The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

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СКАЧАТЬ atheists continue to exist," replied the Cardinal; "If our Divine faith were lived divinely, there would be no room for heresy or atheism. The Church itself supplies the loophole for apostasy."

      The Archbishop's handsome face crimsoned.

      "You amaze me by such an expression!" he said, raising his voice a little in the indignation he could scarcely conceal—"you talk—pardon me—as if you yourself were uncertain of the Church's ability to withstand unbelief."

      "I speak but as I think," answered the Cardinal gently. "And I admit I AM uncertain. In the leading points of reed I am very steadfastly convinced;—namely, that Christ was divine, and that the following of His Gospel is the saving of the immortal soul. But if you ask me whether I think we do truly follow that Gospel, I must own that I have doubts upon the matter."

      "An elected favourite son of the Church should surely have no doubts!" said the Archbishop.

      "Ah, there you come back to the beginning from which we started, when I ventured to object to your term 'prince of the Church.' According to our Master, all men should be equal before Him; therefore we err in marking differences of rank or favoritism in questions of religion. The very idea of rank is anti-Christian."

      At this the Archbishop began to look seriously annoyed.

      "I am afraid you are indulging in very unorthodox ideas," he said with impatience—"In fact I consider you altogether mistake your calling and position."

      These were the words which had reached the attentive ears of the Patoux children on their way up to bed, and had caused Henri to declare that the Archbishop and the Cardinal were quarrelling. Felix Bonpre took the somewhat violent remark, however, with perfect equanimity.

      "Possibly I may do so," he responded peaceably. "We are all subject to error. My calling, as I take it, is that of a servant of Christ, whose instructions for work are plainly set down in His own words. It is for me to follow these instructions as literally and exactly as I can. With regard to my position, I am placed as the spiritual head of a very small diocese, where the people for the most part lead very innocent and harmless lives. But I should be selfish and narrow in spirit if I allowed myself to limit my views to my own circle of influence. My flock are mere rustics in intellectual capacity, and have no conception of the manner in which the larger tide of human events is flowing. Now and then one or two of the people grow weary of their quiet pastures and woodlands,—and being young, hopeful, and ardent, start forth into the great world, there to seek fairer fortunes. Sometimes they come back to their old homes. Far more frequently they never return. But those who do come back are changed utterly. I recognise no more the young men and maidens whom I confirmed in their faith, and laid my hands on in blessing ere they fared forth to other lives and scenes. The men are grown callous and worldly; without a heart,—without a thought,—save for the gain or loss of gold. The women are—ruined!"

      He paused a moment. The Archbishop said nothing.

      "I love my people," went on the Cardinal pathetically—"No child is baptised in our old Cathedral without my praying for its future good,—without my hope that it may grow into that exquisite mingling of the Divine and Human which our Lord taught us was the perfection of life, and His desire to see fulfilled in those He called His own. Yes,—I love my people!—and when any of them go away from me, and then return to the scenes of their childhood broken-hearted, I cannot meet them with reproach. My own heart is half broken to see them thus cast down. And their sorrows have compelled me naturally to meditate on the sorrows of others,—to consider what it is in the world which thus corrodes the pure gold of innocence and robs life of its greatest charm. For if Christ's spirit ruled us all, then innocence should be held more sacred. Life should engender happiness. I have studied, read, and thought long, upon these matters, so that I not only feel, but know the truth of what I say. Brother!—" and the Cardinal, strongly moved, rose suddenly and confronted the Archbishop with a passionate gesture—"My great grief is that the spirit of Christ does NOT rule the world! Christ is being re-crucified by this generation! And the Church is looking on, and silently permitting His second murder!"

      Startled by the force of this expression, the Archbishop sprang up in his turn, his lips parted as if to speak—then—his angry glance met the clear, calm, steadfast look of Felix Bonpre, and he faltered. His eyes drooped—and his massive figure seemed for a moment to shrink with a sort of abasement. Like an inspired apostle the Cardinal stood, one hand outstretched,—his whole frame sentient with the strong emotion which possessed him.

      "You know that what I say is true," he continued in quieter but no less intensely passionate accents—"You know that every day sees our Master crowned with new thorns and exposed to fresh torture! You know that we do nothing!—We stand beside Him in His second agony as dumb as though we were unconscious of it! You know that we MIGHT speak and will not! You know that we fear the ephemera of temporary governments, policies, and social conventionalities, more than the great, real, and terrible judgment of the world to come!"

      "But all these things have been said before," began the Archbishop, recovering a little from the confusion that had momentarily seized him,—"And as I just now observed, you should remember that there have always been heretics from the very beginning."

      "Oh, I remember!" and the Cardinal sighed, "How is it possible that any of us should forget! Heretics, whom we have tortured with unheard-of agonies and burned in the flames, as a proof of our love and sympathy with the tenderness of Christ Jesus!"

      "You are going too far back in time!" said the Archbishop quickly. "We erred in the beginning through excess of zeal, but now—now—"

      "Now we do exactly the same thing," returned Bonpre—"Only we do not burn physically our heretics, but morally. We condemn all who oppose us. Good men and brave thinkers, whom in our arrogance we consign to eternal damnation, instead of endeavouring to draw out the heart of their mystery, and gather up the gems of their learning as fresh proofs of the active presence of God's working in, and through all things! Think of the Church's invincible and overpowering obstinacy in the case of Galileo! He declared the existence of God to us by the utterance of a Truth,—inasmuch as every truth is a new message from God. Had he pronounced his theories before our divine Master, that Master would have confirmed, not denied them! Have we one single example of Christ putting to the torture any poor soul that did not believe in Him? Nay—He Himself submitted to be tortured; but for those who wronged Him, His prayer was only—'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO! The ministers of truth should rather suffer themselves than let others suffer. The horrors of the Inquisition are a blot on religious history; our Master never meant us to burn and torture men into faith. He desired us to love and lead them into the way of life as the shepherd leads a flock into the fold. I repeat again, there would have been no room for atheism if we—we—the servants of Christ, had been strictly true to our vocation."

      By this time the Archbishop had recovered his equanimity. He sat down and surveyed the up-standing figure of the Cardinal with curiosity and a touch of pity.

      "You think too much of these things," he said soothingly—"You are evidently overwrought with study and excessive zeal. Much that you say may be true; nevertheless the Church—OUR Church—stands firm among overwhelming contradictions,—and we, its ministers, do what we can. I myself am disposed to think that the multitude of the saved is greater than the multitude of the lost."

      "I envy you the consolation such a thought must give," responded the Cardinal, as he resumed his seat opposite his visitor—"I, on the contrary, have the pained and bitter sense that we are to blame for all this 'multitude of the lost,' or at any rate that we could have done more in the way of rescue than we have done." He paused a moment, passing one hand across his forehead wearily. "In truth this is what has for a long time weighed upon my СКАЧАТЬ