الفصل الفصل 14 · WHAT HE BELIEVED

We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D—— on the score of

orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul we feel ourselves in no mood

but respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his

word. Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible

development of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs

from our own.

What did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery? These secrets of

the inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where

souls enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the

difficulties of faith never resolved themselves into hypocrisy in his

case. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of

his powers. _“Credo in Patrem,”_ he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew

from good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the

conscience, and which whispers to a man, “Thou art with God!”

The point which we consider it our duty to note is, that outside of and

beyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love.

It was in that quarter, _quia multum amavit_,—because he loved

much—that he was regarded as vulnerable by “serious men,” “grave

persons” and “reasonable people”; favorite locutions of our sad world

where egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this

excess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we

have already pointed out, and which, on occasion, extended even to

things. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God’s

creation. Every man, even the best, has within him a thoughtless

harshness which he reserves for animals. The Bishop of D—— had none of

that harshness, which is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. He did

not go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have weighed this saying

of Ecclesiastes: “Who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth?”

Hideousness of aspect, deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did

not arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It

seemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of

life which is apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for

them. He seemed at times to be asking God to commute these penalties.

He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is

deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in

nature. This reverie sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. One

morning he was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister

was walking behind him, unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at

something on the ground; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful

spider. His sister heard him say:—

“Poor beast! It is not its fault!”

Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness?

Puerile they may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to

Saint Francis d’Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his

ankle in his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just

man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing

more venerable possible.

Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth,

and even in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate,

and, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an

instinct of nature than the result of a grand conviction which had

filtered into his heart through the medium of life, and had trickled

there slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock,

there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are

uneffaceable; these formations are indestructible.

In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth

birthday, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall;

he was rather plump; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond

of taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm, and his form was but

slightly bent, a detail from which we do not pretend to draw any

conclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty, held himself erect and

smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. Monseigneur

Welcome had what the people term a “fine head,” but so amiable was he

that they forgot that it was fine.

When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his

charms, and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease

with him, and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh

and ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had

preserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open

and easy air which cause the remark to be made of a man, “He’s a good

fellow”; and of an old man, “He is a fine man.” That, it will be

recalled, was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first

encounter, and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing,

in fact, but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours,

and beheld him in the least degree pensive, the fine man became

gradually transfigured, and took on some imposing quality, I know not

what; his broad and serious brow, rendered august by his white locks,

became august also by virtue of meditation; majesty radiated from his

goodness, though his goodness ceased not to be radiant; one experienced

something of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling

angel slowly unfold his wings, without ceasing to smile. Respect, an

unutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your

heart, and one felt that one had before him one of those strong,

thoroughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it

can no longer be anything but gentle.

As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion,

alms-giving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit

of land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence,

study, work, filled every day of his life. _Filled_ is exactly the

word; certainly the Bishop’s day was quite full to the brim, of good

words and good deeds. Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or

rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden before

going to bed, and after the two women had retired. It seemed to be a

sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in

the presence of the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens.

Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing

slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was

there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the

serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the

darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the

invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall

from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the

hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a

lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the

midst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not have told

himself, probably, what was passing in his spirit; he felt something

take its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysterious

exchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe!

He thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity,

that strange mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more

strange; of all the infinities, which pierced their way into all his

senses, beneath his eyes; and, without seeking to comprehend the

incomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not study God; he was

dazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms,

which communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them,

create individualities in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable

in the infinite, and, through light, produce beauty. These conjunctions

are formed and dissolved incessantly; hence life and death.

He seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back against a decrepit

vine; he gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of

his fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so

encumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and

satisfied his wants.

What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his

life, where there was so little leisure, between gardening in the

daytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with

the heavens for a ceiling, sufficient to enable him to adore God in his

most divine works, in turn? Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and

what is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to

walk, and immensity in which to dream. At one’s feet that which can be

cultivated and plucked; over head that which one can study and meditate

upon: some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky.