synoptical Gospels\nnumber him among the Apostles, but Saint John omits him, and mentions in\nhis place one Nathanael, of whom the other three Evangelists do not\nspeak.\n\n\"It seems tolerably certain that these two were identical, and Saint\nBernard supposed that this Bartholomew or Nathanael was the bridegroom\nof the marriage at Cana.\n\n\"He is said to have preached in Arabia, in Persia, in Abyssinia, to have\nbaptized among the Iberi, the races of the Caucasus, and, like Saint\nThomas, in India, but there is no authentic evidence to show this.\nAccording to some writers he was decapitated; others say he was flayed\nalive and then crucified, near the frontiers of Armenia.\n\n\"This last view was adopted by the Roman Breviary and prevailed; hence\nhe was chosen as the patron Saint of fleshers, who skin beasts, of\nleather-dressers and skinners, shoemakers and binders, who use leather,\nand even of tailors, for the early painters represent him with half his\nbody flayed and carrying his skin over his arm like a coat.\n\n\"Stranger and still more puzzling is Saint Jude. He was also called\nThaddaeus and Lebbaeus, and was the son of Cleophas and of Mary the\nVirgin's sister; he is said to have married and had children.\n\n\"He is scarcely mentioned in the Gospels, but they point out that he is\nnot to be confounded with Judas--which, however, was done, actually by\nreason of the similarity of name, during the Middle Ages; Christians\nrejected him and sorcerers appealed to him.\n\n\"He never speaks in the course of the Sacred Narrative but when he\nbreaks silence at the scene of the Last Supper to ask the Lord a\nquestion as to predestination; and Christ replies beside the mark, or\nrather does not answer him at all. He was also the author of a Canonical\nEpistle, in which he seems to have been inspired by the Second Epistle\nof Saint Peter; and, according to Saint Augustine, it was he who\nintroduced the dogma of the Resurrection of the flesh into the _Credo_.\n\n\"In legend he is associated with Saint Simon; according to the Breviary,\nhe is said to have evangelized Mesopotamia and to have suffered\nmartyrdom with his companion Saint in Persia. The Bollandists, on the\nother hand, assert that he was the Apostle to Arabia and Idumea, while\nthe Greek Menology relates that he was shot to death with arrows by the\ninfidels in Armenia.\n\n\"In fact all these accounts differ; and iconography adds to the\nconfusion by representing Jude with the most various attributes.\nSometimes, as at Amiens, he holds a palm, or, as at Chartres, a book. He\nis also seen with a cross, a square, a boat, a wand, an axe, a sword,\nand a spear.\n\n\"But in spite of the unfortunate reputation earned for him by his\nnamesake Judas, the symbolists of the Middle Ages regard him as a man of\ncharity and zeal, and attribute to him the splendour of the purple and\ngold fires of the chrysoprase, regarded as emblematical of good works.\n\n\"All this is but incoherent,\" thought Durtal, \"and what also strikes me\nas strange is that this Saint, so rarely invoked by our forefathers--who\nfor long never dedicated any altar to him, is twice represented in\neffigy at Chartres--supposing the Verlaine of the royal porch to\nrepresent Saint Jude; but then that seems improbable.\"\n\n\"What I should now like to know,\" he went on, \"is why the historians of\nthis cathedral pronounce the scene of the last Judgment represented on\nthe tympanum of the door as the most remarkable of its kind in France.\nThis is utterly false, for it is vulgar, and certainly inferior to many\nothers.\n\n\"The demoniacal half is far less vigorous, more supine, less crowded\nthan in other churches of the same period. At Chartres, it is true, the\ndevils with wolves' muzzles and asses' ears, trampling down bishops and\nkings, laymen and monks, and driving them into the maw of a dragon\nspouting flames--the demons with goats' beards and crescent-shaped jaws\nseizing hapless sinners who have wandered to the mouldings of the arch,\nare all very skilfully arranged, in well composed groups round the\nprincipal figure; but the Satanic vineyard lacks breadth and its fruit\nis insipid. The preying demons are not ferocious enough, they almost\nlook as if they were monks and were doing it for fun, while the damned\ntake it very calmly.\n\n\"How far more desperate is the devil's festival at Dijon!\" Durtal\nrecalled to mind the church of Notre Dame in that city, so strange a\nspecimen of thirteenth-century gothic of the Burgundian stamp. The\nchurch was of almost elementary simplicity; above its three porches rose\na straight wall with two storeys of columns forming arcades and\nsurmounted by grotesque figures. To the right of this front was a small\ntower with a pointed roof; and on the roof a \"Jacquemart\" of iron\ntracery, with three puppets that strike the hours; behind, rising from\nthe transept, was a small tower with four little glazed belfries.\n\nThis building, small as compared with great cathedrals, was stamped with\nthe Flemish hall-mark; it had the homespun peasant expression, the\ncheerful faith of the race. It was a domestic sanctuary, very native to\nthe soil; the folks would hold converse with the Black Virgin standing\nthere on an altar, tell her all their little concerns, make themselves\nat home there in confidential gossiping prayer, quite without ceremony.\n\nBut it was not well to trust too much to the benign and genial aspect of\nthis building, for the long rows of grotesque figures that were ranged\nabove the doorways and the arcades belied the jovial security of the\nrest.\n\nThere they were, in high relief, in close array, grinning and jibing; a\nmotley crowd of demented nuns and mad monks, of bewildered rustics and\noutlandish women; hobgoblins writhing with laughter, and hilarious\ndevils; and in the midst of this mob of the reprobate a figure of a real\nwoman, held by two demons tormenting her, stood out, leaning forward as\nif she wanted to throw herself down. With haggard, dilated eye, and\nclasped hands, in terror she beseeches the passer-by, shows him the\nplace of refuge, and cries to him to enter. Involuntarily he pauses in\namazement to look at that face, distorted with fear, pinched with\nanguish, struggling amid this pack of monsters, this vision of frenzied\nnightmare. At once fierce and pitying, she threatens and entreats; and\nthis image of one for ever excommunicate, cast out of the temple and\nleft to all eternity on the threshold, is as haunting as the memory of\nsuffering, as a nightmare of terror.\n\nNowhere, certainly, in the satanic menagerie of La Beauce, is there a\nstatue of such startling and assertive art.\n\nFrom another point of view--that of the picture as a whole, and of the\nbroad view taken of the subject, the Judgment of Souls at Notre Dame de\nChartres is for beneath that of the cathedral at Bourges.\n\n\"That, indeed, is, I think, the most wonderful of all,\" said Durtal to\nhimself. \"The similar scenes at Reims and at Paris, with the gangs of\nsinners held in chains tugged by demons, and those of the same kind at\nAmiens, have none of them such breadth of scope.\"\n\nAt Bourges, as in all works of this class in the Middle Ages, the dead\nare escaping from their sepulchres, and on the uppermost frieze, below a\nfigure of Christ, with whom the Virgin and Saint John are interceding,\nSaint Michael is weighing souls; to the left devils are dragging away\nthe wicked, and to the right angels are conducting the blessed.\n\nThe resurrection of the dead, as it is represented by the image-maker of\nLe Berry, is enough to set the noisy prudery of the Catholics neighing,\nfor the figures are nude, and certain reticences, usually observed at\nany rate in the female form, are here omitted. Men and women push up the\nlid of the tomb, stride across the edge, leap up, roll over pell mell,\none above another; some ecstatically clasping their hands in prayer,\ntheir eyes fixed on heaven; others anxiously looking about them on all\nsides; others praying with terror, throwing up their arms; others,\nagain, in dejected attitudes, beating their breasts in lamentable\nself-accusation; and yet others who are dazzled by the abrupt change\nfrom darkness to light, shaking their numbed limbs and trying to move.\n\nThe mad confusion of all these human beings, suddenly awakened, and\nbrought like owls into the light of day, trembling with fear or with joy\nas they see and understand that the day of Judgment is come, is all\nexpressed with a fulness, a spirit, a certainty of observation which\nleave the petty accuracy and mild energy of the Chartres sculptor far\nbehind them.\n\nIn the upper division, again, the weighing of souls goes on in a\nmagnificent composition; Saint Michael with wide-spread wings holds a\nlarge pair of scales and smiles as he caresses a little child with\nfolded hands, while a goat-headed devil watches eagerly to seize him if\nthe Archangel should turn away; and behind this lingering demon begins\nthe dolorous procession of the outcast. Nor have we here the infernal\ncourtliness of the scene as represented at Chartres, the doubtful\nconsideration of an evil spirit gently driving in a nun; it is brutality\nin all its horror, the lowest violence; the sometimes comic side of\nthese struggles is not to be seen here. At Bourges the myrmidons of the\ndeep work and hit with a will. A devil with a wild beast's muzzle and a\ndrunkard's face in the middle of his fat stomach, is hammering the skull\nof a wretch who struggles, grinding his teeth, while the devil bites his\nlegs with the end of his tail that bears a serpent's head. Another\nmonster, with a crushed face and pendant breasts, a man's face in his\nstomach and wings springing from his loins, has clasped a priest in his\narms and is pitching him head foremost into a cauldron boiling over the\nflames from a dragon's mouth blown up with bellows by two of the devil's\nslaves. And in this cauldron sit two figures symbolical of slander and\nlust, a monk and a woman writhing and weeping, for enormous toads are\ngnawing at the tongue of one and at the heart of the other.\n\nOn the other side of Saint Michael the scene is different; a chubby,\nsmiling angel is playing with a child whom he has perched on one of his\nfellow-angels' shoulders, and the infant delightedly waves a bough;\nbehind him slowly marches a representative group of saints--a woman, a\nking, a cenobite, conducted by Saint Peter towards a doorway leading to\na sanctum where sits Abraham, an old man with a cloth spread over his\nknees full of little heads all rejoicing--the souls that are saved.\n\nAnd Durtal, as he recalled the features of Saint Michael and his angels,\nperceived that they were the brethren in art of the Saint Anne, Saint\nJoseph, and the angel of the great portal at Reims. They were all of the\nsame peculiar type--a young and yet old countenance, a long sharp nose\nand pointed chin; only here, perhaps, a little rounder, a little less\nangular than at Reims.\n\nThis sort of family likeness gave support to a theory that the same\nsculptors or their pupils had worked on the carvings of those two\ncathedrals, but not at Chartres, where no similar type is to be seen;\nthough a certain striking resemblance exists between other statues in\nthe north porch and some figures, of a different class however, on the\nfacade at Reims.\n\n\"Anyone of these hypotheses may be correct, though there is no chance of\nproving their truth, for we can discover no information with regard to\nthe schools of art of the period,\" said Durtal to himself, as he turned\nhis attention to the left-hand bay of the south porch, dedicated to the\nmartyrs.\n\nThere, in the archway of the door, dwelt, side by side, Saint Vincent\nthe deacon, of Spain; Saint Denys the bishop; Saint Piat the priest; and\nSaint George the warrior; all four victims of the ingenious cruelty of\nthe infidels.\n\nSaint Vincent in his long gown hung a contrite head over his shoulder.\n\n\"He,\" thought Durtal, \"was literally butchered and cooked, for we are\ntold in the legend according to Voragine that his body was torn with\nsharp combs of brass till his bowels fell out, and that after this\nforetaste, this _hors d'oeuvre_ of torture, he was broiled on a\ngridiron, larded with nails, and basted with the sauce of his own blood.\nHe lay calm, praying while he was being toasted. He remained unmoved,\ngrilling and praying. When he was dead, Dacian, his persecutor, ordered\nthat his body should be cast out on a field to be devoured by beasts;\nbut a raven came to settle by him, and drove away a wolf by pecking at\nit. Then a millstone was tied about his neck and he was thrown into the\nsea, but his body came to land near some pious women who buried it.\n\n\"Saint Denys, the first Bishop of Paris, was thrown to the lions, who\nretreated before him; he was then beheaded at Montmartre, with Saint\nEleutherius and Saint Rusticus. The image-maker had not here represented\nhim, as usual, carrying his head, but had shown him standing with his\ncrozier and mitre. And he was not humble and pitiable, like his\nneighbour, the Spanish Deacon, but upright and imperious, with his hand\nuplifted, in the attitude rather of admonishing the faithful than of\nblessing them, and Durtal stood lost in thought before this writer,\nwhose brief book holds so important a place in the series of mystical\nwritings.\n\n\"He, more than any other, and first among the contemplative authors,\nhad overstepped the threshold of Heaven and brought down to men some\ndetails of what happens there. The knowledge of the angelic ranks dates\nfrom him, for it was he who revealed the organization of the heavenly\nhost as an order, a hierarchy copied by human beings and parodied in\nhell. He was a sort of messenger between Heaven and earth, and was the\nexplorer of our celestial heritage, as Saint Catherine of Genoa at a\nlater date was the explorer of purgatory.\n\n\"A less interesting personage was Saint Piat, a priest of Tournai,\nbeheaded by a Roman proconsul. In this assembly of famous saints he was\nrather the poor country-cousin, a mere provincial Saint. He figured here\nbecause his relics repose in the cathedral, for historians record the\ntranslation of his remains to Chartres in the ninth century. By his side\nwas Saint George, arrayed as a knight of the time of Saint Louis, his\nhead bare with an iron fillet, armed with a lance and shield; standing\nas if on guard on a pedestal, showing the wheel which was the instrument\nof his martyrdom.\n\n\"The companion statue, on the opposite side of the door, was that of\nSaint Theodore of Heraclea, wearing a coat of mail, and a surcoat, and\nalso holding a shield and spear.\n\n\"Next to this saint, who was subsequently roasted to death by a slow\nfire, in the town of Amasea, were Saint Stephen, Saint Clement, and\nSaint Laurence.\n\n\"Above this double rank of martyrs the tympanum represented the story of\nSaint Stephen disputing with the Doctors and stoned by the Jews; and on\nall sides, on the square pillars that supported the roof of the porch,\nwas carved stone-work representing the tortured bodies of the righteous:\nSaint Leger, Saint Laurence, Saint Thomas of Canterbury, Saint Bacchus,\nSaint Quentin, and many more; a whole procession of the Blessed, being\nblinded, burnt, cut in pieces, flogged with vigorous energy, and\nbeheaded. But it was all in melancholy decay. The _sans-culottes_, by\namputating more of their limbs in their tempest of fury, had crowned the\nmartyrdom of these Saints.\n\n\"The doorway to the right, dedicated to the Confessors, was a vast hull\nset on end; on the sloping side to the left of the door stood Saint\nNicholas, Archbishop of Myra, holding up a gloved hand, and trampling\nunder foot the cruel host killing the children whose death became a\ntheme for so many laments; Saint Ambrose, Doctor of the Church and\nBishop of Milan, wearing a singular peaked mitre, like an extinguisher;\nSaint Leo, the Pope who defied Attila; and finally Saint Laumer, one of\nthe glories of the Chartres district.\n\n\"He, like Saint Piat in the left-hand bay, is somewhat of a stranger\ndragged into this illustrious company. He was of old highly venerated in\nLa Beauce, having, in his lifetime, had a career which may be briefly\nsummed up. During his childhood he had kept sheep; he had then been\ncellarer to the cathedral; had become first an anchorite, then a monk,\nand finally Abbot of the Monastery of Corbion in the forests of the\nOrne.\n\n\"The opposite slope of the bay sheltered Saint Martin, Bishop of Tours,\nSaint Jerome, as a Doctor of the Church, Saint Gregory, Pope and Doctor,\nand Saint Avitus.\n\n\"What is curious in this door,\" thought Durtal, \"is the parallel of\npersonages. On one side, to the right, Saint Nicholas, the great\nmiracle-worker of the East; on the other side, to the left, Saint\nMartin, the great miracle-worker of the West. Then, as companion\nfigures, Saint Ambrose and Saint Jerome;--the first often redundant and\npompous in second-rate prose, but ingenious and delightful in his hymns;\nthe second who, in the Vulgate, really created the language of Church\nuse, purifying and airing the Latin of Pagan literature, foul with\nlascivious meaning, reeking at once of an old goat and of essence of\nroses. Again, face to face, two Popes, Saint Leo and Saint Gregory, and\ntwo Abbots of Monasteries, Saint Laumer and Saint Avitus, who was Prior\nof a House founded in the forests of Le Perche.\"\n\nThese two last statues had been added later; their style and costume\nbetrayed a date subsequent to the thirteenth century; had they, then,\ntaken the place of others representing the same Monks, or different\nSaints?\n\nThe tympanum again expressed the same purpose of parallelism, evidently\nintended by the master of the work. This was also devoted to two miracle\nworkers, to a correspondence in this respect of the north and the south.\nIt represented episodes in the lives of Saint Nicholas and Saint Martin:\nSaint Nicholas furnishing a dowry for the daughters of a gentleman who\nwas dying of hunger, and about to sell their honour, and the sepulchre\nof this archbishop exuding an oil of sovereign efficacy in the cure of\ndiseases; Saint Martin giving half of his cloak to a beggar, and then\nbeholding Christ wearing the garment.\n\nThe remainder of this porch was of secondary interest. In the mouldings\nof the arches and in the pillars of the bays the ranks of the Confessors\nappeared again, the nine choirs of Angels, the parable of the wise and\nfoolish Virgins, a replica of the four-and-twenty elders on the royal\nfront, the Prophets of the Old Testament, the Virtues, the Vices, the\nChristian Virgins, and small statues of the Apostles, all more or less\ninjured and more or less invisible.\n\nThis south porch, with its seven hundred and eighty-three statues and\nstatuettes, spoken of by the guide-books as the most attractive of all,\nwas to artists, on the contrary, the least absorbing; for, with the\nexception of the noble effigies of Saint Theodore and Saint George, the\nglorification of the others who dwell there was on the whole, from the\nartistic point of view, very inferior in interest to the sculpture on\nthe twelfth-century west front, or even to that of the north porch--that\ncomplete embodiment of the Two Testaments--where the sculpture, if more\nbarbarous, was less placid and cold.\n\nAnd Durtal came to this conclusion: \"The exterior of the cathedral of\nChartres may be summed up in three words: _Latvia_, _hyperdulia_, and\n_dulia_. _Latria_, the worship of Our Lord, on the west front;\n_Hyperdulia_, the worship of the Blessed Virgin, in the north porch;\n_Dulia_, the worship of the Saints, in the south porch.\n\n\"For although the Redeemer is magnified in this south portal in His\ncharacter of Supreme Judge, He seems to make way for the Saints. And\nthis is quite intelligible, since He is enthroned there for two\npurposes, and His true palace, His real throne, is in the triumphal\ntympanum of the royal doorway in the west front.\"\n\nBefore quitting this side of the building, as he glanced once more at\nthe ranks of the Elect, Durtal stopped in front of Saint Clement and\nSaint Gregory.\n\nSaint Clement, whose extraordinary death almost casts his life into\noblivion--a life exclusively occupied in harrowing souls. Durtal\nrecalled the narrative of Voragine. After being exiled to the\nChersonesus, in the reign of Trajan, Clement was cast into the sea with\nan anchor tied to his neck, while the assembled Christians kneeling on\nthe strand besought Heaven to restore his body. Then the sea withdrew\nthree miles, and the faithful went dry-shod to a chapel which the angels\nhad just erected beneath the waters, where the body of the saint was\nfound reposing, lying on a tomb; and for many centuries the sea retired\nevery year for a week, to allow pilgrims to visit his remains.\n\nSaint Gregory, the first Benedictine to be elected Pope, was the creator\nof the Liturgy, the master of plain-song. He was alike devoted to\njustice and to charity, and a passionate patron of art; and this\nadmirable Pope, with his broad and comprehensive spirit, regarded it as\na temptation of the Devil that made the bigots, the Pharisees of his\nday, proclaim their determination not to read profane literature; for,\nsaid he, it helps us to understand that which is sacred.\n\nMade Pope against his will, he led a life of anguish, mourning for the\nlost peace of his cloister; but he fought none the less with incredible\nenergy against the inroads of the Barbarians, the heresies of Africa,\nthe intrigues of Byzantium, and the Simony of his own priests.\n\nHe stands out in a dark age, amid a witches' sabbath of shrieking\nschisms; he is seen in the midst of these storms, protecting the poor\nfrom the rapacity of the rich, feeding them with his own hands, kissing\ntheir feet, every day; and in spite of this overworked life without a\nmoment's respite, or a minute for rest, he succeeded in restoring\nmonastic discipline, and sowing wherever he might the Benedictine seed,\nsaving the headlong world by the vigilance of his Order.\n\nThough he was not a martyr like Saint Clement, he died nevertheless for\nChrist, of exhaustion and fatigue, after living in the constant\nsuffering of a frame undermined by disease, and weakened by voluntary\nmaceration and fasting.\n\n\"This, no doubt, is the reason why the face of his statue is so sad and\nthoughtful,\" said Durtal to himself. \"And yet he is listening to the\ndove, the symbol of inspiration which is speaking in his ear, dictating\nto him, the legend says, the antiphonal melodies, and undoubtedly\nwhispering his dialogues, his homilies, his commentaries on the Book of\nJob, his pastoral letter--all the works which made him so immensely\nfamous in the Middle Ages.\"\n\nAs he made his way home, Durtal, still reflecting on this array of the\nRighteous, suddenly was struck by this idea: \"There is no portrait in\nChartres of a Saint whose present help was of yore desired above all\nothers: Saint Christopher, whose effigy was usually to be found at the\nentrance to a cathedral, standing alone in a spot apart.\n\n\"It stood thus, formerly, at the door of Notre-Dame de Paris, and is\nstill to be seen in one corner of the principal front at Amiens; but in\nmost places the iconoclasts overthrew it, and the churches where the\nstatue of Christopher is now to be seen may be easily counted. It must\nonce have existed at Chartres--but where? The monographs on this\ncathedral never allude to it.\"\n\nThus, as he walked on, he dreamed of the Saint whose popularity is\neasily accounted for, since our forefathers believed that they had only\nto look at his image, whether painted or carved, to be protected for a\nwhole day from disaster, and especially from violent death.\n\nSo he was always placed outside in a prominent spot, and very large, so\nthat he might easily be seen by the wayfarer, even from afar. In some\ncases his effigy was found on a gigantic scale, inside the church. Thus\nhe is represented in the Dom at Erfurt, in a fresco of the fifteenth\ncentury, too much restored.\n\nThis colossal figure, five storeys high, extends from the pavement of\nthe church to the roof. Christopher has a beard which flows in a stream,\nand legs as thick as the pillars of the nave. Bending and adoring, he\nbears on his shoulders a Child with a round face, as white as the chalk\nof a clown, blessing all comers with a smile. The Saint is wading\nbarefoot through a pool full of little reeds, and imps, and horned\nfishes and strange flowers--all represented on a minute scale to\nemphasize the mighty stature of the Saint.\n\n\"That good friend,\" thought Durtal, \"though venerated by the poor, was\nsomewhat coldly treated by the Church, for he, with Saint George and\nsome other martyrs, was among those whose existence remains open to\ndoubt.\n\n\"In Mediaeval times Saint Christopher was invoked for the cure of weakly\nchildren, and also as a protector against blindness and the plague.\n\n\"But indeed the Saints were the chief healers of that time. Every\ndisease which the leeches and apothecaries could not alleviate was\nbrought to the Saints. Some indeed were reputed specialists, and the\nills they cured were known by their names. The gout was known as Saint\nMaurus' evil, leprosy as Job's evil, cancer was Saint Giles', chorea\nSaint Guy's, colds were Saint Aventinus' ill, a bloody flux Saint\nFiacre's--and I forget the rest.\n\n\"Others again remained noted for delivering sufferers from certain\naffections they were reputed to heal: Saint Genevieve for the burning\nsickness and ophthalmia, Saint Catherine of Alexandria for headache,\nSaint Bartholomew for convulsions, Saint Firmin for cramp, Saint\nBenedict for erysipelas and the stone, Saint Lupus for pains in the\nstomach, Saint Hubert for madness, Saint Appolina, whose statue,\nstanding in the chapel of the Hospital of Saint John at Bruges, is\ngraced by way of _ex votos_ with strings of teeth and wax stumps, for\nneuralgia and toothache--and how many more.\n\n\"And granting,\" said Durtal, \"that medical science is at this day a\ngreater delusion than ever, I cannot see why we should not revert to the\nspecific of prayer and the mystical panaceas of the past. If the\ninterceding Saints should, in certain cases, refuse to cure us, at any\nrate they will make us no worse by a mistaken diagnosis and the\nexhibition of dangerous remedies. Though after all, even if our modern\npractitioners were not ignoramuses, of what use would that be, since the\nmedicines they prescribe are adulterated?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nThe day had come for Durtal to strap his portmanteau and set out with\nthe Abbe Plomb.\n\nHe became fidgety with waiting as the hours went by. At last, unable to\nsit still, he went out to kill the time, but a drizzling rain drove him\nfor shelter into the cathedral.\n\nAfter offering his devotions to the Virgin of the Pillar, he seated\nhimself amid a camp of vacant chairs to meditate.\n\n\"Before interrupting the quiet monotony of my life at Chartres by this\njourney, shall I not do well to look into myself, if only for a minute,\nand take stock of what I have gained before and since settling in this\ntown?\n\n\"The gain to my soul? Alas! it consists less in acquisitions than in\nexchanges; I have merely found aridity in the place of indolence; and\nthe results of the exchange I know only too well; of what use is it to\ngo through them once more? The gains to my mind seem to me less\ndistressing and more genuine, and I can make a brief catalogue of them\nunder three heads: Past, Present, and Future.\n\n\"In the Past.--When I least expected it, in Paris, God suddenly seized\nme and drew me back to the Church, taking advantage of my love of Art,\nof mysticism, of the Liturgy, and of plain-song.\n\n\"Still, during the travail of this conversion, I could not study\nmysticism anywhere but in books; I knew it only in theory and not in\npractice. On the other hand, in Paris, I never heard any but dull,\nlifeless music, watered down, as it were, in women's throats, or utterly\ndisfigured by the choir schools. In most of the churches I found only a\ncolourless ceremonial, a meagre form of service.\n\n\"This was the situation when I set out for La Trappe: under that strict\nrule I found mysticism not only in its simplest expression, written out\nand set forth in a body of doctrine, but mysticism as a personal\nexperience, in action, simply an element of life to those monks. I could\nconvince myself that the science of the soul's perfection was no\ndelusion, that the assertions of Saint Teresa and Saint John of the\nCross were strictly true, and in that cloister it was also vouchsafed to\nme to be familiar with the enjoyment of an authentic ritual and genuine\nplain-song.\n\n\"In the Present.--At Chartres I have entered on new exercises, I have\nfollowed other traces. Haunted by the matchless grandeur of this\ncathedral, under the guidance of a very intelligent and cultivated\npriest I have studied religious symbolism, worked up that great science\nof the Middle Ages which is in fact a language peculiar to the Church,\nexpressing by images and signs what the Liturgy expresses in words.\n\n\"Or, to be more exact, it would be better to say that part of the\nLiturgy which is more particularly concerned with prayer; for that part\nof it which relates to forms, and injunctions as to worship, is itself\nsymbolism, symbolism is the soul of it. In fact, the limit-line of the\ntwo branches is not always easy to trace, so often are they grafted\ntogether; they inspire each other, intertwine, and at last are almost\none.\n\n\"In the Future.--By going to Solesmes I shall complete my education; I\nshall see and hear the most perfect expression of that Liturgy and that\nGregorian chant of which the little convent of Notre Dame de l'Atre, by\nreason of the limited number of the Brethren, could only afford a\nreduced copy--very faithful, it is true, but yet reduced.\n\n\"By adding to this my own studies of the religious paintings removed now\nfrom the sanctuaries and collected in museums, and supplementing them by\nmy remarks on the various cathedrals I may explore, I shall have\ntravelled round the whole cycle of mysticism, have extracted the essence\nof the Middle Ages, have combined in a sort of sheaf these separate\nbranches, scattered now for so many centuries, and have investigated\nmore thoroughly one especially--Symbolism namely, of which certain\nelements are almost lost from sheer neglect.\n\n\"Yes. Symbolism has lent the principal charm to my life at Chartres; it\noccupied and comforted me when I was suffering from finding my soul so\nimportunate and yet so low.\"\n\nAnd he tried to recapitulate the science, to view it as a whole.\n\nHe saw it as a thickly branched tree, the root deep set in the very soil\nof the Bible; from thence, in fact, it drew its substance and its\nnourishment: the trunk was the Symbolism of the Scriptures, the Old\nTestament prefiguring the Gospels; the branches were the allegorical\npurport of architecture, of colours, gems, flowers, and animals; the\nhieroglyphics of numbers; the emblematical meaning of the vessels and\nvestments of Church use. A small bough represented Liturgical perfumes,\nand a mere twig, dried up from the first and almost dead, represented\ndancing.\n\n\"For religious dancing once existed,\" Durtal went on. \"In ancient times\nit was a recognized offering of adoration, a tithe of light-heartedness.\nDavid leaping before the Ark shows this.\n\n\"And in the earliest Christian times the faithful and the priesthood\nshook themselves in honour of the Redeemer, and fancied that by choric\nmotion they were imitating the joy of the Blessed, the glee of the\nAngels described by Saint Basil as executing figures in the radiant\nassemblies of Heaven.\n\n\"One is soon accustomed to endure Masses of the kind called at Toledo\n_Mussarabes_, during which the congregation dance and gambol in the\ncathedral; but these capers presently lose the pious character that they\nare supposed to bear; they become an incentive to the revelry of the\nsenses, and several Councils have prohibited them.\n\n\"In the seventeenth century sacred dances still survived in some\nprovinces; we hear of them at Limoges, where the Cure of St. Leonard and\nhis parishioners pirouetted in the choir of the church. In the\neighteenth century their traces are found in Roussillon, and at the\npresent day religious dancing still survives; but the tradition of this\nsaintly frisking is chiefly preserved in Spain.\n\n\"Not long since, on the day of Corpus Christi at Compostella, the\nprocession was led through the streets by a tall man who danced carrying\nanother on his shoulders. And to this day, at Seville, on the festival\nof the Holy Sacrament, the choir-children turn in a sort of slow waltz\nas they sing hymns before the high altar of the cathedral. In other\ntowns, on the festivals of the Virgin, a saraband is slowly danced round\nHer statue, with striking of sticks, and the rattle of castanets; and to\nclose the ceremony by way of Amen the people fire off squibs.\n\n\"All this, however, is of no great interest, and I cannot help wondering\nwhat meaning can have been attributed to cutting capers and spinning\nround. I find it difficult to believe that _farandoles_ and _boleros_\ncould ever represent prayer; I can hardly persuade myself that it can be\nan act of thanksgiving to trample peppers under foot or appearing to\ngrind at an imaginary coffee-mill with one's arms.\n\n\"In point of fact no one knows anything about the symbolism of dancing;\nno record has come down to us of the meanings ascribed to it of old.\nChurch dancing is really no more than a gross form of rejoicing among\nSouthern races. We need mention it merely as noteworthy, and that is\nall.\n\n\"Now, from a practical point of view, what has the influence of\nsymbolism been on souls?\"\n\nDurtal could answer himself.\n\n\"The Middle Ages, knowing that everything on earth is a sign and a\nfigure, that the only value of things visible is in so far as they\ncorrespond to things invisible--the Middle Ages, when consequently men\nwere not, as we are, the dupes of appearances--made a profound study of\nthis science, and made it the nursing mother and the handmaid of\nmysticism.\n\n\"Convinced that the only aim that it was incumbent on man to follow, the\nonly end he could really need, was to place himself in direct\ncommunication with Heaven, and to out-strip death by merging himself,\nunifying himself to the utmost, with God, it tempted souls, subjecting\nthem to a moderate claustral course, purged them of their earthly\ninterests, their fleshly aims, and led them back again and again to the\nsame purpose of renunciation and repentance, the same ideas of justice\nand love; and then to retain them, to preserve them from themselves, it\nenclosed them in a fence, placed God all about them, as it were, under\nevery form and aspect.\"\n\nJesus was seen in everything--in the fauna, the flora, the structure of\nbuildings, in every decoration, in the use of colour. Whichever way man\ncould turn, he still saw Him.\n\nAnd at the same time he saw his own soul as in a mirror that reflected\nit; in certain animals, certain colours, and certain plants he could\ndiscern the qualities which it was his duty to acquire, the vices\nagainst which he had to defend himself.\n\nAnd he had other examples before his eyes, for the symbolists did not\nrestrict themselves to turning botany, mineralogy, natural history, and\nother sciences to the uses of a catechism; some of them, and among\nothers Saint Melito, ended by applying the process to the interpretation\nof every object that came in their way. A cithara was to them the breast\nof the devout man; the members of the human frame became emblematical:\nthe head was Christ, the hairs were the saints, the nose meant\ndiscretion, the nostrils the spirit of faith, the eye contemplation, the\nmouth symbolized temptation, the saliva was the sweetness of the inner\nlife, the ears figured obedience, the arms the love of Jesus, the hands\nstood for good works, the knees for the sacrament of penance, the legs\nfor the Apostles, the shoulders for the yoke of Christ, the breast for\nevangelical doctrine, the belly for avarice, the bowels for the\nmysterious precepts of the Lord, the body and loins for suggestions of\nlust, the bones typified hardness of heart, and the marrow compunction,\nthe sinews were evil members of Anti-Christ. And these writers extended\nthis method of interpretation to the commonest objects of daily use,\neven to tools and vessels within reach of all.\n\nThus there was an uninterrupted course of pious teaching. Yves de\nChartres tells us that priests instructed the people in symbolism, and\nfrom the researches of Dom Pitra we know that in the Middle Ages Saint\nMelito's treatise was popular and known to all. Thus the peasant learnt\nthat his plough was an image of the Cross, that the furrows it made were\nlike the hearts of saints freshly tilled; he knew that sheaves were the\nfruit of repentance, flour the multitude of the faithful, the granary\nthe Kingdom of Heaven; and it was the same with many pursuits. In short,\nthis method of analogies was a bidding to everybody to watch and pray\nbetter.\n\nThus utilized, symbolism became a break to check the forward march of\nsin, and at the same time a sort of lever to uplift souls and help them\nto overleap the stages of the mystical life.\n\nThis science, translated into so many languages, was no doubt\nintelligible only in broad outline to the masses, and sometimes, when it\npercolated through the labyrinthine maze of such minds as that of the\nworthy Bishop of Mende, it appeared overwrought, full of contradictions,\nand of double meanings. It seems then as if the symbolist were splitting\na hair with embroidery scissors. But, in spite of the extravagance it\ntolerated and smiled at, the Church succeeded, nevertheless, by these\ntactics of repetition, in saving souls and carrying out on a large scale\nthe production of saints.\n\nThen came the Renaissance, and symbolism was wrecked at the same time as\nchurch architecture.\n\nMysticism in the stricter sense of the word, more fortunate than its\nhandmaidens, survived that period of festive dishonour; for it may be\nsafely asserted that, though it was unproductive while living through\nthat period, it flourished anew in Spain, producing its noblest blossoms\nin Saint John of the Cross and Saint Teresa.\n\nSince then doctrinal mysticism seems dried up at the source. Not so,\nhowever, as regards personal mysticism, which still dwells acclimatized\nand flourishing in convents.\n\nAs to the Liturgy and plain-song, they too have gone through very\nvarious phases. After being dissected and filtered in the numberless\nprovincial Uses, the Liturgy was brought back to the standard of Rome by\nthe efforts of Dom Gueranger, and it may be hoped that the Benedictines\nat last will also bring all the churches back to the strict use of\nplain-song.\n\n\"And this church above all!\" sighed Durtal.\n\nHe looked at his cathedral, loving it better than ever now that he was\nto part from it for a few days. To impress it the better on his memory\nhe tried to sum it up, to concentrate it, saying to himself,--\n\n\"It is the epitome of Heaven and Earth; of Heaven by showing us the\nserried phalanx of its inhabitants--Prophets, Patriarchs, Angels and\nSaints, lighting up the interior of the church by their transparent\nfigures; by singing to the glory of the Mother and the Son. Of Earth,\nfor it connotes the elation of the soul, the ascension of man; it\npoints out quite clearly to Christian souls the path of the perfect\nlife. They, to apprehend its symbolism, should enter by the Royal\ndoorway, and pass up the nave, the transept and the choir--the three\nsuccessive phases of Asceticism; reach the top of the Cross where,\nsurrounded by the chapels of the apse as by a Crown, the head of the\nSaviour lies, His neck bent, as we see them symbolized by the altar and\nthe deflected axis of the church.\n\n\"There the pilgrim has reached the united ways, close to the Virgin, who\nmourns no more as she does in the agonizing scene on Calvary, at the\nfoot of the Tree, but, under the figure of the Sacristy, remains veiled\nby the side of Her Son's countenance, getting closer to Him the better\nto comfort and to see Him.\n\n\"And this allegory of the mystical life as set forth by the interior of\nthe cathedral, is carried out by the exterior, in the suppliant effect\nof the whole building.\n\n\"The Soul, distraught by the joy of union, heart-broken at having still\nto live, only aspires now to escape for ever from the Gehenna of the\nflesh; thus it beseeches the Bridegroom with the uplifted arms of its\ntowers, to take pity on it, to come to fetch it, to take it by the\nclasped hands of its spires and snatch it from earth, to carry it up\nwith Him into Heaven.\n\n\"In short, this church is the finest expression of art bequeathed to us\nby the Middle Ages. The great front has neither the awful majesty of\nthat of Reims, pierced as it is with tracery, nor the dull melancholy of\nNotre Dame de Paris, nor the gigantic grace of Amiens, nor the massive\nsolemnity of Bourges; but it is full of imposing simplicity, a\nlightness, a spring, which no other cathedral has attained to.\n\n\"The nave of Amiens alone grows beautifully less as it rises with as\neager a spring from the earth; but the body of the Amiens church is\nlight and uncomforting, and that of Chartres is mysterious and hushed;\nof all cathedrals it is that which best suggests the idea of a delicate,\nsaintly woman, emaciated by prayer, and almost transparent by fasting.\n\n\"And then its windows are matchless, superior even to those of Bourges,\nwhere, again, the sanctuary blossoms with glorious clumps of holy\npersons. And finally, the sculpture of the west front, the Royal Portal,\nis the most beautiful, the most superterrestrial statuary ever wrought\nby the hand of man.\n\n\"And it is almost unique in having none of the woeful and threatening\nsolemnity of its noble sisters. Scarce a demon is to be seen watching\nand grinning on its walls to torture souls; in a few small figures it\nshows indeed the variety of penance, but that is all; and within, the\nVirgin is above all else the Mother of Bethlehem. Jesus, too, is more or\nless Her Child; He yields to Her when she entreats Him.\n\n\"It proclaims the plenitude of Her patience and charity by the length of\nthe crypt and the breadth of the nave, which are greater than those of\nother churches.\n\n\"In fact, it is the mystical cathedral--that where the Madonna is most\ngraciously ready to receive the sinner.\n\n\"Now,\" said Durtal, looking at his watch, \"the Abbe Gevresin must have\nfinished his breakfast. It is time to take leave of him before joining\nthe Abbe Plomb at the station.\"\n\nHe crossed the forecourt of the palace and rang at the priest's door.\n\n\"So you are sure you are going!\" said Madame Bavoil, who opened the\ndoor, and admitted him to her master.\n\n\"Well, yes--\"\n\n\"I envy you,\" sighed the Abbe, \"for you will be present at wonderful\nservices and hear admirable music.\"\n\n\"I hope so. And if only that could relieve the tension, could release me\na little from this incoherent frame of mind in which I wander, and allow\nme to feel at home once more in my own soul and not in a strange place\nopen to all the winds!--\"\n\n\"Ah, your soul wants locks and latches,\" said Madame Bavoil, laughing.\n\n\"It is a public mart where every distraction meets to chatter. I am\nconstantly driven out, and when I want to go home again they are in\npossession.\"\n\n\"Oh, I quite understand that. You know the proverb, 'Who goes hunting\nloses his seat by the hearth.'\"\n\n\"That is all very well to say, but--\"\n\n\"But, our friend, the Lord foresaw your case, when, with reference to\nsuch distractions which flutter about the soul like this, He replied to\nthe Venerable Jeanne de Matel, who complained of such annoyances, that\nshe should imitate the hunter, who, when he misses the big game he is\nseeking, seizes the smaller prey he may find.\"\n\n\"Ay, but even then he must find it!\"\n\n\"Go and live in peace, then,\" said the Abbe. \"Do not fret yourself with\nwondering whether your soul is enclosed or no; and take this piece of\nadvice: You are accustomed--are you not?--to repeat prayers that you\nknow by heart, and it is especially under those circumstances that\nwandering supervenes. Well, then, set those prayers aside, and restrict\nyourself to following, very regularly, the prayers of the services in\nthe convent-chapel. You are less familiar with them, and merely to\nfollow them you will be obliged to read them with care. Thus you will be\nless likely to have a divided mind.\"\n\n\"No doubt,\" replied Durtal. \"But when I have not repeated the prayers I\nam wont to say, I feel as though I had not prayed at all. I know that\nthis is absurd; still, there is no faithful soul who does not know the\nfeeling when the text of his prayers is altered.\"\n\nThe Abbe smiled.\n\n\"The best prayers,\" said he, \"are those of the Liturgy, those which God\nHimself has taught us, those alone which are expressed in language\nworthy of Him--in His own language. They are complete, and supreme; for\nall our desires, all our regrets, all our wailing are contained in the\nPsalms. The prophet foresaw and said everything; leave him, then, to\nspeak for you, and thus, as your interpreter before God, give you his\nhelp.\n\n\"As to the prayers you may feel moved to address to God apart from the\nhours devoted to the purpose, let them be short. Imitate the Recluses of\nEgypt, the Fathers in the Desert, who were masters in the art of\nsupplication. This is what old Isaac said to Cassian: 'Pray briefly and\noften, lest, if your orisons be long, the enemy will come to disturb\nthem. Follow these two rules, they will save you from secret upheaval.\n\n\"So, go in peace; and if any trouble should overtake you, do not\nhesitate to consult the Abbe Plomb.\"\n\n\"Eh, our friend,\" cried Madame Bavoil, laughing, \"and you might also\ncure yourself of wandering thoughts by the method employed by the Abbess\nof Sainte-Aure when she chanted the Psalter: she sat in a chair of which\nthe back was garnished with a hundred long nails, and when she felt\nherself wandering she pressed her shoulder firmly against the points;\nthere is nothing better, I can tell you, for bringing folks back to\nreality and recalling their wandering attention.\"\n\n\"Thank you, indeed!\"\n\n\"There is another thing,\" she went on, not laughing now. \"You ought to\npostpone your departure for a day or two; for the day after to-morrow is\na festival of the Virgin. They expect pilgrims from Paris, and the\nshrine containing our Mother's veil will be carried in procession\nthrough the streets.\"\n\n\"Oh no!\" cried Durtal, \"I have no love for worship in common. When our\nLady holds these solemn assizes to gel out of the way. I wait till She\nis alone before I visit her. Hosts of people shouting canticles with\neyes straight to Heaven or looking for Jesus on the ground by way of\nunction are too much for me. I am all for the forlorn Queens, for the\ndeserted churches and dark chapels. I am of the opinion of Saint John of\nthe Cross, who confesses that he does not love the pilgrimage of crowds\nbecause one comes back more distracted than when one started.\n\n\"No. What it is really a grief to me to leave in quitting Chartres is\nthat very silence, that solitude in the cathedral, those interviews with\nthe Virgin in the gloom of the crypt and the twilight of the nave. Ah,\nhere alone can one feel near Her, and see Her!\n\n\"In fact,\" he went on after a moment's reflection, \"one does see Her in\nthe strictest sense of the word--or at least, can fancy that She is\nthere. If there is a spot where I can call up Her face, Her attitude--in\nshort Her portrait--it is at Chartres.\"\n\n\"And how is that?\"\n\n\"Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, we have no trustworthy information as to our\nMother's face or figure. Her features are unknown--intentionally, I feel\nsure, in order that each one may contemplate Her under the aspect that\nbest pleases him, and incarnate Her in the ideal beauty of his dreams.\n\n\"For instance, Saint Epiphanius describes her as tall, with olive eyes\narched and very black eyebrows, an aquiline nose a rosy mouth, and a\ngolden-toned skin. This is the vision of an oriental.\n\n\"Take Maria d'Agreda, on the other hand. She thinks of the Virgin as\nslender, with black hair and eyebrows, eyes dark and greenish, a\nstraight nose, scarlet lips, and a brown skin. You recognize here the\nSpanish ideal of beauty imagined by the Abbess.\n\n\"Again in, turn to Sister Emmerich. According to her, Mary was\nfair-haired, with large eyes, a rather long nose, a narrow-pointed chin,\na clear skin, and not very tall. Here we have the description given by a\nGerman who does not admire dark beauty:\n\n\"And yet both of these women were real Seers, to whom the Madonna\nappeared, assuming in each case the only aspect that could fascinate\nthem; just as she was seen to be the model of mere prettiness--the only\ntype they could understand--by Melanie at La Salette and Bernadette at\nLourdes\".\n\n\"Well, I, who am no visionary, and who must appeal to my imagination to\npicture Her at all, I fancy I discern Her under the forms and\nexpressions of the cathedral itself; the features are a little confused\nin the pale splendour of the great rose window that blazes behind Her\nhead like a nimbus. She smiles, and Her eyes, all light, have the\nincomparable effulgence of those pure sapphires which light up the\nentrance to the nave. Her slight form is diffused in a clear robe of\nflame, striped and ribbed like the drapery of the so-called Berthe. Her\nface is white like mother-of-pearl, and her hair, a circular tissue of\nsunshine, radiates in threads of gold. She is the Bride of Canticles.\n_Pulchra ut Luna, electa ut Sol_.\n\n\"The church which is Her dwelling-place, and one with Her, is luminous\nwith Her grace; the gems of the windows sing to Her praise; the slender\ncolumns shooting upwards, from the pavement to the roof, symbolize Her\naspirations and desires; the floor tells of Her humility; the vaulting,\nmeeting to form a canopy over Her, speaks of Her charity; the stones and\nglass echo hymns to Her. There is nothing, down to the military aspect\nof certain details of the sanctuary, the chivalrous touch which is a\nreminiscence of the Crusades--the sword-blades and shields of the lancet\nwindows and the roses, the helm-shaped arches, the coat of mail that\nclothes the older spire, the iron trellis-pattern of some of the\npanes--nothing that does not arouse a memory of the passage at Prime and\nthe hymn at Lauds in the minor office of the Virgin, and typify the\n_terribilis ut castrorum acies ordonata_, the privilege She possesses\nwhen She chooses to use it, of being 'terrible as an army arrayed for\nbattle.'\n\n\"But She does not often choose to exert here, I believe; this cathedral\nmirrors rather Her inexhaustible sweetness, Her indivisible glory.\"\n\n\"Ah! Much shall be forgiven you because you have loved much,\" cried\nMadame Bavoil.\n\nAnd Durtal having risen to say good-bye, she kissed him affectionately,\nmaternally, and said,--\n\n\"We will pray with all our might, our friend, that God may enlighten you\nand show you your path, may lead you Himself into the way you ought to\ngo.\"\n\n\"I hope, Monsieur l'Abbe, that during my absence your rheumatism will\ngrant you a little respite,\" said Durtal, pressing the old priest's\nhand.\n\n\"Oh, I must not wish to have no sufferings at all, for there is no cross\nso heavy as having none,\" replied the Abbe. \"So do as I do, or rather,\ndo better than I, for I still repine; put a cheerful face on your\naridity, and your trials.--Goodbye, God bless you!\"\n\n\"And may the great Mother of Madonnas of France, the sweet Lady of\nChartres, protect you!\" added Madame Bavoil.\n\nAnd when the door was shut, she added with a sigh,--\n\n\"Certainly, I should be very grieved if he left our town for ever, for\nthat friend is almost like a child of our own! At the same time I should\nbe very, very happy to think of him as a true monk!\"\n\nThen she began to laugh.\n\n\"Father,\" said she, \"will they cut his moustache off if he enters the\ncloister?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly.\"\n\nShe tried to imagine Durtal clean-shaven, and she concluded with a\nlaugh,--\n\n\"I do not think it will improve his beauty.\"\n\n\"Oh, these women!\" said the Abbe, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n\"And what, in short,\" asked she, \"may we hope for from this journey?\"\n\n\"It is not of me that you should ask that, Madame Bavoil.\"\n\n\"Very true,\" said she, and clasping her hands she murmured,--\n\n\"It depends on Thee! Help him in his poverty, remember that he can do\nnothing without Thine aid, Holy Temptress of men, Our Lady of the\nPillar, Virgin of the Crypt.\"\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"The Cathedral","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":128648}