Part 17 (2/2)

”Christianity is a stretching down of the Divinity to Man.

”Theosophy is the attempt of Man, by his own efforts, to reach the Divine.”

This seems to me both terse and true.

We had sat from nine P.M. till one A.M., and I think we were all relieved when an adjournment for supper was suggested by Lady Caithness.

Her son, the Duc de Pomar, joined us for _this_ part of the evening, and was introduced to me. My enjoyment of the excellent fare, after so many hours of exhaustion, was only tempered by an unfortunate and violent quarrel between the mother and daughter mediums, on the score of the age of the latter! The mother declared her daughter was forty-five; the daughter said: ”Not a day over thirty-five,” and intimated that she surely might be supposed to know her own age! The mother, however, murmured provokingly: ”_Moi, je sais mieux que ca_”; and so the wrangle went on, until I made a diversion by taking leave of my hostess and promising to be present at the lecture the ”following afternoon,” which, by the way, had become ”this afternoon” by the time I left the Hotel Wagram.

When I entered the house once more, it was to be shown into the large lecture-room previously described, which was already three parts full, and very shortly entirely so.

Lady Caithness had kindly reserved a front seat for me, so I could see and hear without difficulty. On the raised platform stood my friend the Abbe looking very grave and rather nervous. A cardinal, two bishops, and some half-dozen priests were seated close to him, and very shortly the lecture, which was, I think, extempore, began.

The Abbe was so manifestly in dead earnest and without any suspicion of _pose_, that one could not fail to be deeply impressed by the scene. It needed all the help of a sincere purpose and a brave heart, to stand up amongst those of his own cloth, and, in face of a partially indifferent and partially unfriendly audience, to declare boldly ”the faith that was in him”--a faith that burned all the more brightly and warmly from the fact that it was being purged of the superst.i.tions which must always become the accretions of every form of religion; the clinging refuse of weed and sh.e.l.l, which from time to time must be sc.r.a.ped off the bottom of the grand old s.h.i.+p if it is to convey us safely from port to harbour.

The Cardinal sat twirling his big seal ring, with a look of cynical amus.e.m.e.nt on his face, or so it seemed to me.

As the Abbe proceeded to mention the advances made in science and the necessity for a restatement of old truths, which should bring them into line with other truths of the nineteenth century, proving the essential unity of _all truth_, and breaking down the fallacy that the vital part of religion and the vital part of science have anything to fear from one another, the Cardinal's face was a study to me.

”Yes, of course, we know all that, you and I, but what is the use of making this fuss about it? We belong to a system, and this system has worked very well for centuries past, and will work very well for centuries to come if fools don't attempt to upset the coach by restatements and readjustments, as they are called. The people _don't want restatements_; they want a dead certainty, and that is just what we give them.”

All this I seemed to read in his clever, cynical countenance, in direct opposition to the thrilling sentences of the Abbe Pet.i.t as he leant forward and said, with uplifted finger and prophetic intensity:

”_La lumiere est venue, mes freres--et si vous ne la suivez pas--vous serez laisses seuls dans vos eglises._”

It is impossible to exaggerate the affectionate solemnity of this appeal to his brother priests. The tragic note was relieved later by an amused smile which rippled round the audience. This puzzled me until a kind French lady sitting next to me explained that the audience were amused by the ”_tres chers freres_” (dearly beloved brethren), with which the Abbe addressed them in this rather unorthodox lecture. It was evidently looked upon as a curious bit of ”professional survival.”

On the following day (Thursday) I was invited to lunch with Lady Caithness at two P.M., and being a punctual person, I arrived at that hour. The powdered footman announced that his mistress had not yet emerged from her bedroom, and showed me up into the dining-room adjoining, where I awaited her. In a few minutes I was joined here by the Abbe, who politely expressed his sorrow that he had not known of my arrival earlier.

As we sat chatting together, he told me a curious experience of his of the previous night, which will certainly ”cause the enemy” to smile, if not ”to blaspheme.”

He said (of course, in French): ”I was sitting last night in my room, which looks over the back of the house, and where I can hear no sounds from the Avenue, and I was talking to 'La Reine.' Suddenly '_Elle m'a frappe sur l'epaule_,' and then said she must leave me at once, in order to meet the d.u.c.h.esse, who had just returned home. At that moment twelve o'clock struck from a neighbouring church, and I looked at my watch, and found it was indeed midnight. When Madame la d.u.c.h.esse comes in, I am most anxious to find out whether she and the Duc were returning home at that hour. You will be my witness, madame, that I have told you of this occurrence before seeing the d.u.c.h.esse.”

I a.s.sured him that I would gladly testify to this; and in a few moments the Duc de Pomar arrived, and almost immediately after him, Lady Caithness emerged from her bedroom on the other side of the dining-room.

We sat down to luncheon, and I was much amused by the form of the Abbe's question later in the meal.

”_Madame la d.u.c.h.esse! puis je vous demander sans indiscretion, a quelle heure vous etes revenue hier au soir?_”

Lady Caithness looked a little surprised, but answered readily enough: ”Well, it must have been past midnight; I did not notice very specially.”

”Not past midnight, mother,” corrected the Duc de Pomar; ”I heard a clock strike twelve just as we were driving through the Porte Cochere.”

”_Bien, Madame, qu'est-ce-que je vous ai dit?_” demanded the Abbe, turning to me in triumph. He then repeated his story, and I was able to certify that he had already mentioned it to me on my arrival.

The following day I took my leave of Lady Caithness, with a happy remembrance of her and her great kindness and hospitality to me during this pleasant week. She made me promise to let her know whenever I might happen to be pa.s.sing through Paris. I wrote to her the next year, when about to make a short stay in Paris, on returning from Algeria, and received an answer from the Riviera. She had been wintering there, and had been packed and ready for the return to Paris, when an obstinate chill had upset all plans. She begged me to go to the Avenue Wagram when I arrived and find out the latest news of her, as the doctors might give leave for the journey at any moment.

Ten days later I _did_ go to her house and interview the lady secretary (not the one I had seen), who was very grudging in her answers, and gave me the impression that she was accustomed to deal with persons who had some ”axe to grind” by claiming acquaintance with the Countess.

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