"I have seen it once at Berne, in a window of the fifteenth century," said the Abbé Plomb.
"I also saw it in the cathedral at Erfurt, painted, not on glass, but on a panel. The picture is by no known painter, and dated 1534. I can see it now: Above, God the Father, a good old man with a snowy beard, solemn and thoughtful; and the mill, like a coffee mill, fixed on the edge of a table, with the drawer open below. The evangelical beasts are emptying into the hopper, skins full of scrolls on which are written the effective Sacramental words. These scrolls are swallowed in the body of the machine, and come out into the drawer, thence falling into a chalice held by a Cardinal and Bishop kneeling at the table.
"And the texts are changed into a little Child in the act of blessing while the four Evangelists turn a long silver crank in the right-hand corner of the panel."
"What seems strange," remarked the Abbé Gévresin, "is that it should be the formula of Transubstantiation and not the substance that is changed, and that the Evangelists, twice represented—under their animal and their human aspect—pour into the mill and grind. And also that the sacred oblation should be represented by the living flesh.
"Still, it is correct; since the consecrating words are uttered, the bread has ceased to be. This scheme of implied meaning, though somewhat strange, in a literal presentment, a scene of actual grinding—the wheat in the grain, in flour, and in the Host—this obvious intention of ignoring the species, the appearances, and substituting the reality which is invisible to sense, must have been adopted by the painter in order to appeal to the masses, to bear witness to the certainty of the Miracle and to make the mystery evident to the people. But let us return to the construction of our church. Where were we?"
"Here," said Durtal, pointing with his stick to the side aisles as traced in the sand. "Now, to represent the side chapels we have a choice. One we shall dedicate, of course, to Saint John the Baptist. To distinguish it from the others we have the gilliflower and the ground-ivy to which he has given his name, and more especially the St. John's wort, which if gathered on the eve of his festival and placed in a room, destroys malignant spells and charms, is a protection against thunder, and hinders the walking of ghosts.
"It may be added that this plant, famous in the Middle Ages, was used as a remedy for epilepsy and St. Vitus' dance, two maladies for which the intercession of the Precursor is most efficacious.
"We will dedicate another to Saint Peter. On his altar we may lay a posy of the herbs dedicated to his service by our forefathers: the primrose, the wild honeysuckle, the gentian and soap-wort, pellitory and bindweed, with others whose names escape me.
"But, first, will it not be our bounden duty to erect a tower for Our Lady of the Seven Dolours, such as we find in many churches?
"The flower obviously indicated is the passion-flower; that unique blossom, of a purplish blue, its seed-vessel simulating the Cross, its styles and stigma the Nails; its stamens mimicking the Hammer, its thread-like fringe the Crown of thorns—in short, it represents all the instruments of the Passion. Add to this, if you will, a bunch of hyssop, plant a cypress, of which Saint Melito speaks as emblematical of the Saviour, and which Monsieur Olier regards as symbolical of death; a myrtle, signifying compassion, according to a passage by Saint Gregory the Great; and, above all, do not omit the buckthorn, or Rhamnus—for of that shrub the Jews twined the stems that formed Christ's crown—and your chapel is complete."
"The buckthorn," said the Abbé Gévresin; "yes, Rohant de Fleury says that its thorny branches were used to crown the Son's head; but this leaves us wondering, when we remember that in the Old Testament, in the ninth chapter of the Book of Judges, all the tall trees of Judæa bow down before the Royalty prophetically prefigured by this humble shrub."
"Very true," replied the Abbé Plomb. "But what is most curious is the number of absolutely dissimilar senses which the oldest symbolists attribute to the buckthorn. Saint Methodus uses it for virginity; Theodoret for sin; Saint Jerome ascribes it to the devil; and Saint Bernard takes it as symbolizing humility. Again, in the 'Theologia Symbolica' of Maximilian Sandaeus, this shrub is made to signify the worldly prelacy, while the olive, vine, and fig, with which the author contrasts it, are the contemplative Orders. In this, no doubt, we may see an allusion to the thorns which Bishops were not always unready to thrust on the long-suffering Heads of monasteries.
"You have forgotten, too, in the blazonry of your chapel, the reed which formed the sceptre of mockery forced into the Son's hands. But the reed, like the buckthorn, is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. Saint Melito defines it as the Incarnation and the Scriptures; Raban Maur as the Preacher, the hypocrite, and the Gentiles; Saint Eucher as the sinner; the Anonymous monk of Clairvaux as Christ; and others which I have forgotten."
"These are many meanings for a single plant," observed Durtal. "But now if we want to specialize some chapels as dedicated to saints, nothing can be easier; at any rate, for such as have lent their names to plants.
"For instance, the Valerian, known as Herb Saint George, the white flower with a hollow stem, which grows in moist, places, and its popular name is quite intelligible since it was used in treating nervous diseases, for which the saint's intercession was invoked.
"Then we have the plant or plants dedicated to Saint Roch: the pennyroyal, and two species of Inula, one with bright yellow flowers, a purgative that cures the itch. Formerly on Saint Roch's day branches of this herb were blessed and hung in the cow-houses to preserve the cattle from epidemics.
"Saint Anne's wort, a humble creeper, the samphire—an emblem of poverty.
"Herb Barbara, the winter-cress, a cruciferous plant, anti-scorbutic—a poverty-stricken flower, creeping along the wayside like a beggar.
"To Saint Fiacre is dedicated the mullein, with its emollient leaves; boiled to make a poultice, it relieves colic, which this saint has a reputation for curing.
"Saint Stephen's wort is the enchanter's nightshade, a beneficent plant with red berries on a hairy stem. And there are many others.
"For the crypt, supposing we dig one out, it must certainly be filled with the trees mentioned in the Old Testament, of which this portion of the building is itself an allegory. In spite of climate we must grow the vine and the palm, emblems of eternity; the cedar, which by reason of its incorruptible wood is sometimes thought to symbolize the angels; the olive and the fig, emblems of the Holy Trinity and of the Word; frankincense, cassia and balsamodendron Myrrha, a symbol of the perfect humanity of Our Lord; the terebinth—meaning exactly what?"
"According to Peter of Capua, the Cross and the Church; but Saint Melito says the saints. According to the monk of Clairvaux, it is the false doctrine of the Jews and heretics; and as to the drops of resin, they are Christ's tears, if we may believe Saint Ambrose," replied the Abbé Plomb.
"And even so, our cathedral remains incomplete. We are but feeling our way, without logical sequence. I admit that at the entrance we must plant the purifying hyssop in the place of the holy-water vessel; but with what can we build the walls unless we accept the alternative of a real church having walls but unfinished?"
"Take the figurative sense of the walls and translate that; the great walls are representative of the four Evangelists, Can you find plants for them?"
Durtal shook his head. "The Evangelists are, of course, symbolized in the fauna of mysticism by the animals of the Tetramorph; the twelve apostles have their synonyms in the category of gems, and two of the Evangelists are naturally to be found there: Saint John is associated with the emerald, the emblem of purity and faith; Saint Matthew with the chrysolite, the emblem of wisdom and watchfulness; but none, so far as I know, has found a representative among either trees or flowers. And yet, to be sure, Saint John has the sun-flower, signifying divine inspiration; for he is represented in a window in the church of Saint Rémy at Reims, his head crowned with a nimbus surmounted by two of these flowers."
"Saint Mark, too, has a plant—the tansy, so named in the Middle Ages."
"The tansy?"
"Yes; a bitter, aromatic plant with yellow flowers, which grows in stony ground, and is used in medicine as an anti-spasmodic. Like Saint George's herb, it is used in nervous maladies, the intercession of Saint Mark being, it would seem, of sovereign efficacy.
"As to Saint Luke, he may be represented by clumps of mignonette, for Sister Emmerich tells us that while he was a physician it was his favourite remedy. He macerated mignonette in palm oil, and after blessing it, applied the unction in the form of a cross on the brow and mouth of his patients; in other cases he used the dried plant in an infusion.
"Only Saint Matthew remains; but here I give in, for I know of no vegetable species that can reasonably be assigned to him."
"Nay, do not think it hopeless," cried the Abbé Plomb. "A mediæval legend tells us that balms exuded from his tomb; hence he was represented as holding a branch of cinnamon, symbolical of the fragrance of virtue, says Saint Melito."
"Well, it would be better to accept the real walls of a church, making use of the structure, and limiting ourselves to completing the idea by details borrowed from the symbolism of flowers."
"And the sacristy?" suggested the Abbé Gévresin.
"Since, according to the Rationale of Durand of Mende, the sacristy is the very bosom of the Virgin, we will represent it by virginal plants such as the anemone, and trees such as the cedar, which Saint Ildefonso compares to Our Mother. And now, if we are to furnish the instruments of worship, we shall find in the ritual of the liturgy and in the very form of certain plants almost precise guidance. Thus, flax, of which the cornice and altar napery is to be woven, is indispensable; the olive and the balsamum, from which oil and balm are extracted, and frankincense, which sheds the drops of gum for the incense, are no less indicated. For the chalice we may choose from among the flowers which goldsmiths take as their models: the white convolvulus, the frail campanula, and even the tulip, though, having some repute as connected with magic, that flower is in ill odour. For the shape of the monstrance there is the sun-flower."
"Yes," interrupted the Abbé Plomb, wiping his spectacles, "but these are fancies borrowed simply from superficial resemblance; it is modern symbolism, which is really not symbolism at all. And is not this the case to a great extent with the various interpretations that you accept from Sister Emmerich? She died in 1824."
"What does that matter?" said Durtal. "Sister Emmerich was a primitive saint, a seer, whose body indeed lived in our day, but whose soul was far away; she dwelt more in the Middle Ages than in ours. It might be said indeed that she was more ancient still, for, in fact, she was contemporary with Christ, whose life she follows step by step through her pages.
"Hence her ideas of symbolism cannot be set aside. To me they are of equal authority with those of Saint Mechtildis, who was born in the early part of the thirteenth century.
"In point of fact, the source whence they both alike derived them is the same. And what is time, or past or present, when we speak of God?
"These women were the sieves through which His grace was poured, and what need I care whether the instruments were of yesterday or to-day? The word of the Lord is supreme over the ages; His inspiration blows when and where it lists. Is not that true?"
"I quite agree."
"And all this time," said the housekeeper, "you do not think of making use in your building of the iris, which my good Jeanne de Matel regards as an emblem of peace."
"Oh, we will find a place for it, Madame Bavoil, never fear. And there is yet another plant which we must not omit; the trefoil, for sculptors have strewn it broadcast in their stony gardens, and the trefoil, like the fruit of the almond tree, which shows the elongated nimbus, is an emblem of the Holy Trinity.
"Suppose we recapitulate:
"At the end of the nave, in the shell of the apse, in front of a semicircle of tall bracken turned brown by autumn, we see a flaming assumption of climbing roses hedging a bed of red and white anemones, edged with the sober green of mignonette. And to give variety by adding symbols of humility—the knotweed, the violet, and the hyssop—we may form a posy of which the meaning will represent the perfect virtues of Our Mother.
"Now," said he, pointing with his stick to the plan of the nave he had traced, "here is the altar, overgrown with red-leaved vines, purple or pearly grapes, sheaves of golden corn. Ah! but we must have a cross over the altar."
"That will not be difficult," replied the Abbé Gévresin. "From the grain of mustard seed, which all the symbolists accept in a figurative sense as representing Christ, to the sycamore and the terebinth, you have a wide range; you can at pleasure have a tiny cross, a mere nothing, or a gigantic crucifix."
"Here," Durtal went on, "along the bays where trefoils flourish, different flowers rise from the ground, corresponding to the saints of their ascription; here is the chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Dolours, recognizable by the passion-flower full blown on its creeping stem, with its many tendrils; and the background is a hedge of reeds and rhamnus, full of sad meaning, mitigated by the compassionate myrtle.
"Here, again, is the sacristy, where smiles the soft blue flax on its light stem, the abundant flowers of the convolvulus and campanula, tall sun-flowers, and, if you choose, a palm, for I recollect that Sister Emmerich speaks of this tree as a paragon of chastity, because, she says, the male and female flowers are separate, and both kept modestly hidden. Another interpretation to the credit of the palm!"
"But after all, you are absurd, our friend!" cried Madame Bavoil. "All this will not hold together. Your plants are the growth of different climates, and in any case they could not all be in bloom at the same time; consequently, by the time you have planted this, that will be dead. You can never grow them side by side."
"That is symbolical of many unfinished cathedrals, where the building is carried across from century to century," said Durtal, snapping his stick. "But listen, fancy apart, there is something which may be done, and has not been done, for celestial botany and pious posies.
"That is, to make a liturgical garden, a true Benedictine garden, where flowers may be grown in succession for the sake of their relations to the Scriptures and hagiology. Would it not be delightful to follow out the liturgy of prayer with that of plants, to place them side by side in the sanctuary, to deck the altars with flowers all having their meanings according to the days and festivals; in short, to associate nature in its most exquisite manifestation—that is, its flowers—with the ceremonies of divine worship?"
"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed both the priests with one accord.
"Meanwhile, till these fine things are accomplished, I will be content to dig in my little kitchen garden with an eye to the savoury stews in which you shall share," said Madame Bavoil. "There I am in my element; I do not lose my footing as I do in your imitation churches."
"And I, on my part, will meditate on the symbolism of eatables," said Durtal, taking out his watch. "It is near breakfast time."
As he was going off, the Abbé Plomb called him back and said, laughing,—
"In your future cathedral you have forgotten to reserve a nook for Saint Columba, if, indeed, we can find some ascetic plant native, or at any rate common, to Ireland, the land where this Father was born."
"The thistle, figurative of mortification and penance and a memento of asceticism, is conspicuous as the badge of Scotland," replied Durtal. "But why Saint Columba?"
"Because of all saints he is the most neglected, the least invoked by those of our contemporaries who ought to be most assiduous; since he is regarded in the attributions of special virtues as the patron saint of idiots."
"Pooh!" cried the Abbé Gévresin. "Why, if ever a man revealed a magnificent comprehension of things human and divine, it was that great Abbot and founder of monasteries!"
"Oh! there is no suggestion implied that Saint Columba was feeble of brain; and as to why the mission was trusted to him rather than another of protecting the greater part of the human race, I do not know."
"Perhaps he may have cured lunatics and healed those possessed?" the Abbé Gévresin suggested.
"At any rate," said Durtal, "it would be vain to erect a chapel to him, since it would always be empty; no one would come to entreat him, poor saint! for the essential mark of an idiot is not to think himself one!"
"A saint out of work!" remarked Madame Bavoil.
"And who is not likely to find any," said Durtal, as he left them.
CHAPTER XI.
Durtal had begged his housekeeper, Madame Mesurat, to serve his coffee in his study. He thus hoped to escape having her constantly standing in front of him, as she did all through his meal, asking him if his mutton-cutlet were good.
And though that meat had a taste of flannel, Durtal had nodded a sketchy affirmative, knowing full well that if he ventured on the least comment he would have to endure an incoherent harangue on all the butchers in the town.
As soon as this woman, at once servile, despotic, and obsequious, had placed his cup on the table, he buried his nose in a book, and by his repellent attitude compelled her to fly.
He knew the book he was turning over almost by heart, for he had often read it between the hours of service at the cathedral. It was so entirely sympathetic to him, with its artless faith and ingenuous enthusiasm, that it was to him like the familiar speech of the Church itself.
The little volume contained the prayers composed in the fourteenth century by Gaston œbus, Comte de Foix. Durtal had it in two editions, one printed in the original form of his authentic words and antiquated spelling, by the Abbé de Madaune; the other modernized, but with great skill and taste, by Monsieur de la Brière.
Durtal, as he turned the pages, came on such lamentable and humble prayers as these: "Thou who hast shapened me in my mother's womb, let me not perish.... Lord, I confess my poverty.... My conscience gnaws me and shows me the secrets of my heart. Avarice constrains me, concupiscence befouls me, gluttony disgraces me, anger torments me, inconstancy crushes me, indolence oppresses me, hypocrisy beguiles me.... and these, Lord, are the companions with whom I have spent my youth, these are the friends I have known, these are the masters I have served." And further on he exclaims, "Sin have I heaped upon sin, and the sins which I could not commit in very deed yet have I committed by evil desire."
Durtal closed the volume, regretting that it should be so entirely unknown to Catholics. They were all busy chewing the cud of the old hay left at the heading or end of the "Christian's Day" or "The Eucologia," or meditating on the pompous prayers elaborated in the ponderous phraseology of the seventeenth century, in which there is no accent of sincerity to be found—nothing, not an appeal that comes from the heart, not even a pious cry!
How far were these rhapsodies all cast in the same mould from this penitent and simple language, from this easy and candid communion of the soul with God?
Then Durtal dipped again here and there, and read:—
"My God and my Mercy, I am ashamed to pray to Thee for very shame of my evil conscience; give a fountain of tears to my eyes, and my hands largess of alms and charity; give me a seemly faith, and hope, and abiding charity. Lord, Thou holdest no man in horror save the fool that denies Thee. Oh, my God, the Giver of My Redemption and Receiver of my soul, I have sinned and Thou hast suffered me!"
Then, turning over a few more pages, he came at the end of the volume to a few passages collected by Monsieur de la Brière, among them these reflections on the Eucharist culled from a manuscript of the fifteenth century:—
"Not every man can assimilate this meat; some there be who eat it not, but swallow it down in haste. It should be chewed as much as possible with the teeth of the understanding, to the end that the sweet of its savour be pressed out of it, and may come forth from it. Ye have heard it said that in nature, that which is most crushed is most nourishing; now the crushing of the teeth is our deep and keen meditation on the Sacrament itself."
Then, after having elucidated the individual use of each tooth, the author adds, in speaking of the fifteenth, "the Sacrament on the altar is not merely as meat to fill and refill us; but, which is more, to make us divine."
"Lord!" murmured Durtal, laying down the book. "O Lord! If we allowed ourselves nowadays to use such materialistic comparisons and make use of such homely terms in speaking of Thy supremely adorable Body, what a clamour would arise from the 'respectable' among the worshippers and the blessed legion of the good women who have comfortable praying-chairs and reserved places near the altar—like front seats in a theatre—in the House where all are equal."
And Durtal pondered over these reflections which assailed him every time he happened to take up a clerical journal or one of the Manuals introduced by some prelate's note of approval, like a clean bill of health.
He could never get over his amazement at the incredible ignorance, the instinctive aversion for art, the type of ideas, the terror of words, peculiar to Catholics. Why was this? For after all there was no reason why believers should be more ignorant and stupid than any other folks. Indeed, the contrary ought to be the truth.
Whence did this inferiority proceed? And Durtal could answer himself. It was due to the system of education, to the training in intellectual timidity, to the lessons in fear, given in a cellar, far from a vital atmosphere and the light of day. It really seemed as if there were some intention of emasculating souls by nourishing them on dried-up fragments, literary white-meat; some set purpose of destroying all independence and initiative in the disciples by levelling them, crushing them all under the same roller, and restricting the sphere of thought by maintaining a deliberate ignorance of art and literature.
And all merely to avert the temptation of forbidden fruit, of which the idea was suggested under the pretext of inspiring dread of it. By this method curiosity with regard to the veiled unknown tormented their young brains and excited their senses, for it was always in the background, and in a form all the more dangerous because it had the effect of a more or less transparent gauze. The imagination could not fail to exasperate itself by cogitating its desire to know and its fear of knowing, and it was ready to fly off at the least word.
Under these circumstances the most anodyne book was a source of danger from the simple fact that love was alluded to, and woman depicted as an attractive creature; and this was enough to account for all—for the inherent ignorance of Catholics, since it was proclaimed as the preventive cure for temptations—for the instinctive horror of art, since to these craven souls every written and studied work was in its nature a vehicle of sin and an incitement to fall.
Would it not really be far more sensible and judicious to open the windows, to air the rooms, to treat these souls as manly beings, to teach them not to be so much afraid of their own flesh, to inculcate the firmness and courage needed for resistance? For really it is rather like a dog which barks at your heels and snaps at your legs if you are afraid of him, but who beats a retreat if you turn on him boldly and drive him off.
The fact remains that these schemes of education have resulted, on the one hand, in the triumph of the flesh in the greater number of men who have been thus brought up and then thrown into a worldly life, and on the other, in a wide diffusion of folly and fear, an abandonment of the possessions of the intellect and the capitulation of the Catholic army surrendering without a blow to the inroads of profane literature, which takes possession of territory that it has not even had the trouble of conquering.
This really was madness! The Church had created art, had cherished it for centuries; and now by the effeteness of her sons she was cast into a corner. All the great movements of our day, one after the other—romanticism, naturalism—had been effected independently of her, or even against her will.
If a book were not restricted to the simplest tales, or pleasing fiction ending in virtue rewarded and vice punished, that was enough; the propriety of beadledom was at once ready to bray.
As soon as the most modern form of art, the most malleable and the broadest—the Novel—touched on scenes of real life, depicted passion, became a psychological study, an effort of analysis, the army of bigots fell back all along the line. The Catholic force, which might have been thought better prepared than any others to contest the ground which theology had long since explored, retired in good order, satisfied to cover its retreat by firing from a safe distance, with its old-fashioned match-lock blunderbusses, on works it had neither inspired nor written.
The Church party, centuries behind the time, and having made no attempt to follow the evolution of style in the course of ages, now turned to the rustic who can scarcely read; it did not understand more than half of the words used by modern writers, and had become, it must be said, a camp of the illiterate. Incapable of distinguishing the good from the bad, it included in one condemnation the filth of pornography and real works of art; in short, it ended by emitting such folly and talking such preposterous nonsense, that it fell into utter discredit and ceased to count at all.
And it would have been so easy for it to work on a little way, to try to keep up with the times, and to understand, to convince itself whether in any given work the author was writing up the Flesh, glorifying it, praising it, and nothing more, or whether, on the contrary, he depicted it merely to buffet it—hating it. And, again, it would have done well to convince itself that there is a chaste as well as a prurient nude, and that it should not cry shame on every picture in which the nude is shown. Above all, it ought to have recognized that vices may well be depicted and studied with a view to exciting disgust of them and showing their horrors.
For, after all, this was the great theory of the Middle Ages, the theological method in sculpture, the literary dogma of the monks of that time; and this is the meaning and purpose of certain groups which even now shock the propriety of our methodistical purists. These unseemly subjects and images of indecency are very numerous at Saint Benoît on the Loire, in the cathedral of Reims, at le Mans, in the crypt at Bourges, everywhere in our churches; for in those where they do not occur, it is because the prudery which was most rife in the most immoral times, broke them by stoning them in the name of a morality very unlike that which was inculcated by the mediæval saints.
These subjects have for many years been the delight of Freethinkers and the despair of Catholics; those see in them a scathing satire on the manners of the monks and bishops, these lament that such turpitude should ever have fouled the walls of the Temple. And yet it would have been so easy to explain the purpose of these scenes; far from seeking to apologize for the tolerance of the Church that allowed them, her honesty and breadth should have been held up to admiration. By acting thus, the Church manifested her determination to inure her sons by showing them the ridiculous side of the temptations which assail them. It was, so to speak, an object lesson or demonstration, and at the same time a bidding to self-examination before venturing into the sanctuary which was thus prefaced by a catalogue of sins as a reminder to confession.
This was part of her plan of education, for she aimed at moulding manly souls and not crippled creatures such as are turned out by the spiritual orthopedists of our day; she dragged out vice and lashed it wherever it lurked, and did not hesitate to preach the equality of men before God, insisting that bishops and monks should, when guilty, be placed in the pillory of its doorways; nay, she gibbeted them more willingly than others, to set an example.
These scenes were practically a comment of the Sixth (Seventh) Commandment, a sculptured paraphrase of the Catechism; the Church's accusation and teaching plainly expressed so as to be understood of all men.
And Our Mother did not restrict herself to one mode only of expressing Her warnings and reproofs; to reiterate them she borrowed the language of other arts. Literature and the pulpit were inevitably the interpreters that she employed to vituperate the sins of the people.
And they were not a whit more prudish or less audacious than sculpture. We have only to open the books of the Church to convince ourselves of the violent language in which she was wont to lash the sins of the flesh. Beginning with the Scriptures, the Bible itself—which no one dares read now but in mawkish French versions—what priest, for instance, would venture to recommend to the nerveless spirit of his flock the study of the sixteenth chapter of Ezekiel or of the Song of Songs, that Epithalamium of Jesus and the Soul—down to the Fathers and the Doctors?
How our modern Pharisees would reprove the uncompromising language of Saint Gregory the Great when he exclaims, "Speak the truth! A scandal is better than a lie;" or Saint Epiphanius' plain speaking in discussing the Gnostics and describing in detail the abominations of that sect, quietly adding in the face of the congregation, "Why should I shrink from speaking of the things you do not fear to do? By speaking thus, I hope to fill you with horror of the turpitude you commit."
Or what would they think of Saint Bernard expatiating in his third meditation on horrible physiological details to demonstrate the baseness of our carnal ambition and the foulness of our pleasures? Or of Saint Hildegarde, who placidly discusses the various factors of such pleasures, Saint Vincent Ferrier freely dealing in his sermons with the sins of Onan and of Sodom, using the simplest language, and comparing confession to a purgative, and asserting that the priest, like a doctor, should examine the excreta of the soul and prescribe for it?
What reprobation would be poured on the splendid passage by Odo of Cluny quoted by Rémy de Gourmont in his "Latin Mystique," the passage where that terrible monk analyzes the attractions of woman, turns them over, eviscerates them, and flings them aside like a drawn rabbit on a butcher's stall; and again on Clement of Alexandria, who sums the whole matter up in two sentences:—
"I am not ashamed to name the parts of the body wherein the fœtus is formed and nourished; and why indeed should I be, since God was not ashamed to create them?"
None of the great writers of the Church were prudish. This mock-modesty which has so long stultified us dates actually from the ages of impiety, the period of paganism, the return on threadbare classicism which was known as the Renaissance; and see how it has developed since! Its hot-bed and nursery ground lay in the lewd and gorgeous years of the so-called Grand-siècle; the virus of Jansenism, the old Protestant taint mingled with the blood of Catholics, and pollutes it still.
"It is very true! And pretty results have come of this infection of decency!" Durtal burst out laughing as he thought of the cathedral at Chartres.
"Here," said he to himself, "we reach the climax; pious imbecility can go no further. Among the subjects in sculpture in the ambulatory of the choir there is a group representing the Circumcision, Saint Joseph holding the Infant while the Virgin has a napkin ready and the High Priest is preparing to operate. And there has been a priest so modest, a divine so decorous as to regard this scene as licentious and to paste a piece of paper over the Child's nakedness!
"The indecency of God, the obscenity of a new-born Babe is too much!
"Bah!" said he. "The time has slipped away in all this meditation, and the Abbé will be waiting."
He ran quickly downstairs and hurried across to the cathedral, where the Abbé Plomb was pacing to and fro in front of the northern porch, reciting his Breviary.
"The side where sinners and demons are figured is especially that of the Virgin, who saves those and crushes these," said the Abbé. "The northern porch of a church is usually the most lively of all; here, however, the Satanic incidents are on the southern side, because they form part of the Last Judgment represented over the south door. Otherwise Chartres, unlike her sister cathedrals, would have no scenes of that kind."
"Then the rule in the thirteenth century was to place the Virgin in the northern portion?"
"Yes. To the men of that time the north meant the gloom of winter, the dejection of darkness, the misery of cold; the ice-bound chant of the winds was to them the very blast of evil; to the north was the home of the devil, the hell of nature, as the south was its Eden."
"But that is absurd!" cried Durtal, "the greatest blunder ever introduced into the symbolism of the elements. The medieval sages were mistaken, for snow is pure and cold is chastity. It is the sun, on the contrary, that is the active agent in developing the germs of rottenness, the ferment of vice!
"They forget that the third Psalm of Compline speaks of the hot hour of noon as the most harassing and dangerous of all; they must have overlooked the horrors of sweat and unwholesome heat, the risks of relaxed nerves, of loosened dresses, all the abominations of leaden clouds and hard blue skies!
"There are diabolical effluvia in the storm, and in weather when the air stirs like the vapours from a furnace, rousing evil instincts and bringing about us the raging swarm of evil angels."
"But remember the passages in which Isaiah and Jeremiah speak of Lucifer as dwelling in the blast of the north wind; and recollect that the great cathedrals did not originate in the south but in the middle and north of France; consequently, after having adopted this symbolism of seasons and weather, the pious architects dreamed of the horror of men buried in snow, and longing for a gleam of sunshine and a bright day. Naturally they thought of the east as the region of the original Paradise, and of those lands as milder and less inclement than their own."
"That does not hinder the fact that this theory was controverted by Our Lord Himself."
"Where do you find that?" asked the Abbé Plomb.
"On Calvary; Jesus died" turning His back to the south, which had crucified Him, and extending His arms on the Cross to bless and embrace the north. He seemed to be withdrawing His favours from the east, 'to bestow them on the west. Hence, if any region is accurst and inhabited by Satan, it is the south and not the north."
"You abominate the south and its races, that is evident," said the Abbé, laughing.
"I do not love them. Their scenery, vulgarized by crude daylight, their dusty trees standing out against a sky of washerwoman's blue, have no charm for me; as to the natives, hairy and noisy, with a blue bar under their nostrils if they shave, I flee from them!"
"Here, in short, we are face to face with a fact which no discussions can alter. This side of the church is dedicated to the Virgin. Shall we now examine it, first as a whole, and then in detail?
"This portal, brought forward like an open porch, a sort of verandah in front of the doors, is an allegory of the Saviour showing the way into the heavenly Jerusalem. It was begun in the year 1215 under Philip Augustus, and finished by about 1275, under Philip the Bold; thus it was nearly sixty years in building, the greater part of the thirteenth century. It is divided into three parts, corresponding to the three doors behind it; there are more than seven hundred statues grouped here, large and small, representing, for the most part, personages from the Old Testament.
"It forms, in fact, three deep bays or gulfs.
"The central portal, before which we are standing, and which leads to the middle door, has for its subject the Glorification of the Virgin.
"The left-hand bay contains the life and virtues of the Virgin.
"The right-hand bay is devoted to images of Mary Herself.
"According to another interpretation, put forward by Canon Davin, this porch, which was built at the time when Saint Dominic instituted the Rosary, is a reproduction in images of its mysteries."
"On that theory, the left-hand arch, containing the scenes of the Annunciation, the Visitation, and the Nativity, answers to the Joyful Mysteries; the central bay, containing the Assumption and Coronation of the Virgin, to the Glorious Mysteries; and that to the right, where we find a presentment of Job, precursor of the Crucifixion under the ancient law, to the Sorrowful Mysteries."
"There is a third interpretation," said Durtal, "but it is ridiculous. That of Didron, who regards this front as the first page of the Book of Chartres. He opens it at this porch, and asserts that the sculptors began to render the Encyclopedia of Vincent de Beauvais by representing the creation of the world. But if so, where are those wonderful representations of Genesis hidden?"
"There," said the Abbé, pointing to a row of statuettes lost in a hollow moulding at the very edge of the porch.
"But to ascribe so much importance to tiny figures which, after all, are there merely to fill up, as stop-gaps—it is preposterous!" cried Durtal.
"No doubt. But now let us examine the work.
"You will observe in the first place that, in opposition to the ritual observed in most of the great churches of the time—those of Amiens, Reims, and Paris, to name but three—it is not the Virgin who stands on the pillar between the two halves of the door, but Her Mother, Saint Anne; and inside, in the windows, we find the same thing: Saint Anne, as a negress, her head bound in a blue kerchief, holds Mary in her arms, as brown as a half-caste."
"Why is this?"
"No doubt because the Emperor Beaudouin, after the sack of Constantinople, bestowed that Saint's head on this cathedral.
"The ten colossal statues placed on each side of Her in the niches of the porch are familiar to you, for they attend Our Lady in every sanctuary of the thirteenth century—in Paris, at Amiens, at Rouen, Reims, Bourges, and Sens. The five to the left are a series figurative of the Son; the five on the right symbolize Our Lord Himself. They stand in chronological order: the prototypes of the Messiah, or the Prophets who foretold His birth, death, resurrection, and everlasting priesthood.
"To the left, Melchizedec, Abraham, Moses, Samuel, and David; to the right, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Simeon, Saint John the Baptist, and Saint Peter."
"But why," remarked Durtal, "is the son of Jonas in the midst of the Old Testament? His place is not there, but in the Gospels."
"Yes, but you will observe that Saint Peter here stands next to Saint John the Baptist; the two statues are side by side and touch each other. Then do you not perceive the meaning of this juxtaposition? One was the Precursor and the other the Successor of Christ; the first anticipated Him, the second carried out His mission. It was quite natural to place them together, and that the Chief of the Apostles should figure as the conclusion to the premisses set forth by the other statues of this portal.
"Finally, in addition to this series of patriarchs and prophets, you may see there, in the hollow between the pilasters, a pair of statues, one on each side of the door: Elijah the Tishbite, and Elisha his disciple.
"The first prefigures the Saviour's Ascension by his being carried up alive to Heaven in a chariot of fire; the second typifies Jesus saving and preserving mankind in the person of the Shunammite's son.
"Argument is vain," murmured Durtal, who was meditative. "The Messianic prophecies are irresistible. All the logic of the Rabbins, the Protestants, the Freethinkers, all the ingenuity of the Germans, have failed to find a crack or to undermine the old rock of the Church. There is such a body of evidence, such certainty, such demonstration of the truth, such an indestructible foundation, that a man must be stricken with spiritual blindness to dare deny it."
"Yes: and to the end that there should be no mistake, no possibility of alleging that the inspired Scriptures were written subsequent to the arrival of the Messiah they prophesy, to prove that they were neither invented nor added to after the event, it was God's pleasure that they should be translated into Greek in the Septuagint version and known to the whole world more than two hundred and fifty years before the birth of Christ."
"To imagine the impossible—supposing the Gospels were to be annihilated, they could, I suppose, be restored, and a brief history written of the Saviour's life as they relate it merely by studying the Messianic announcements in the books of the Prophets?"
"No doubt; for, after all, and it cannot be too often repeated, the Old Testament is the story before the event of the Son of Man and the founding of His Church; as Saint Augustine bears witness, 'the whole history of the Jewish people was a perpetual prophecy of the expected King.'
"You will see, apart from personages prefiguring the Redeemer which you may find in every page of the Bible: Isaac, Joseph, Moses, David, Jonah, to name five taken at random; apart, too, from the animals and objects that symbolized Him under the Old Laws, as, for instance, the Paschal Lamb, the Manna, the Brazen Serpent, and others, we can, if you please, simply by quoting the Prophets, trace the broad outlines of Emmanuel's life and epitomize the Gospels in a few words. Listen!"
The Abbé paused for thought, his hand over his eyes.
"That he should be born of a Virgin is foretold by Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel—that this Advent should be preceded by a special messenger, Saint John, is noted by Malachi, whom Isaiah confirms, adding for greater certainty that he should be as 'the voice of one crying in the Wilderness.'
"The place of His birth, Bethlehem, is mentioned by Micah; the adoration of the Magi, offering gold, myrrh and frankincense, is announced by Isaiah and the Psalm ascribed to Solomon.
"His youth and His calling are clearly suggested by Ezekiel, who speaks of Him as seeking the lost sheep, and by Isaiah, who tells beforehand of the miracles He would perform on the blind and the deaf and dumb, and who finally declares that He will be 'a stone of stumbling' to the Jews.
"But it is when they speak of His Passion and Death that the prophecies become mathematically exact, incredibly precise. The offering of palm branches, the betrayal by Judas, and the price of thirty pieces of silver appear in Zechariah; and Isaiah takes up the parable to describe the rejection and opprobrium of Calvary: 'He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.... The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.... He was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.... He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb.'
"David expatiates on the dreadful scene: 'He was a worm and no man, a very scorn of men and the outcast of the people.'
"Details are multiplied. The wounds in His hands are spoken of by Zechariah; David enumerates the circumstances of the Passion, word for word: the pierced hands, the division of His raiment, casting lots for the robe. The hooting of the Jews, bidding Him to save Himself if He be the Son of God, is mentioned in chapter ii. of the Book of Wisdom, and again by David; the gall and the vinegar offered Him on the Cross and the very words of Jesus giving up the ghost are to be found in the Psalms.
"Nor is this the last of the prophecies to be found in the Old Testament.
"Its prophetic mission is carried out to the end. The establishment of the Church in the place of the Synagogue is foretold by Ezekiel, Isaiah, Joel, and Micah; and the Mass, the Eucharistic Sacrament, is plainly adumbrated by Malachi, who declared that for the offerings of the Old Law offered only in the Temple at Jerusalem shall be substituted 'a pure offering to be offered in every place and by all nations'—by priests chosen from among all people, Isaiah adds, and David says after the order of Melchizedec.
"Pascal very truly remarks that 'the fulfilment of the prophecies is a perpetual miracle, and that no other proof is needed to show the divine origin of the Christian Religion.'"
Durtal had gone closer to the statues, standing by Saint Anne, and was looking at one on the left wearing a pointed cap, a sort of papal tiara with a crown round the edge, robed in an alb girt round the middle with knotted cord, and a large cope with a fringe; the features were grave, almost anxious, and the eye fixed with an absorbed gaze into the distance. This figure held a censer in one hand, and in the other a chalice covered with a paten on which there was a loaf; and this image of Melchizedec, the King of Salem, threw Durtal into a deep reverie.
He was, in fact, one of the most mysterious types of the Holy Scriptures—this monarch mentioned in Genesis as the Priest of the Most High God. He consummates the sacrifice of bread and wine, blesses Abram, receives tithes from him, and then vanishes into the darkness of history. And suddenly his name is found in a psalm of David's, who declares that the Messiah is a priest for ever after the order of Melchizedec, and again he is lost without leaving a trace.
Then quite unexpectedly he reappears in the New Testament, and what Saint Paul says of him in the Epistle to the Hebrews makes him more enigmatical than ever. The apostle speaks of him as "without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days nor end of life, but made like unto the Son of God, abiding a priest continually." Saint Paul is explicit to show how great a person he was—and the dim light he casts on this figure goes out.
"You must confess that this King of Salem is a puzzle. What do the commentators think of him?" asked Durtal.
"They say but little. Only Saint Jerome observes that when Saint Paul speaks of him as without parents, without descent, without beginning, and without end, he does not mean to convey that Melchizedec came down from Heaven or was created ab initio like the first man, by the Ancient of Days. The phrase simply means that he is introduced into the history of Abraham without our knowing whence he came, who he was, when he was born, or at what time he died.
"In fact, the inscrutable part played by this prototype of Jesus in the canonical Scriptures has led to the most grotesque legends and heresies.
"Some have asserted that he was Shem, the son of Noah; others have thought that he was Ham. Simon Logothetes considers him an Egyptian; Suidas believes him to have belonged to the accursed race of Canaanites, and that this is why the Bible says nothing of his ancestry.
"The gnostics revered him as an Eon superior to Jesus; and in the third century Theodore le Changeur also asserted that he was not a man, but a virtue transcending Christ, because Christ's priesthood was but a copy of Melchizedec's.
"According to another sect, he was neither more nor less than the Paraclete. But come, in the absence of early Scriptures what do the seers say? Does Sister Emmerich speak of him?"
"She tells us nothing precise," replied Durtal. "To her he was a sort of priestly angel charged with the preparation for the great Act of Redemption."
"That is very much the view held by Origen and Didymus, who also ascribed to him the angelic nature."
"Thus she perceives him long before the advent of Abram in various desert spots of Palestine; he unlocks the springs of Jordan, and in another passage of the life of Christ she adds that it was he who taught the Hebrews the culture of wheat and of the vine. In fact, she throws no light on this insoluble enigma."
"From the artist's point of view," Durtal went on, "Melchizedec is one of the best statues in this porch. But what a strange face is that of his neighbour Abraham, seen only three-quarters full, with hair like rolled grass, a beard like a river god, and a long nose straight from the forehead, coming down between the eyes without a bridge, like the proboscis of a tapir, with cheeks that seem swollen with cold, and a look—how shall I describe it?—of a conjuror who has made away with his son's head."
"In point of fact, he is listening to the commands of the angel, whom he cannot see; observe, below on the pedestal the ram caught in the thicket, and the symbolism is evident.
"This is the Father sacrificing his Son, and Isaac is the very image of the Son—Isaac bearing the wood to fire the altar, as Jesus bore the Cross; then the ram becomes figurative of the Saviour, and the bush in which he is caught by the horns is symbolical of the Crown of Thorns.
"To do full justice to this subject and to the teaching by figures that it contains, we ought also to have had the Patriarch's two wives carved on the supporting pillar or plinth, and his other son Ishmael. For, as you know, these two women are emblems, Hagar of the Old Dispensation, and Sarah of the New; the former disappears to make way for the second, the Old Law being merely the preparation for the New; and the two sons born of these two mothers are by analogy the children of the Books, and thus Ishmael represents the Israelites, and Isaac the Christians.
"Next to Abraham, the father of believers, stands Moses, as a symbol of Christ; for the deliverance of Israel is an image of the Redemption of Man snatched by the Saviour from the devil, just as the passage of the Red Sea is an image of Baptism. He holds the Table of the Law and the staff round which the Brazen Serpent is twined. Then comes Samuel, in many ways typical of Christ, the founder of the Royal Priesthood and of Pontifical Kingship; and last of all, David holding the Lamb and Crown of Calvary.
"I need hardly remind you that this Prophet-King, more than any other personage, prefigured the sorrows of the Messiah, and that he too, to make the resemblance more perfect, had his Judas in the person of Achitophel, who, like the later traitor, hanged himself."
"You must admit," said Durtal, "that these statues, before which the historians of this cathedral go into ecstasies, declaring in chorus they are the highest achievement of thirteenth-century sculpture, are far inferior to those of the twelfth century that adorn the great north porch. How evident is the lowering of the divine standard! Their action is freer, no doubt, and the play of drapery is broader. The rhubarb-stem plaits of the robes are fuller, and have some movement, but where is the grace as of a sculptured soul that we see in the royal porch? All these statues, with their massive heads, are thick-set and mute, devoid of communicative life. This is pious work—fine work, if you will—but devoid of the 'beyond'; here is art indeed, but it has ceased to be mysticism.
"Look at St. Anne with her gloomy expression, either cross or suffering—how far she is from the so-called Radegonde and Berthe!
"With the exception of two, St. John and St. Joseph over there in the innermost part of the arch, these are familiar figures. They also occur at Reims and at Amiens. And do you remember the Simeon, the Virgin, and the St. Anne at Reims? The Virgin so guilelessly charming, so exquisitely chaste, holding out the Infant to Simeon, who stands mild and devout in his solemn garb as High Priest. St. Anne—a head of the same type as St. Joseph's, and as those of two angels on the same frontal, standing by St. Nicasius, with his head cut off at the brows—St. Anne with a smiling, arch expression and yet elderly—a sharp little chin, large eyes, a thin, long, pointed nose, the look of a youthful dueña, kindly but knowing.
"But, indeed, those image-makers excelled in creating these singular, indefinable countenances. Do you recall Our Lady of Paris, later, I believe, by a century? She is scarcely pretty, but so expressive, with the smile of happiness parting such melancholy lips. Seen from one side She is smiling at Jesus, watchful, almost sportive; it would seem as though she were waiting for the Child to say some merry word before laughing out; She is a girl-mother, not yet accustomed to her Child's caress. Seen from another angle, this smile, apparently in the bud, has vanished. The mouth is puckered in sorrow, and promises tears.
"Perhaps when he succeeded in stamping on the face of Our Lady two such opposite expressions of peace and of fear, the sculptor intended to suggest at once the joy of the Nativity and the anticipated anguish of Calvary. Thus he has portrayed in one and the same image, the Mother of Sorrows and the Mother of Joy—has, without knowing it, embodied the prototypes of the Virgin of La Salette and the Virgin of Lourdes.
"And yet all this is inferior to the living and dignified art, so full of individuality and mystery, that we see in the royal porch of Chartres!"
"I will not contradict you," said the Abbé Plomb. "Now that we have studied the series of types placed on St. Anne's left hand, let us consider the prophetic series on her right.
"First we see Isaiah; the pedestal on which he stands represents Jesse sleeping. The familiar stem, rooted in him, passes between the prophet's feet, and the branches of the Virgin's ancestry according to the flesh and the spirit, as they rise, fill the four courses of moulding in the central arch. By his side is Jeremiah, who, meditating on the Passion of Christ, wrote this lamentable passage which is read in the fifth lesson of the second Nocturn on Easter Eve: 'All ye that pass by, behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow.' Next Simeon holding the Infant whose Birth he had foreseen, at the same time with the sorrows of the Virgin and the anguish of Golgotha; Saint John the Baptist, and finally Saint Peter, whose dress is an interesting study since it is copied from that of the thirteenth-century Popes.
"With what care is every detail wrought! Admire the treatment of the sandals, the gloves, the broidered amice, the alb, the maniple, the dalmatic, the pallium marked with six crosses, the triple crown, the conical tiara of brocaded silk, the pontifical breastplate, everything is chiselled, pierced, and patterned as if by a goldsmith."
"Very true. But how superior altogether is the Saint John to his fellows on this front. What mastery we discern in that hollow, emaciated face, as expressive as the others are dull. He is apart from the conventional and hackneyed type. He stands upright, savage but mild, with his beard in curling prongs, his lean frame, his raiment of camel-skin; we can hear him speaking as he points to the Lamb carrying the hastate cross surrounded by a nimbus, pressing it to his bosom with both hands. That statue is sublime, and it is most certainly not by the same hand that carved the Abraham, nor even his immediate neighbour, Samuel. This prophet appears to be offering to David, who cares not, a lamb he is feeling, head downwards. He is a butcher pricing his goods, weighing the meat, inviting you to feel it, and hesitating to sell till he gets the best price. How different from the Saint John!"
"The tympanum of the door will have no charm for us," the Abbé went on. "The death of the Virgin, Her assumption and coronation are more curious to read of in the Golden Legend than to study in those has-reliefs which are but an epitome.
"We will proceed to the left-hand doorway.
"It is much mutilated, in a lamentable state of ruin. Most of the large statues have disappeared. There were once, it would seem, as on the royal porch of Notre Dame at Paris and the southern porch at Reims, the figures of the Synagogue and the Church; also Leah and Rachel, typifying the active and the contemplative life, of which we shall decipher the details recorded in the archivolt.
"Of the large figures that remain, three are regarded as masterpieces: the Virgin, Saint Elizabeth, and Daniel.
"That is saying a great deal," cried Durtal. "They are stupid-looking and the drapery is cold; the arrangement of their robes recalls the Greek peplum; they have a prophetic savour of the Renaissance."
"I will not contradict you; but what is really attractive is the scheme of ideas expressed by the figures in the hollow mouldings of the arch of this portal, based on an equilateral triangle. As to the tympanum, which displays the Nativity, the calling of the Shepherds of Bethlehem, the dream and adoration of the Kings, it is marred and worn by time; nor is it in a style of art that can move us deeply.
"Study the mouldings of the arch with the four rows of images that adorn them. First the inner one, with its ten torch-bearing angels; the second, illustrating the parable of the wise and foolish virgins; the third, representing the Psychomachia, or struggle between the Virtues and the Vices; the fourth, a row of twelve queens embodying the twelve fruits of the Spirit; and linger over the enchanting series of statues in the moulding at the very edge of the archway of the porch, representing the occupations of the active and the contemplative life.
"The active life, on the left, is imagined in accordance with the picture of the virtuous woman in the last chapter of Proverbs. She is seen washing wool in a bowl, carding it, stripping the flax, beating it, spinning it on a distaff, and winding it into hanks.
"On the right is seen the contemplative life; a woman praying, holding a closed book, opening it, reading it; she shuts it to meditate on it, teaches others, and falls into an ecstasy.
"Finally, in the outermost hollow of the moulding of the arch, the nearest to us and the most visible, there are fourteen statues of queens, leaning on shields with coats-of-arms, and formerly holding banners. The meaning of these statuettes has been much discussed, especially of the second figure on the left, which is named 'Libertas' the word being carved in the stone. Didron believed them to represent the domestic and social virtues; but the question has been finally and definitively settled by the most erudite and clearsighted symbolist of our day, Madame Félicie d'Ayzac, who, in a very edifying pamphlet published in 1843 on these statues and on the animals of the Tetramorph, has proved to demonstration that these fourteen queens are none else than the fourteen heavenly Beatitudes as enumerated by Saint Anselm: Beauty, Liberty, Honour, Joy, Pleasure, Agility, Strength, Concord, Friendship, Length of Days, Power, Health, Safety, and Wisdom.
"Is not this porch, as a whole, so closely set with imagery, one of the most ingenious and interesting doorways known, from the points of view of theology and of mysticism alike?"
"And no less from the point of view of art. You are perfectly right; these toiling and meditative women are so delicate and so loving, that we can but regret that they should be hidden in the shadow of a cavern. What artists must those have been who worked thus for the glory of God and for their own satisfaction, creating marvels while knowing that no man would see them!"
"And they had not even the vanity to sign them; they were always anonymous."
"Ah! they were men of a different mould from us. Prouder souls, and humbler."
"And holier," added the Abbé. "Shall we now inquire into the iconography of the right-hand portal? It has suffered less, and may be explained in a few words.
"This sculptured vault is, as you know, dedicated to types of Mary; but we might more accurately say that it is devoted to prototypes of Christ, for in this doorway, as in the other two, indeed, the image-makers of the thirteenth century have made it their task to identity the Son with the Mother."
"In fact, most of the personages we have already studied relate more especially to Christ. What, then, are those in the Old Testament, which are more essentially proper to the daughter of Joachim, and transferred in images of stone to be deciphered here?"
"The allegories of the Virgin in the Scriptures are numberless. Whole books, as the Song of Songs and the Book of Wisdom, allude in every verse to Her beauty and wisdom. As to the non-human emblems that may be applied to Her, you know them well: Noah's Ark, in which the Redeemer dwells; the Dove, the Rainbow, as a sign of alliance between the Lord and the earth; the burning bush whence came out the name of God; the cloud of fire guiding Israel in the desert; the Rod of Aaron which alone blossomed of those of the twelve tribes taken by Moses; the Ark of the Covenant; Gideon's fleece; and a whole series, if possible, more obviously representative; David's tower; Solomon's throne; the garden enclosed and the fountain sealed of the Canticle; the dial of Ahaz; Elijah's saving cloud; Ezekiel's doorway—and I mention none but those of which the interpretation has received the seal and sanction of the Fathers and Doctors of the Church.
"As to the living beings that prefigured Her on earth, instances abound; the greater part of the famous women of the Old Testament are but anticipatory images of Her graces. Sarah, to whom an angel foretells the birth of a son who is himself a type of the Son; Miriam, the sister of Moses, who, by saving her brother from the river, freed the Jews; Jephthah's daughter; Deborah, the prophetess; Jael, who, like the Virgin, was called Blessed among women; Hannah, the mother of Samuel, whose song of praise seems like a forecast of the Magnificat; Jehosheba preserving Joash from the fury of Athaliah, as the Virgin afterwards saved Jesus from the wrath of Herod; Ruth personifying both the contemplative and the active life; Rebecca, Rachel, Abigail, Solomon's mother, the mother of the Maccabees, who witnessed the death of her sons; and again those whose names are inscribed under these arches; Judith and Esther, the first representative of courageous chastity, and the second of mercy and justice."
"However, to avoid confusion, we will follow the statues in order as they stand in this porch, three on each side.
"On the left Balaam, the Queen of Sheba and Solomon.
"On the right, Jesus the son of Sirach, Judith or Esther, and Joseph."
"Balaam is this statue of a worthy peasant, smug and friendly, smiling in his beard, a stick in his hand and a hat like a pie-dish; and the Queen of Sheba, the woman who bends forward a little, looking as if she were cross-questioning and arguing over some deed she condemned. But what have these two persons to do with the life of the Virgin?"
"Balaam is a type of the Messiah. It was he who prophesied that a star should come out of Jacob and a sceptre rise out of Israel. As to the Queen of Sheba, according to the teaching of the Fathers, she is an image of the Church; Solomon's spouse, as the Church is the spouse of Christ."
"Well, well," muttered Durtal to himself. "The thirteenth century could not give a fitting presentment of that queen, whom we picture to ourselves as dressed with foolish magnificence, rocking on a camel across the desert at the head of a caravan under the blazing sky across the furnace of sand. Her charms have appealed to writers, and not the smallest of them; Flaubert for one—this Queen Balkis, Mékida or Nicaule. But in the 'Tentation de Saint Antoine' she has failed to assume any form but that of a puerile and flimsy creature, a skipping and lisping puppet. In fact, no one but Gustave Moreau, the painter of Salome, could represent the woman, a virgin and a courtesan, a casuist and a coquette. He only could give life, under the flowered panoply of dress and the blazing gorget of jewels, to the crowned foreign face, with its smile as of an artless sphinx, come from so far to ask enigmas. Such a woman is too complicated for the spirit and the ingenuous art of the Middle Ages.
"Indeed, the sculptured image is neither mysterious nor suggestive. She is hardly pretty, and stands in the obsequious attitude of an advocate. Solomon looks like a jovial good fellow. The two effigies on the other side of the door might perhaps invite attention if they were not so completely crushed by the third. Again a question. By what right does the author of that admirable book 'Ecclesiastes' find a place in these ranks of honour?"
"Jesus the son of Sirach prefigures the Messiah as a Prophet and a Doctor. As to the figure next to him, it may equally well be Judith or Esther: her identity is doubtful; there is nothing that can help us to determine it.
"At any rate, as I told you but now, each is a harbinger of the Virgin. As to Joseph persecuted and sold, a slave raised almost to the throne, the merciful protector of his people, he is the prototype of Christ."
Durtal paused to gaze up at the beardless face, with curling hair cut close round. The youth wore a tunic under a surcoat embroidered round the neck, and he stood motionless, a sceptre in his hand. He might be a very young monk, humble, simple, and so far advanced in the mystic road that he was unconscious of it. This statue was undoubtedly a portrait, and it seemed certain that some refined and innocent novice had served as a model to the artist. It was the work of a chastened and happy soul superior to the crowd. "This one, even more than the St. John, is a perfect dream," said Durtal to the Abbé, who assented with a nod, and went on,—
"The sculptures over the arches are practically invisible, for you must dislocate your neck to see them. Nor is the art they display exciting. Only the subjects are interesting. Besides a row of angels bearing stars and torches, they represent the achievements of Gideon; the story of Samson, who, when a prisoner, rose in the night, and carrying away the gates of Gaza, escaped from the town, as Christ broke the gates of death, and escaped alive from His sepulchre; the history of Tobit, as a divine paragon of mercy and patience; and finally, in the corner we find a replica of the grand porch, the signs of the zodiac, and a calendar in sculptured stone.
"The tympanum, as you see, is divided into two portions.
"In the upper part we see the Judgment of Solomon, as figuring the Sun of Justice, Christ Himself.
"In the lower half Job lies stretched on his dunghill, and the Messiah, of whom he is a prototype, comes, supported by two angels, to give him a palm-branch.
"To complete the elucidation of the symbolism of these doorways, it now only remains to glance at the three arches of the porch that precedes them. Here we see chiefly the benefactors of the cathedral and the saints of the See; also, mingled with these, certain prophets for whom there was not room in the arches of the doors. This vestibule is, so to speak, a postscript, a supplement added to the work.
"Here, where we stand in the right-hand arch are Saint Potentien, the first apostle of Chartres, and Saint Modesta, the daughter of Quirinus, the Governor of the city, who killed her because she would not deny Christ. Here you see Ferdinand of Castille. He presented certain windows distinguished by his arms, gules, three castles or, side by side with the azure shield and fleur-de-lys of France, in the principal window of this front. Next to him that shrewd and severe face is probably that of Baruch, the judge, and here, barefoot and burthened with a penitent's satchel, you see Saint Louis, who loaded the cathedral with gifts and inaugurated its use.
"Under the porch of the middle door are two vacant pedestals, on which formerly stood the effigies of Philip Augustus and Richard Cœur de Lion, two of the most liberal donors to the church. On the other plinths stand the Comte and Comtesse de Boulogne, a buxom dame with masculine features, wearing a biretta; a prophet who is nameless, but no doubt Ezekiel, for he is missing from the series in this porch; Louis VIII., Saint Louis' father; and, finally, that king's sister Isabella, who founded the Abbey of Longchamps under the rule of Saint Clare. She is dressed as a nun, and next her in the shadow is a personage of the Old Dispensation carrying a censer, like Melchizedec. Remark, too, the firm and solemn mien of that priest, Zacharias, the father of John the Baptist, whose canticle 'Benedictus' foretells the blessings of Christ.
"Thus ends our review of this wonderful text-book of the Old Testament types, and the historical memorial of those benefactors whose gifts endowed the church with this sculptured imagery of the Ancient Word."
Durtal lighted a cigarette, and they walked up and down in front of the palace railing.
"Setting aside the question of art," said Durtal, "in this long array of Christ's ancestors there is one—David—who really confounds me, for he is the most complex of all; at once so august and so small! he is quite puzzling!"
"Why?"
"Well, only think of the life of the man who was by turns shepherd, warrior, and outlaw chief, an omnipotent king and a fugitive without either hearth or home; who was a wonderful poet and an exact prophet and seer! And is not the monarch's character even more enigmatical than his career?
"He was mild and indulgent, devoid of rancour and hatred, and yet he was ferocious. Remember the punishments he inflicted on the Ammonites; his vengeance was appalling. He had them sawn asunder, cut them with harrows of iron, and made them pass through the brick-kiln.
"He was loyal, wholly devoted to the Lord, and just; but he committed the crime of adultery, and ordered the death of the husband he had betrayed. What contradictions!"
"To understand David," said the Abbé Plomb, "you must not think of him apart from his surroundings, nor take him out of the age in which he lived, otherwise you measure him by the ideas of our own time, and that is absurd. In the Asiatic conception of royalty, adultery was almost permitted to a being whom his subjects regarded as superior to the common run of humanity; besides, women were then as a species of cattle belonging almost absolutely to him as the despot and supreme master. It was but the exercise of his regal power, as has been plainly shown by Monsieur Dieulafoy in his study of that king. And, on the other hand, if he is accused of tortures and bloodshed, why, the whole of the Old Testament is full of them! Jehovah Himself pours out blood like water, and exterminates men as if they were flies. It is well not to forget that the world then still lived under the Law of Fear. So it is not very surprising that, with a view to terrifying his enemies, whose manners and customs were not indeed any milder than his own, he should have tortured the inhabitants of Rabbah and baked the Ammonites.