Human meditation has no limits.
At his own
risk and peril, it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement.
One might
almost say, that by a sort of splendid reaction, it with it dazzles nature; the
mysterious world which surrounds us renders back what it has received; it is
probable that the contemplators are contemplated.
However that may be, there are on earth men
who--are they men?-- perceive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery
the heights of the absolute, and who have the terrible vision of the infinite
mountain.
Monseigneur
Welcome was one of these men; Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius.
He would
have feared those sublimities whence some very great men even, like Swedenborg
and Pascal, have slipped into insanity.
Certainly,
these powerful reveries have their moral utility, and by these arduous paths
one approaches to ideal perfection.
As for him,
he took the path which shortens,-- the Gospel's.
He did not
attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah's mantle; he projected no
ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events; he did not see to condense
in flame the light of things; he had nothing of the prophet and nothing of the
magician about him. This humble soul loved, and that was all.
That he
carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is probable:
but one can
no more pray too much than one can love too much; and if it is a heresy to pray
beyond the texts, Saint Theresa and Saint
Jerome would be heretics.
He inclined
towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe appeared to him
like an immense malady; everywhere he felt fever, everywhere he heard the sound
of suffering, and, without seeking to solve the enigma, he strove to dress the
wound. The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him; he
was occupied only in finding for himself, and in inspiring others with the best
way to compassionate and relieve.
That which
exists was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which
sought consolation.
There are
men who toil at extracting gold; he toiled at the extraction of pity.
Universal
misery was his mine.
The sadness
which reigned everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness.
Love each
other; he declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was
the whole of his doctrine.
One day,
that man who believed himself to be a "philosopher," the senator who
has already been alluded to, said to the Bishop:
"Just
survey the spectacle of the world: all war against all; the strongest has the
most wit.
Your love
each other is nonsense."--"Well," replied Monseigneur Welcome,
without contesting the point, "if it is nonsense, the soul should shut
itself up in it, as the pearl in the oyster."
Thus he shut
himself up, he lived there, he was absolutely satisfied with it, leaving on one
side the prodigious questions which attract and terrify, the fathomless
perspectives of abstraction, the precipices of metaphysics--all those
profundities which converge, for the apostle in God, for the atheist in
nothingness; destiny, good and evil, the way of being against being, the
conscience of man, the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal, the
transformation in death, the recapitulation of existences which the tomb
contains, the incomprehensible grafting of successive loves on the persistent
_I_, the essence, the substance, the Nile, and the Ens, the soul, nature,
liberty, necessity; perpendicular problems, sinister obscurities, where lean
the gigantic archangels of the human mind; formidable abysses, which Lucretius,
Manou, Saint Paul, Dante, contemplate with eyes flashing lightning, which seems
by its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaze forth there.
Monseigneur Bienvenu was
simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterious questions without
scrutinizing them, and without troubling his own mind with them, and who
cherished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness.
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