1.F.1.13. 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. In 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
over-flowed 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 revery 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.