CHAPTER XIII.
WHAT HE BELIEVED.
It is not our business to gauge the Bishop of D---- from an orthodoxpoint of view. In the presence of such a soul we only feel inclined torespect. The conscience of the just man must be believed on its word;besides, certain natures granted, we admit the possibility of thedevelopment of all the beauties of human virtue in a creed differingfrom our own. What did he think of this dogma or that mystery? Theseheart-secrets are only known to the tomb which souls enter in a stateof nudity. What we are certain of is, that he never solved difficultiesof faith by hypocrisy. It is impossible for the diamond to rot. Hebelieved as much as he possibly could, and would frequently exclaim, "Ibelieve in the Father." He also derived from his good deeds that amountof satisfaction which suffices the conscience, and which whispers toyou, "You are with God."
What we think it our duty to note is that, beyond his faith, he hadan excess of love. It was through this, _quia multum amavit_, thathe was considered vulnerable by "serious men," "grave persons," and"reasonable people," those favorite phrases of our melancholy worldin which selfishness is under the guidance of pedantry. What was thisexcess of love. It was a serene benevolence, spreading over men, as wehave already indicated, and on occasion extending even to things. Heloved without disdain, and was indulgent to God's creation. Every man,even the best, has in him an unreflecting harshness, which he reservesfor animals, but the Bishop of D---- had not this harshness, which is,however, peculiar to many priests. He did not go so far as the Brahmin,but seemed to have meditated on the words of Ecclesiastes--"Who knoweththe spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?" An uglyappearance, a deformity of instinct, did not trouble him or renderhim indignant; he was moved, almost softened, by them. It seemed asif he thoughtfully sought, beyond apparent life, for the cause, theexplanation, or the excuse. He examined without anger, and with theeye of a linguist deciphering a palimpsest, the amount of chaos whichstill exists in nature. This reverie at times caused strange remarks toescape from him. One morning he was in his garden and fancied himselfalone; but his sister was walking behind, though unseen by him. Hestopped and looked at something on the ground. It was a large black,hairy, horrible spider. His sister heard him mutter, "Poor brute,it is not thy fault." Why should we not repeat this almost divinechildishness of goodness? It may be puerile, but of such were thepuerilities of St. Francis d'Assisi and Marcus Aurelius. One day hesprained himself because he did not wish to crush an ant.
Such was the way in which this just man lived: at times he fell asleepin his garden, and then nothing could be more venerable. MonseigneurWelcome had been formerly, if we may believe the stories about hisyouth and even his manhood, a passionate, perhaps violent man. Hisuniversal mansuetude was less a natural instinct than the result of agrand conviction, which had filtered through life into his heart, andslowly dropped into it thought by thought, for in a character, as in arock, there may be waterholes. Such hollows, however, are ineffaceable,such formations indestructible. In 1815, as we think we have said, hereached his seventy-fifth year, but did not seem sixty. He was nottall, and had a tendency to stoutness, which he strove to combat bylong walks; he stood firmly, and was but very slightly built. But theseare details from which we will not attempt to draw any conclusion, forGregory XVI. at the age of eighty was erect and smiling, which did notprevent him being a bad priest. Monseigneur Welcome had what peoplecall "a fine head," which was so amiable that its beauty was forgotten.When he talked with that infantine gayety which was one of his gracesyou felt at your ease by his side, and joy seemed to emanate from hiswhole person. His fresh, ruddy complexion, and all his white teeth,which he had preserved and displayed when he laughed, gave him thatopen facile air which makes you say of an aged man, "He is a worthyperson." That, it will be remembered, was the effect he produced onNapoleon. At the first glance, and when you saw him for the first time,he was in reality only a worthy man, but if you remained some hours inhis company, and saw him in thought, he became gradually transfiguredand assumed something imposing; his wide and serious brow, alreadyaugust through the white hair, became also august through meditation;majesty was evolved from the goodness; though the latter did not ceaseto gleam, you felt the same sort of emotion as you would if you sawa smiling angel slowly unfold his wings without ceasing to smile. Aninexpressible respect gradually penetrated you and ascended to yourhead, and you felt that you had before you one of those powerful,well-bred, and indulgent souls whose thoughts are so great that theycannot but be gentle.
As we have seen, prayer, celebration of the Mass, almsgiving, consolingthe afflicted, tilling a patch of ground, frugality, hospitality,self-denial, confidence, study, and labor, filled every day of hislife. _Filled_ is the exact word, and certainly the Bishop's day wasfull of good thoughts, good words, and good actions. Still, it wasnot complete. If cold or wet weather prevented him from spending anhour or two in the garden before going to bed after the two femaleshad retired, it seemed as it were a species of rite of his to preparehimself for sleep by meditation, in the presence of the grand spectacleof the heavens by night. At times, even at an advanced hour of night,if the women were not asleep, they heard him slowly pacing the walks.He was then alone with himself, contemplative, peaceful, adoring,comparing the serenity of his heart with that of ether, affected inthe darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations, and theinvisible splendor of God, and opening his soul to thoughts which fallfrom the unknown. At such moments, offering up his heart at the hourwhen the nocturnal flowers offer up their perfumes, he could not havesaid himself, possibly, what was passing in his mind; but he feltsomething fly out of him and something descend into him.
He dreamed of the grandeur and presence of God; of future eternity,that strange mystery; of past eternity, that even stranger mystery;of all the infinities which buried themselves before his eyes in alldirections: and without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible,he gazed at it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by Him. Heconsidered this magnificent concourse of atoms which reveals forces,creates individualities in unity, proportions in space, innumerabilityin the Infinite, and through light produces beauty. Such a concourseincessantly takes place, and is dissolved again, and hence come lifeand death.
He would sit down on a wood bench with his back against a ricketytrellis, and gaze at the stars through the stunted sickly profilesof his fruit trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, andso encumbered with sheds and out-houses, was dear to him, and wassufficient for him. What more was wanting to this aged man, whodivided the leisure of his life, which knew so little leisure, betweengardening by day and contemplation by night? Was not this limitedenclosure with the sky for its roof sufficient for him to be able toadore God by turns in His most delicious and most sublime works? Wasnot this everything, in fact? and what could be desired beyond? A smallgarden to walk about in, and immensity to dream in; at his feet, whatcan be cultivated and gathered; over his head, what can be studied andmeditated; a few flowers on the earth, and all the stars in the heavens.