Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Abbe Mouret's bedroom, which occupied a corner of the vicarage, was a
spacious one, having two large square windows; one of which opened above
Desiree's farmyard, whilst the other overlooked the village, the valley
beyond, the belt of hills, the whole landscape. The yellow-curtained
bed, the walnut chest of drawers, and the three straw-bottomed chairs
seemed lost below that lofty ceiling with whitewashed joists. A faint
tartness, the somewhat musty odour of old country houses, ascended from
the tiled and ruddled floor that glistened like a mirror. On the chest
of drawers a tall statuette of the Immaculate Conception rose greyly
between some porcelain vases which La Teuse had filled with white lilac.

Abbe Mouret set his lamp on the edge of the chest of drawers before the
Virgin. He felt so unwell that he determined to light the vine-stem fire
which was laid in readiness. He stood there, tongs in hand, watching the
kindling wood, his face illuminated by the flame. The house beneath
slumbered in unbroken stillness. The silence filled his ears with a hum,
which grew into a sound of whispering voices. Slowly and irresistibly
these voices mastered him and increased the feeling of anxiety which had
almost choked him several times that day. What could be the cause of
such mental anguish? What could be the strange trouble which had slowly
grown within him and had now become so unbearable? He had not fallen
into sin. It seemed as if but yesterday he had left the seminary with
all his ardent faith, and so fortified against the world that he moved
among men beholding God alone. And, suddenly, he fancied himself in his
cell at five o'clock in the morning, the hour for rising. The deacon on
duty passed his door, striking it with his stick, and repeating the
regulation summons--

'_Benedicamus Domino_!'

'_Deo gratias_!' he answered half asleep, with his eyes still swollen
with slumber.

And he jumped out upon his strip of carpet, washed himself, made his
bed, swept his room, and refilled his little pitcher. He enjoyed this
petty domestic work while the morning air sent a thrilling shiver
throughout his frame. He could hear the sparrows in the plane-trees of
the court-yard, rising at the same time as himself with a deafening
noise of wings and notes--their way of saying their prayers, thought he.
Then he went down to the meditation room, and stayed there on his knees
for half an hour after prayers, to con that reflection of St. Ignatius:
'What profit be it to a man to gain the whole world if he lose his
soul?' A subject, this, fertile in good resolutions, which impelled him
to renounce all earthly goods, and dwell on that fond dream of a desert
life, beneath the solitary wealth and luxury of a vast blue sky. When
ten minutes had passed, his bruised knees became so painful that his
whole being slowly swooned into ecstasy, in which he pictured himself as
a mighty conqueror, the master of an immense empire, flinging down his
crown, breaking his sceptre, trampling under foot unheard-of wealth,
chests of gold, floods of jewels, and rich stuffs embroidered with
precious stones, before going to bury himself in some Thebais, clothed
in rough drugget that rasped his back. Mass, however, snatched him from
these heated fancies, upon which he looked back as upon some beautiful
reality which might have been his lot in ancient times; and then, his
communion made, he chanted the psalm for the day unconscious of any
other voice than his own, which rang out with crystal purity, flying
upward till it reached the very ear of the Lord.

When he returned to his room he ascended the stairs step by step, as
advised by St. Bonaventura and St. Thomas Aquinas. His gait was slow,
his mien grave; he kept his head bowed as he walked along, finding
ineffable delight in complying with the most trifling regulations. Next
came breakfast. It was pleasant in the refectory to see the hunks of
bread and the glasses of white wine, set out in rows. He had a good
appetite, and was of a joyous mood. He would say, for instance, that the
wine was truly Christian--a daring allusion to the water which the
bursar was taxed with putting in the bottles. Still his gravity at once
returned to him on going in to lectures. He took notes on his knees,
while the professor, resting his hands on the edge of his desk, talked
away in familiar Latin, interspersed with an occasional word in French,
when he was at fault for a better. A discussion would then follow in
which the students argued in a strange jargon, with never a smile upon
their faces. Then, at ten o'clock, there came twenty minutes' reading of
Holy Writ. He fetched the Sacred Book, a volume richly bound and
gilt-edged. Having kissed it with especial reverence, he read it out
bare-headed, bowing every time he came upon the name of Jesus, Mary, or
Joseph. And with the arrival of the second meditation he was ready to
endure for love of God another and even longer spell of kneeling than
the first. He avoided resting on his heels for a second even. He
delighted in that examination of conscience which lasted for
three-quarters of an hour. He racked his memory for sins, and at times
even fancied himself damned for forgetting to kiss the pictures on his
scapular the night before, or for having gone to sleep upon his left
side--abominable faults which he would have willingly redeemed by
wearing out his knees till night; and yet happy faults, in that they
kept him busy, for without them he would have no occupation for his
unspotted heart, steeped in a life of purity.

He would return to the refectory, as if relieved of some great crime.
The seminarists on duty, wearing blue linen aprons, and having their
cassock sleeves tucked up, brought in the vermicelli soup, the boiled
beef cut into little squares, and the helps of roast mutton and French
beans. Then followed a terrific rattling of jaws, a gluttonous silence,
a desperate plying of forks, only broken by envious greedy glances at
the horseshoe table, where the heads of the seminary ate more delicate
meats and drank ruddier wines. And all the while above the hubbub some
strong-lunged peasant's son, with a thick voice and utter disregard for
punctuation, would hem and haw over the perusal of some letters from
missionaries, some episcopal pastoral, or some article from a religious
paper. To this he listened as he ate. Those polemical fragments, those
narratives of distant travels, surprised, nay, even frightened him, with
their revelations of bustling, boundless fields of action, of which he
had never dreamt, beyond the seminary walls. Eating was still in
progress when the wooden clapper announced the recreation hour. The
recreation-ground was a sandy yard, in which stood eight plane-trees,
which in summer cast cool shadows around. On the south side rose a wall,
seventeen feet high, and bristling with broken glass, above which all
that one saw of Plassans was the steeple of St. Mark, rising like a
stony needle against the blue sky. To and fro he slowly paced the court
with a row of fellow-students; and each time he faced the wall he eyed
that spire which to him represented the whole town, the whole earth
spread beneath the scudding clouds. Noisy groups waxed hot in
disputation round the plane-trees; friends would pair off in the corners
under the spying glance of some director concealed behind his
window-blind. Tennis and skittle matches would be quickly organised to
the great discomfort of quiet loto players who lounged on the ground
before their cardboard squares, which some bowl or ball would suddenly
smother with sand. But when the bell sounded the noise ceased, a flight
of sparrows rose from the plane-trees, and the breathless students
betook themselves to their lesson in plain-chant with folded arms and
hanging heads. And thus Serge's day closed in peacefulness; he returned
to his work; then, at four o'clock, he partook of his afternoon snack,
and renewed his everlasting walk in sight of St. Mark's spire. Supper
was marked by the same rattling of jaws and the same droning perusal as
the midday meal. And when it was over Serge repaired to the chapel to
attend prayers, and finally betook himself to bed at a quarter past
eight, after first sprinkling his pallet with holy water to ward off all
evil dreams.

How many delightful days like these had he not spent in that ancient
convent of old Plassans, where abode the aroma of centuries of piety!
For five years had the days followed one another, flowing on with the
unvarying murmur of limpid water. In this present hour he recalled a
thousand little incidents which moved him. He remembered going with his
mother to purchase his first outfit, his two cassocks, his two waist
sashes, his half-dozen bands, his eight pairs of socks, his surplice,
and his three-cornered hat. And how his heart had beaten that mild
October evening when the seminary door had first closed behind him! He
had gone thither at twenty, after his school years, seized with a
yearning to believe and love. The very next day he had forgotten all, as
if he had fallen into a long sleep in that big silent house. He once
more saw the narrow cell in which he had lived through his two years as
student of philosophy--a little hutch with only a bed, a table, and a
chair, divided from the other cells by badly fitted partitions, in a
vast hall containing about fifty similar little dens. And he again saw
the cell he had dwelt in three years longer while in the theology class
--a larger one, with an armchair, a dressing-table, and a bookcase--a
happy room full of the dreams which his faith had evoked. Down those
endless passages, up those stairs of stone, in all sorts of nooks,
sudden inspirations, unexpected aid had come to him. From the lofty
ceilings fell the voices of guardian angels. There was not a flagstone
in the halls, not an ashlar of the walls, not a bough of the
plane-trees, but it spoke to him of the delights of his contemplative
life, his lispings of tenderness, his gradual initiation, the favours
vouchsafed him in return for self-bestowal, all that happiness of divine
first love.

On such and such a day, on awaking, he had beheld a bright flood of
light which had steeped him in joy. On such and such an evening as he
closed the door of his cell he had felt warm hands clasping his neck so
lovingly that he had lost consciousness, and had afterwards found
himself on the floor weeping and choked by sobs. Again, at other times,
especially in the little archway leading to the chapel, he had
surrendered himself to supple arms which raised him from the ground. All
heaven had then been concerned in him, had moved round him, and imparted
to his slightest actions a peculiar sense, an astonishing perfume, which
seemed to cling faintly to his clothes, to his very skin. And again, he
remembered the Thursday walks. They started at two o'clock for some
verdant nook about three miles from Plassans. Often they sought a meadow
on the banks of the Viorne, where the gnarled willows steeped their
leaves in the stream. But he saw nothing--neither the big yellow flowers
in the meadow, nor the swallows sipping as they flew by, with wings
lightly touching the surface of the little river. Till six o'clock,
seated in groups beneath the willows, his comrades and himself recited
the Office of the Virgin in common, or read in pairs the 'Little Hours,'
the book of prayers recommended to young seminarists, but not enjoined
on them.

Abbe Mouret smiled as he stirred the burning embers of his vine-stock
fire. In all that past he only found great purity and perfect obedience.
He had been a lily whose sweet scent had charmed his masters. He could
not recall a single bad action. He had never taken advantage of the
absolute freedom of those walks, when the two prefects in charge would
go off to have a chat with a parish priest in the neighbourhood, or to
have a smoke behind a hedge, or to drink beer with a friend. Never had
he hidden a novel under his mattress, nor a bottle of _anisette_ in a
cupboard. For a long time, even, he had had no suspicion of the
sinfulness around him--of the wings of chicken and the cakes smuggled
into the seminary in Lent, of the guilty letters brought in by servers,
of the abominable conversations carried on in whispers in certain
corners of the courtyard. He had wept hot tears when he first perceived
that few among his fellows loved God for His own sake. There were
peasants' sons there who had taken orders simply through their terror of
conscription, sluggards who dreamed of a career of idleness, and
ambitious youths already agitated by a vision of the staff and the
mitre. And when he found the world's wickedness reappearing at the
altar's very foot, he had withdrawn still further into himself, giving
himself still more to God, to console Him for being forsaken.

He did recollect, however, that he had crossed his legs one day in
class, and that, when the professor reproved him for it, his face had
become fiery red, as if he had committed some abominable action. He was
one of the best students, never arguing, but learning his texts by
heart. He established the existence and eternity of God by proofs drawn
from Holy Writ, the opinions of the fathers of the Church, the universal
consensus of all mankind. This kind of reasoning filled him with an
unshakeable certainty. During his first year of philosophy, he had
worked at his logic so earnestly that his professor had checked him,
remarking that the most learned were not the holiest. In his second
year, therefore, he had carried out his study of metaphysics as a
regulation task, constituting but a small fraction of his daily duties.
He felt a growing contempt for science; he wished to remain ignorant, in
order to preserve the humility of his faith. Later on, he only followed
the course of Rohrbacher's 'Ecclesiastical History' from submission; he
ventured as far as Gousset's arguments, and Bouvier's 'Theological
Course,' without daring to take up Bellarmin, Liguori, Suarez, or St.
Thomas Aquinas. Holy Writ alone impassioned him. Therein he found all
desirable knowledge, a tale of infinite love which should be sufficient
instruction for all men of good-will. He simply adopted the dicta of his
teachers, casting on them the care of inquiry, needing nought of such
rubbish to know how to love, and accusing books of stealing away the
time which should be devoted to prayer. He even succeeded in forgetting
his years of college life. He no longer knew anything, but was
simplicity itself, a child brought back to the lispings of his
catechism.

Such was the manner in which he had ascended step by step to the
priesthood. And here his recollections thronged more quickly on him,
softer, still warm with heavenly joy. Each year he had drawn nearer to
God. His vacations had been spent in holy fashion at an uncle's, in
confessions every day and communions twice a week. He would lay fasts
upon himself, hide rock-salt inside his trunk, and kneel on it with
bared knees for hours together. At recreation time he remained in
chapel, or went up to the room of one of the directors, who told him
pious and extraordinary stories. Then, as the fast of the Holy Trinity
drew nigh, he was rewarded beyond all measure, overwhelmed by the
stirring emotion which pervades all seminaries on the eve of
ordinations. This was the great festival of all, when the sky opened to
allow the elect to rise another step nearer unto God. For a fortnight in
advance he imposed a bread and water diet on himself. He closed his
window blinds so that he might not see the daylight at all, and he
prostrated himself in the gloom to implore Jesus to accept his
sacrifice. During the last four days he suffered torturing pangs,
terrible scruples, which would force him from his bed in the middle of
the night to knock at the door of some strange priest giving the
Retreat--some barefooted Carmelite, or often a converted Protestant
respecting whom some wonderful story was current. To him he would make
at great length a general confession of his whole life in a voice
choking with sobs. Absolution alone quieted him, refreshed him, as if he
had enjoyed a bath of grace.

On the morning of the great day he felt wholly white; and so vividly was
he conscious of his whiteness that he seemed to himself to shed light
around him. The seminary bell rang out in clear notes, while all the
scents of June--the perfume of blossoming stocks, of mignonette and of
heliotropes--came over the lofty courtyard wall. In the chapel relatives
were waiting in their best attire, so deeply moved that the women sobbed
behind their veils. Next came the procession--the deacons about to
receive their priesthood in golden chasubles, the sub-deacons in
dalmatics, those in minor orders and the tonsured with their surplices
floating on their shoulders and their black birettas in their hands. The
organ rolled diffusing the flutelike notes of a canticle of joy. At the
altar, the bishop officiated, staff in hand, assisted by two canons. All
the Chapter were there, the priests of all the parishes thronged thick
amid a dazzling wealth of apparel, a flaring of gold beneath a broad ray
of sunlight falling from a window in the nave. The epistle over, the
ordination began.

At this very hour Abbe Mouret could remember the chill of the scissors
when he was marked with the tonsure at the beginning of his first year
of theology. It had made him shudder slightly. But the tonsure had then
been very small, hardly larger than a penny. Later, with each fresh
order conferred on him, it had grown and grown until it crowned him with
a white spot as large as a big Host. The organ's hum grew softer, and
the censers swung with a silvery tinkling of their slender chains,
releasing a cloudlet of white smoke, which unrolled in lacelike folds.
He could see himself, a tonsured youth in a surplice, led to the altar
by the master of ceremonies; there he knelt and bowed his head down low,
while the bishop with golden scissors snipped off three locks--one over
his forehead, and the other two near his ears. Yet another twelvemonth,
and he could again see himself in the chapel amid the incense, receiving
the four minor orders. Led by an archdeacon, he went to the main
doorway, closed the door with a bang, and opened it again, to show that
to him was entrusted the care of churches; next he rang a small bell
with his right hand, in token that it was his duty to call the faithful
to the divine offices; then he returned to the altar, where fresh
privileges were conferred upon him by the bishop--those of singing the
lessons, of blessing the bread, of catechising children, of exorcising
evil spirits, of serving the deacons, of lighting and extinguishing the
candles of the altars.

Next came back the memory of the ensuing ordination, more solemn and
more dread, amid the same organ strains which sounded now like God's own
thunder: this time he wore a sub-deacon's dalmatic upon his shoulders,
he bound himself for ever by the vow of chastity, he trembled in every
pore, despite his faith, at the terrible _Accedite_ from the bishop,
which put to flight two of his companions, blanching by his side. His
new duties were to serve the priest at the altar, to prepare the cruets,
sing the epistle, wipe the chalice, and carry the cross in processions.
And, at last, he passed once more, and for the last time, into the
chapel, in the radiance of a June sun: but this time he walked at the
very head of the procession, with alb girdled about his waist, with
stole crossed over his breast, and chasuble falling from his neck. All
but fainting from emotion, he could perceive the pallid face of the
bishop giving him the priesthood, the fulness of the ministry, by the
threefold laying of his hands. And after taking the oath of
ecclesiastical obedience, he felt himself uplifted from the stone flags,
when the prelate in a full voice repeated the Latin words: '_Accipe
Spiritum Sanctum. . . . Quorum remiseris peccata, remittuntur eis, et
quorum retinueris, retenta sunt_.'--'Receive the Holy Ghost. . . . Whose
sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost
retain, they are retained.'

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