Chapter XXIV: “celui-La Fait Le Crime a Qui Le Crime Sert.” (6)

Clara blushed. “Come, come!” said she, “let us talk no longer about 821 me, but go down. There is Frida coming for us. They have doubtless all arrived.” And taking her little sister by the hand, she ran off, scarcely touching the massive balustrade as she flew down the stairs.

“You did not tell me you were expecting visitors,” said Fleurange.

“Only some friends and relatives. Since my Uncle Heinrich lost his wife, he and his son have taken their Christmas dinner with us. The family formerly assembled at his house. You are going to make his acquaintance, and that of our fine cousin Felix. The rest are our friends, and will soon be yours.” Hilda paused. “You doubtless know that Hansfelt is my father’s friend, and was the companion of his youth?” she continued at length.

“Hansfelt!” exclaimed Fleurange. “What! Karl Hansfelt, the great poet?”

We have already remarked that Fleurange perfectly understood her mother’s native tongue. The poems of the person just mentioned were sufficiently celebrated at that time for her to be familiar with them, and even know some of them by heart.

“And he is your friend? And shall I see him?”

“Yes,” replied Hilda, “you will see him often. And you will also see,” she added, as if eager to change the subject, “a young artist who is beginnings be quite popular. His name is Julian Steinberg, and he is a friend of Overbeck’s. I will leave Clara to introduce him to you.” A significant smile accompanied the last words, and Fleurange, comprehending, or nearly so, the state of affairs, descended with her cousin into the large drawing-room, which, as well as the dining-room, was on the ground floor.

The house M. Ludwig Dornthal inhabited is probably no longer standing. Modern improvements have swept away, one by one, those old houses in all our cities to which time had given an aspect too much at variance with the tastes and requirements of a new generation. Even at the period in which our story opens--that is, in 1824--the house of which we are speaking already began to be pointed out as the _Old Mansion_--the name, _par excellence_, by which it was known in the city. But, as it was spacious and commodious, its situation quiet and retired, and it had a large garden which all the windows on one side overlooked, it was admirably adapted to the professor’s studious habits. The picturesque color it had acquired with age was also quite to his taste, and, above all, as it was here Ludwig Dornthal passed the first years of his married life, and where his children were born, nothing in the world would have induced him to leave it, and on this point they were all agreed. The Old Mansion was dear to those who inhabited it, as well as to all who frequented it, and every one, like Fleurange, uttered more or less fervently these words, which are always vainly repeated in this world when our faculties are all for an instant in a state of happy equilibrium: “It is good for us to be here: let us set up our tabernacle, and here remain.” This impression, it may be supposed, was not wholly owing to the exterior aspect of the Old Mansion. There was a harmony between it and its occupants; and, with various results, this effect is produced almost everywhere. Inanimate objects seem to imbibe and communicate something of the life that passes around them, and this language, though silent, is, to those who heed it, a source of genuine revelation.

When Fleurange entered the drawing-room, she perceived her Uncle 822 Ludwig was rather impatiently awaiting her, for the moment she appeared he advanced, and, taking her by the hand, led her to the other end of the apartment, where stood a gentleman whose features bore some resemblance to his own; but with so different an expression, that the likeness, which at first was apparent, grew less and less as the two brothers were better known.

“This is our sister Margaret’s daughter,” said Ludwig to the banker. “She is doubly your niece now, for I have adopted her as my child.”

M. Heinrich Dornthal bowed and cordially embraced the young girl, but he could not resist saying: “Another daughter, when you have three already, is a great addition.”

This cool and unpleasant remark disconcerted Fleurange, and she had not recovered from her painful sensation of embarrassment when a young man of rather a fine figure approached and offered her his arm. Fleurange looked at him with an air of astonishment. She had never been to a large dinner-party, and knew nothing of the usages common to all countries on such an occasion. She slightly retreated, and, opening her large eyes, said: “Who are you, monsieur, and where do you wish to conduct me?”

This question and movement caused a general smile around her, in which she saw her Uncle Ludwig join, and with that simplicity which was her greatest charm she began to laugh herself, and so innocently, that he who had involuntarily caused this little scene exclaimed half aloud: “This is truly the most charming piece of rusticity I ever met with;” and then, bowing to her with mock gravity, and an air at once gallant and bantering, he said:

“Mademoiselle, my name is Felix Dornthal: I have the honor of being your cousin, and I offer you my arm to conduct you to the dining-room; but I acknowledge there would have been more propriety in first making us acquainted with each other.”

Fleurange, blushing and smiling, accepted the arm offered her, and, once seated at table beside this new cousin, and freed from the embarrassment of this little incident, she looked around and began to enjoy her novel position.

Was it really her own self, who recently felt so isolated? She who had stood face to face with want and abandonment? Could she be the same person now, surrounded by numerous relatives, a member of a large family, feeling herself beloved by all, and loving all in return--yes, all, excepting the cousin seated beside her, who caused her involuntary confusion; and yet he had just said some words to her in Italian, pronounced with so pure an accent that she experienced a lively sensation of surprise and joy, for Italy was her native land--her own country almost, left only a few months previous for the first time. But her cousin’s words embodied a compliment to which she did not know how to reply, and when she raised her eyes toward him she met a look that disconcerted her still more. She therefore only uttered a few words in return, and then silently resumed her examination of the company, beginning with her Uncle Ludwig. As to him, she thought she had never seen a nobler and sweeter face. It was impossible not to be struck by the contrast in this respect between him and his wife, which must have been even more striking in their youth than now. While she was dwelling on this thought, she met her aunt’s eye resting on her for a moment, and saw her smile. That look 823 and smile seemed to answer her, and give a clue to the mystery, for they revealed the traits that constitute the indestructible bond of genuine sympathy. Beauty adds nothing to such characteristics, or at least only a charm the heart disregards, and which even the eye soon ceases to dwell on, for they who are capable of loving a soul soon love the form, whatever it may be, in which it is clothed.

The only one of the children who had not inherited the beauty of the Dornthals was Clement, who looked more like his mother than the rest. He had the same ugliness and the same smile, and yet, as he was tall, slender, active, and robust, his form, without being elegant, was not devoid of grace, and when his thick hair was thrown back, the shape of his forehead gave a marked character to his face, and his look was, in flashes, expressive, decided, and intelligent. It was astonishing, therefore, to find young Dornthal so apparently incapable of self-assertion: the more so because he possessed great aptitude for the arts and sciences, and as a student he stood in the highest rank. But it seemed to be an effort for him to converse, and he was so absolutely silent in the drawing-room that his friends habitually avoided speaking to him. Elsewhere it was different. His father found it difficult to conceal the secret preference he felt for his eldest son, and the affectionate pride with which he regarded him was manifest in his looks on all occasions, in spite of himself. And Clement’s mother showed a confidence in him almost strange, considering his youth, and often seemed more disposed to consult than direct him. As to his brothers and sisters, they idolized him and were constantly recurring to him; he had a remedy for every difficulty, a means for every end, and nothing exhausted his patience. In spite of this, as we have said, he scarcely attracted any attention in company. We can therefore understand why Fleurange, in continuing her inspection, did not stop long to consider her cousin, but, on the contrary, directed all her attention to a person at his side whose face was singularly remarkable. He was a man about fifty years old, perhaps older, for his bald head, gray beard, and pale face, marked by sickness, showed he was no longer young. But a something indefinable attracted attention, and induced people to inquire his name, and the name seemed so much in harmony with his countenance that, when known, it was not unusual to hear the exclamation: “So had I pictured him to myself.” Such, in fact, was that of Fleurange when, in reply to her question, her cousin Felix told her his name was Hansfelt.

“Karl Hansfelt!” she repeated for the second time; “is it he?--what! is that he?”

“Yes, my fair cousin, he himself,” replied Felix in a mocking tone. “In truth, I ought to consider myself fortunate in having at length found a subject of conversation that can interest you, but I did not think of being under obligations to old Hansfelt!”

“But is it not natural to regard a celebrated man with interest, and one so justly celebrated as he?” said she, turning her eyes once more toward her cousin. But she lowered them immediately, for the look fastened on her was more displeasing than any she had yet met--a look expressing at once impertinent admiration and entire want of kindness. She wished, nevertheless, to continue the conversation, and timidly said: “No one can deny that he is a poet whose name is familiar to 824 every one, and whose songs are in every memory.”

“As for me,” replied Felix Dornthal, “I am not fond of rhymsters; this one is particularly disagreeable to me; and his approaching departure does not at all afflict me.”

“Is he going away?” said Fleurange.

“Yes, it seems he has been offered a place at the court of ----, I hardly know what position, but one that will allow him to fully gratify his taste for old books, and at the same time--a thing by no means to be disdained, even by a poet--give him ample means of livelihood. He has suffered sweet violence, and in a short time we shall be deprived of the honor of receiving him within our walls--for ever deprived, it seems, for the kind prince, who is taking him away, insists on his not quitting his post.”

Fleurange made no reply: her glance had just fallen on her cousin Hilda, who was sufficiently near to hear the conversation, but not enough so to be able to take any part in it. She saw her suddenly stoop down to pick up a flower just fallen from her hand, and when she rose up there was a lively color in her face. This was a natural consequence of the movement she had just made, but what was less so was the paleness which gradually succeeded, and the trembling of her hand when she endeavored to raise a glass of water to her lips. Fleurange was observing this with a vague uneasiness, when her attention was suddenly called away by a question her Uncle Ludwig addressed to a young man seated at Clara’s side.

This question led to a reply which momentarily deprived Fleurange of the power of thinking of anything else.

“Steinberg,” the professor said, “look at my niece, and tell me if you can see the resemblance spoken of.”

The young artist turned toward Fleurange, and looked at her with an attention that, till now, had been exclusively absorbed by his fair neighbor. All at once he exclaimed: “Yes, certainly; I remember, and I see Count George was right. That is truly _Cordelia_ herself before us!”

Every eye was turned toward Fleurange, and it was her turn to blush. But why did she thus tremble from head to foot? What were the mingled remembrances, sweet and poignant, that were suddenly recalled by the name of _Cordelia_? Of course it was natural that she should be affected by hearing her father’s last work mentioned--that picture connected with so many painful associations. On the other hand, it was that same picture which enabled her uncle to find her, and now, appreciating more than ever the extent of this happiness, it was perhaps natural that the name of her unknown benefactor, suddenly pronounced in her presence, should inspire this lively and inexpressible emotion--but was this all?

However that might be, she remained the rest of the evening troubled and absorbed in the same thought. She had not, then, been deceived. It was really the stranger she had seen in the studio who now owned the picture, for he not only knew she served her father as a model, but said the likeness was perfect. And his name was Count George! Count? Then he was a man of high rank? What was his other name? Where did he reside? And was he still in this city?

Fleurange wished to give utterance to these questions, but an invincible embarrassment restrained her, and the evening passed without 825 being able to bring the conversation back to this subject. This curiosity aroused, but only imperfectly satisfied, left a kind of uneasiness which she reproached herself for as a fault and a want of gratitude, when, before falling asleep that night, she recalled all that had signalized the day when for the first time she celebrated in the midst of her own relatives the great and memorable festival of Christmas.

VI.

Four months had passed away, and spring had returned. It was now the eve of Clara’s marriage and Hansfelt’s departure, and these two events diversely preoccupied all who lived in the Old Mansion. Fleurange was leaning over her balcony, allowing her thoughts to wander at will, but this reverie was by no means melancholy. She felt very happy in spite of the ideas which vaguely crossed her mind at times, like phantoms she could not grasp. The vernal air caressed her cheeks, and the sun gaily lighted up the old furniture in her chamber. She looked complacently around, and gave herself Up to a sweet and overpowering sensation of comfort. All at once, without any apparent cause, without any particular reason for this new impression, a piercing and bitter thought replaced all these delicious reveries: “If I had to leave this place for ever, as I have left all the others!” she said to herself with sudden anguish, and for some moments she could not repress the fearful thought. She covered her eyes with her hand, and endeavored to shake off the kind of nightmare which had seized her. She was still in this attitude when she heard a voice under her balcony, the sound of which was more disagreeable to her than any other.

“If I were a poet,” said the voice, “or if I only knew some of their effusions, it would be a suitable time to quote Shakespeare:

‘Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!’

and so forth. Prompt me, Clement: I know Italian well, but very little English.”

These words were addressed to her by her cousin Felix Dornthal, who was in the garden with Clement, and had stopped beneath her balcony. The latter had his head cast down, but Felix, as usual, gazed at her with the admiration he had displayed from the very, first day--which was the only disagreeable and annoying thing she had known beneath her uncle’s roof. But then, she seldom saw Felix. The company that assembled two or three times a month in the professor’s drawing-room was not much to the taste of his nephew, and if he had come oftener since Fleurange’s arrival, he seldom had an opportunity of conversing with her, for she avoided him with a care in proportion to the increasing aversion she felt for him. Felix had, nevertheless, all the advantage a fine figure and the manners of the world confer, with sufficient knowledge on various subjects to appear well-informed, and coolness and assurance enough to direct a conversation so as to shine in it. It might, therefore, seem surprising that he inspired such a degree of antipathy, especially when, for the first time in his life, he seriously endeavored to produce the contrary impression.

Sympathy and antipathy are in part instinctive and uncontrollable, and sometimes they are wholly inexplicable. They are both experienced without always knowing the cause, and sometimes, later, they are 826 transformed and modified to such a degree as to efface the first impulse they inspired. Perhaps it would not be impossible to prove that upright souls are less rarely deceived in this respect than others. However it may be, and independent of this instinctive repulsion, the antipathy Fleurange felt was owing, among other good reasons, to the constant irony which was so strong an ingredient in Felix’s nature, as to wither every feeling of kindly impulse or flow of reason around him. Goodness found no attraction in his nature, and those who conversed with him almost ceased to believe in it themselves. He had not discernment enough to see that Fleurange was one of those persons who may be wounded by a compliment as well as by an insult, and more than one flash of her large eyes was necessary to make him comprehend it. And when he suddenly stopped, his silence excited anxiety to know the cause of his sudden preoccupation and what sombre cloud enwrapped him. Some insinuated with a nod of the head that M. Heinrich Dornthal’s only son should yield with more reserve to his love for play, and his father had repeatedly remonstrated with him on this point. But as, apart from his whims and irregularities, Felix had a remarkable capacity for commercial affairs, the banker was blindly indulgent to him, and often remarked that being “perfectly satisfied, and sure of his son in matters of _serious_ import (meaning thereby his aptitude for business), he did not trouble himself much about the rest, and only patiently awaited the epoch when the marriage of his choice would lead him back to a more regular life.”

It should be added that, for several months, the health of the head of the Dornthal family had, without his acknowledging it, been seriously declining. The greater part of the business formerly done by himself was now transacted by his son, and his confidence, or his weakness, in this respect, increased to a degree unsuspected by any but him who was its object. The banker occasionally felt, with a return of his former cautiousness, some anxiety on this point, but Felix knew how to reassure him by a few words, and he now felt only one desire, which grew stronger and stronger--to see his son married, and settled down to a life of greater conformity with the importance of the affairs he could transact so skilfully, and to which he had only to give his undivided attention. He could have wished him to choose one of his two cousins, but Felix did not find them to his taste, and often declared that it would not be within the walls of the Old Mansion he should find her to whom he would sacrifice his independence. But after Fleurange entered them he suddenly changed his tone, and his ill-concealed admiration now directed toward her all the banker’s matrimonial hopes respecting his son.

We left Felix beneath his cousin’s balcony, his riding-whip in hand: “Away with poetry, which is not in my line,” he soon said, “and deign to listen, fair cousin, to the petition I am about to address you in humble prose.”

Fleurange, still leaning on the balcony, replied: “I am listening.”

“See what a lovely spring day! My horse stands yonder: will you not have yours saddled, and allow me to ride in your company?”

Fleurange drew herself up with an air of surprise, and shook her head without otherwise answering.

“No?” said Felix.

“No, certainly not. How could you think of such a thing? And what claim 827 have you to become my mentor?”

“Your mentor!” repeated Felix with a frown. “I am your cousin, that is all. Clement often has the honor of accompanying you in this way, and I should have a share in his privileges.”

“You are mistaken,” said Fleurange tranquilly: “Clement is my brother, and you are not.”

The smile habitual to Felix--a smile at once impertinent and satirical, hovered on his lips:

“Assuredly not,” he said; “that is a title I am by no means ambitious of, and am far from claiming of you.”

Fleurange blushed, and made no reply, but, at a sign from her cousins who were in the room, she almost immediately left the balcony and went down into the garden.

Clement remained motionless during the preceding dialogue, with his head bent down, making flourishes on the sand with the stick in his hand.

“Her brother!” repeated Felix in a mocking tone, as soon as Fleurange disappeared. “Well, I have no reason to be offended. She looks upon you as a boy, that is quite clear. It is for you to complain, if this does not suit you.”

“It does suit me, on the contrary;” said Clement in a decided tone. “I accept the title she gives me, and I know, when occasion requires it, how to fulfil the obligations it imposes, and when to claim my rights.”

“Rights! What rights?”

“The right, certainly, of protecting her! You see, boy as I am, she has conferred it on me. It is one which I will never surrender, and would quite willingly maintain against you, Felix, if necessary.”

“What source of inspiration have you drawn from to-day, my fine scholar? You are not generally so fluent. Indeed, if you were only a few years older, I should imagine the large gray eyes of our fair, disdainful cousin had fascinated you in your turn.”

Clement did not look up; he neither blushed nor was vexed.

“Felix,” said he, “I am only nineteen years old, it is true, and you are ten years older; but I have one advantage which the younger does not generally possess: you do not know me. But I,” continued he, looking him full in the face, “as you are aware, I know you well.”

At these words a black look came over Felix’s face, he bit his lips, and would perhaps have made some angry reply had not the three girls appeared at the end of the alley. At the sight of them Felix abruptly turned around, and, leaping on his horse, galloped off, slightly waving his hand to Julian Steinberg, whom he met at the garden gate.

Fleurange and her two cousins approached to meet Clara’s betrothed. “I am late,” said he to Clara, “but you must not think it is my fault. I have been detained by an unexpected meeting. Count George is here.”

“Count George de Walden?” said Clement, “the same one who visited the gallery about a year ago?”

“The very one,” replied Julian; “and it was he who showed us the beautiful Cordelia that resembles you so much, mademoiselle,” he added, turning to Fleurange.

“And the source of our good luck in finding her,” said Hilda.

“But, since he has seen you, Gabrielle,” said Clara, “you must know him.”

Fleurange, strangely surprised, moved, and confused, nevertheless replied in a tolerably calm tone: “I did not know who purchased the picture until I came here.”

“But,” persisted Clara, “you saw him, however?” 828

“Yes, once, but without speaking to him.”

“In that case, you must remember him, for Julian pretends his face is the most remarkable one he ever saw.”

“Yes, his features are not only fine,” said Julian, “but there is in his physiognomy and his whole appearance something--something--”

“Striking and noble,” said Clement.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Assuredly,” replied Julian; “but that is not all. There is something extraordinary about him--how shall I express it? heroic--yes, that is the word, he looks like a hero.”

“Of romance?” said Clara.

“No, of history: if I had to paint a celebrated soldier, or the leader of some famous exploit, I should choose him for the original.”

“And then, he is a great lover of art,” said Clement.

“Yes,” responded Julian, “he seems, indeed, gifted in every way.”

“And is he going to remain here?” said Clara.

“Unfortunately he will not, for in that case he would be at our wedding, but he is obliged to go to St. Petersburg without any delay.”

“What! is he a Russian?” said Clara.

“No, not wholly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he is a Livonian or a native of Courland, I do not know exactly which. But he is one of the emperor’s subjects, and cannot trifle with his orders, which obliged him to leave Florence suddenly, where he was, and now forces him to keep swiftly on his way.”

The conversation took another turn, of which Fleurange did not hear a word. As soon as she had an excuse for leaving her cousins, she returned to her chamber, where she took a small note-book from her pocket, and carefully inscribed therein the name of Count George de Walden.

[160] The use of the second person singular, indicative of
familiarity in most European languages, has not been
retained in this translation.

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THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.

“Sancta Agnes! ora pro nobis.”

Calm she stood,
An ivory statue, yet instinct with life,
So stately was that gently breathing form
Of grace and dignity so perfect, yet
With all youth’s pliant softness.

On her brow,
White as the ocean pearl when first the waves
Complaining cast their treasure on the shore,
Was stamped the seal of that creating hand
Whose spirit dwelt within that temple rare,
Her holy virgin heart; and from her eyes,
Soul-lit, beamed forth the splendor and the depth
Of that informing mind whose lights they were,
Until you heeded not their violet hues,
Their lashes long, or nobly arching brows. 829
Her flossy hair was colored like the sun,
Her cheeks were opal-tinted, like the hues
Of rosy sunset mingled with the pure
Soft paly whiteness of the maiden moon.
Her mouth was a pomegranate-flower, with all
Its crimson sweetness, and her rounded chin,
Love’s finger touching, had impressed therein
A lovely dimple, thus completing well
The virgin beauty of that angel face.

A young and princely Roman knight drew near,
And bent upon the noble maid his glance,
Wherein the fire of earthly passion blazed,
Yet tempered by a tear of pity born.
“Agnes! my Agnes!” in a suppliant voice
He spake; “Oh! dost thou shun my clasping arms,
And rather choose this grim and ghastly death,
To dower with all thy charms? Oh! let me place
Upon that fairest hand this spousal ring,
Pledge of our future nuptials; then shall all
This dark and bloody pageantry of death,
The axe, the block, the gloomy lictors, all
Pass from thy sight for ever. Agnes! speak!”

The virgin answered not nor seemed to hear,
Her eyes in raptured trance raised to the skies,
Till from her parted lips in angel tones
Low murmuring music broke: “O thou my Lord!
Jesus! my Spouse! my All! my only Love!
Am I not thine alone? upon my brow
Hast thou not left thy signet? on this hand
Hast thou not placed thy ring, the golden ring,
Of our divine espousals heavenly pledge?
Come, O my Love! I long to view thy face,
Come, take thine Agnes to thine own embrace;
For ever with the Lord!” The thrilling tones
Lapsed into silence. On the lictors all,
She smiled--a heavenly smile; and then she knelt,
Bowing her gentle head upon the block,
Her golden tresses, parted for the blow,
Swept the dry sand so soon to drink her blood.

An instant, and the dazzling gleam of steel
Flashed through the air; it fell, and rose again--
All--all was o’er; e’en then the virgin bride
Stood on the sea of glass before her Lord.
The martyred virgin bride, crowned by his hand
With palms of triumph, and the lilies white,
Meet emblems of her purity and faith.

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CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM. 830

NO. XIII.

THE COSMOS IN TIME AND SPACE--CONTINUED.

In the preceding article, we have seen that, in consequence of the sacramental extension of the Theanthropos in time and space, substantial creation in its highest and noblest element, which is personality, has received its last initial and inchoative perfection of being, by the union of human persons with the Theanthropos by means of his substantial and sacramental presence, and through that union the elevation to a higher similitude of and communication with the three persons of the infinite. Now, this last complement of the cosmos, this union of the Theanthropos, with human persons, through his sacramental extension in time and space, constitutes the Catholic Church, which may be defined to be:

_The Theanthropos present in the cosmos through the sacraments, and through them incorporating into himself human persons in time and space, raising them to a higher similitude of and communication with the three personalities of the infinite, and thus not only realizing the highest initial perfection of the cosmos, but also unfolding and developing that initial perfection, and bringing it to its ultimate completion in palingenesia._

The Theanthropos, therefore, has placed himself in the very centre of the cosmos by his sacramental and substantial presence, as became his great office and prerogative of mediator. By those moments of his sacramental presence to which he has only attached his infinite energy and power, he disposes and fits human persons for the real incorporation into himself in the following manner: By the sacramental moment of order, through the moral instrument in whom this moment is realized, he propounds and explains his doctrine, the _gnosis_ respecting God, and the cosmos which he came to reveal to men. By the sacramental moment of regeneration, he infuses into human persons the term of the supernatural order in its essence and faculties, and thus raises them to a higher state of being, and to a closer communication with the Trinity, but all this in an initial and inchoative state. By the sacramental moment, called confirmation, he brings that essence and its faculties to a definite and determinate growth. When human persons are thus fitted and prepared, he by his substantial presence incorporates them into himself, and enables their supernatural being to live and develop itself by being put in real, actual communication with all the proper objects of its faculties. Thus, the cosmos of personalities, perfected in its initial supernatural state, can act and develop itself--the Theanthropos himself, through his moral agents, organically constituted, governing and directing its action to the safest and speediest acquirement of its last perfection.

From this metaphysical idea of the church, derived and resulting from 831 its very essence, it follows:

First, That, next to the Theanthropos, the Catholic Church is the end of all the exterior works of the infinite. The supreme end of the exterior works was the highest possible communication of the infinite to the finite. This was primarily realized in the hypostatic union which bound all created natures to the infinite, and is realized next in the union of all personalities with the Theanthropos, and through him with the Trinity. Now, the very essence of the Catholic Church consists in this union. Consequently, as such it is the _last supreme imperative_ law of the cosmos. The last, because with it closes the cycle of the creative act, and begins the cycle of the return of the terms to their principle and cause. Supreme, because no higher initial perfection of the cosmos can be realized after supposing its existence. Imperative, because it is a necessary complement of the plan of the cosmos.

Hence, without the Catholic Church the cosmos of personalities would have no aim or object. It would stand alone, and unconnected with the other parts of the cosmos, the particular end of each personality could never be attained, and the whole would present a confused mass of elements, without order, harmony, or completion.

It follows, in the second place, that the Catholic Church is fashioned after the hypostatic moment, and is its most lively representation. For as that moment implies the bringing together of a human and divine element, finite and infinite, absolute and relative, necessary and contingent, independent and subject, visible and invisible, in the unity of one divine personality, so the Catholic Church is the result of a double element, one human, the other divine; one visible, the other invisible; one finite, the other infinite; one necessary, the other contingent; one immutable, the other variable; the one independent and authoritative, the other subject and dependent, in the union of the Theanthropos with the sacramental element. This union of the Theanthropos with the sacramental element, both moral and physical, is, as we have said, the very essence of the Catholic Church, and which endows it with that double series of attributes and perfections, one belonging to God, the other essentially belonging to the finite, but which are brought together in one being in force of that union; and all the difficulties brought against the church hinge upon that very thing--the sacramental union of all the divine attributes of the Theanthropos with the finite attributes of the sacramental element. All those who object to all or some of the Theanthropic attributes of the church object to the possibility and existence of that union.

But that union, as the last supreme imperative law of the cosmos, is such a strict consequence of the plan, is so connected and linked with all the other moments of God’s action _ad extra_, depends so entirely upon the identical principle which originates the others, that once we deny it we are obliged to yield up all the other truths, and take refuge in nihilism, and proclaim the death of our intelligence. For once we admit the impossibility of the union of the attributes or substance of the Theanthropos with the sacramental element, on the plea that the attributes of each are opposite and contradictory, for the self-same reason we must admit the impossibility of the union of the Word of God with the human nature, and sweep the hypostatic moment clean away; because, if it is impossible to bring together opposite 832 attributes in one sacramental being, it is much more impossible, so to speak, to bring not only attributes but two natures quite opposite together, into one subsistence and personality, and entirely exchange attribution and names, and call man God, and God man, and attribute exclusively divine acts to human nature, and _vice versa_. But, having denied the hypostatic moment in consequence of that pretended impossibility, we cannot logically stop here. We must generalize the question, and deny all possible union between the finite and the infinite. For what can there be more opposite and more contradictory than these terms, absolute and relative, necessary and contingent, immense and limited, eternal and successive, immutable and changeable, universal and particular, self-existing and made, infinite and finite? And could they possibly be brought together into any kind of union? Nay, we must go further, and deny the very coexistence of both terms, because one certainly seems to exclude the other--the universal being, for instance, including all possible being, must necessarily imply the impossibility of the coexistence of any particular, circumscribed, limited being. Arrived at this, we must conclude that all finite things which come under our observation, not being able to coexist with the universal being, must be only modifications and developments of that same, and throw ourselves into pantheism. But once pantheism is admitted, we must, to be logical, suppose the existence of a universal something impelled by an interior instinct of nature to unfold and develop itself by a succession of efforts, one more distinct, marked, and perfect than the other. Now, taking this substance at one determinate stage of development, and going backward, from a more perfect development to one less perfect, and from this to one still less perfect, we must necessarily arrive at the most indeterminate, indefinite, abstract _something_, at the idea-being of Hegel--that is, at nihilism.

Nihilism is consequently the logical product of the denial of the union of the infinite attributes of the Theanthropos with the sacramental element, the very essence of the Catholic Church. _The Catholic Church, therefore--or nihilism._

And we beg the reader to observe that this logical conclusion which we have drawn is simply the history of the errors of the last three hundred years, and consequently our conclusions receive all the support which the gradual unfolding of error for three hundred years is able to afford.

The impossibility of the union of the infinite attributes and substantial presence of the Theanthropos in the sacramental element was proclaimed in the sixteenth century by Protestantism, when on one side it denied the authority and infallibility of the church, and consequently denied the union of these Theanthropic attributes with the moral instrument, the hierarchy, and on the other side denied the real presence, and thus refused to allow a union of the substance of the Theanthropos with the sacramental elements of bread and wine. It did not then see the full meaning of its denial, but yet established the principle of the impossibility of the union of the Theanthropos in action or substance with the sacramental elements. Deism followed, and, making the Protestant principle its own, added a logical application to it, and asked: How can the uncreated, infinite, and absolute being be united to a nature created, finite, and relative? or, in other words: How could the finite and the infinite be united so 833 as to form the God-man? And then, like Protestantism, in reference to sacramental union, not being able to conceive that possibility, deism denied the hypostatic moment. But the question did not stop here. Pantheism followed, and, being gifted with as much logical acumen as deism, generalized the question, and asked: How can the finite coexist with the infinite, which comprehends all? And not being able to see the possibility of such coexistence, it refused all existence to the finite, and admitted the identity of all things and the unity of substance, allowing the finite no other existence but one ephemeral and phenomenal. This was the pantheism of Spinoza and others. But Hegel, with more acumen than all the rest, saw clearly that it was impossible to admit an _infinite_ substance subject to modification and development, unless it was supposed to be, previously to any development, altogether abstract, and shorn of all determination and concreteness, among which determinations must be ranked existence also; because development implies limit, definiteness, determination, circumscription; hence, that primitive something could not be supposed infinite, except it was shorn of everything, even existence. Consequently, he proclaimed nihilism as the principle of all things. And nihilism, and along with it the death of the intelligence, we repeat, must be admitted, or the Catholic Church--all truth or no truth.

We conclude: Deny the Catholic Church, or the union of the attributes and substance of the Theanthropos with the sacramental elements, because those opposite things cannot be brought together, and you must deny the union between human nature and the eternal Word for the same reason. Deny the hypostatic moment, and you must deny every kind of union between the finite and the infinite for the same identical reason, and you must deny the very coexistence of the finite and the infinite, and throw yourself into pantheism.

We defy any one to find a flaw in the logical connection of these conclusions, or to prove that we have misstated the genesis and development of error for the last three hundred years.

From the essence of the Catholic Church, it follows that she is necessarily divided into two moments--the active moment, and the passive moment.

The first is the Theanthropos acting through his moral instruments, proposing and expounding to all human persons, in time and space, the _gnosis_ of the whole cosmos, in its cause, term, effect, and destiny, actualizing through the same moral instruments all the other sacramental moments in human persons, and through the same moral instruments governing and directing the whole elevated cosmos. This moment is called in theological language _ecclesia docens_, or teaching church. The second are all human persons to whom the doctrine is taught, and who are the recipients of all the sacraments and the subjects of the government of the church. This moment is called _ecclesia audiens_, or hearing church.

The first is essentially active, the other passive; the one communicates, the other receives--though some members, in different relations, belong to the one or the other.

Though in demonstrating the essence of the Catholic Church, as we flatter ourselves, quite in a novel aspect, we have at the same time demonstrated all the Theanthropic attributes belonging to and resulting from that essence, yet, for the sake of those who cannot see all the 834 consequences included in a general principle, we shall dilate at some length upon all the essential attributes of the church, and those characteristic marks which constitute her what she is, and point her out from any other body pretending to the same name.

The first attribute, which evidently emanates from the essence of the church, is its externation, and capacity of coming under the observation of men. For, if the essence of the church consists in being the Theanthropos, incorporating his power, as well as his substantial presence, in physical as well as personal instruments, and through them incorporating all human persons unto himself, who can fail to perceive that church must be visible, outward, able to come under the observation of men, in that double relation of sacramental extension of Christ and of having men as objects of incorporation with him?

An invisible church would imply a denial of any sacramental agency, and would be absolutely unfit for men, who are _incarnate_ spirits. Hence, those sects which hold that the saints alone belong to the church have not the least idea of its essence. Holiness being altogether a spiritual and invisible quality, the saints could not know each other, nor, consequently, hold any communication with each other; the sinners could not find out where the saints are to be heard of; and therefore there could not be any possibility of discovering the church or any moral obligation of joining it.

The next attribute essentially belonging to the church is its _permanence_, in theological language called indefectibility, which implies not only duration in time and space, but also _immutability_ in all its essential elements, attributes, and rights. The church must continue to be, as long as the cosmos lasts, whole and entire in all time and space, in the perfect enjoyment of all its attributes, characteristic marks, and rights.

The reason of this attribute is so evident and palpable that we are at a loss to understand how it could enter men’s minds that the church could and did fail or change in its essential elements. When Protestantism, to cloak over its rebellion in breaking loose from allegiance to the church of the living God, alleged as reason that it had failed and changed in its essential elements--when Protestantism repeats daily the same assertion, it exposed and exposes itself to an absurdity at which the merest tyro in logic would laugh. It is one of the first axioms of ontology that the essences of things are immutable and eternal: immutable, inasmuch as they can never change; eternal, inasmuch as they must be conceived as possible from eternity, whether they have any subjective existence or not. Essences are like number. Add to it, or subtract from it, and you can never have the same number; likewise add to the essence of a thing, or subtract from it, and you may have another thing, but never the same essence.

Now, what is the essence of the church? It consists in the Theanthropos incorporating his infinite power and his substantial presence in physical and personal instruments, and through them uniting to himself human persons, elevating them to a supernatural state, and enabling them to develop and unfold their supernatural faculties until they arrive at their ultimate perfection, and all this in time and space.

Now, how can we suppose the church to fail when its very essence is founded on the union of the Theanthropos with the sacraments? The only 835 possible failure we can suppose is if the presence of the Theanthropos were to be withdrawn from the sacraments; and this could happen either because the Theanthropos may be supposed powerless to continue that presence or unwilling; in both cases, the divinity of the Theanthropos is denied; because the first would argue want of power, the second a senseless change. Protestantism would do much better to deny at once the divinity of its founder, instead of admitting the failure of the church he founded. It would be by far more honest and logical. We can respect error when it is logical and consistent, but we must despise obstinate nonsense and absurdity. The same attribute is claimed by the end of the church--which is, to communicate to human persons in time and space the term of the supernatural moment. As long, then, as there are men on earth, so long must the church continue to possess invariable and unchangeable those elements with which it was endowed by its divine founder. Should it fail or change, how could men after the failure be incorporated into the Theanthropos? Should it fail or change, how could men believe in the possibility of their attaining their end? Should it fail once and at one period only, men would no longer possess any means of knowing when, and how, and where it might not fail again, and therefore they could not but look upon the whole thing with utter contempt.

The next attribute is infallibility.

Certainty objectively considered is the impossibility of error in a given case. Infallibility also, considered in itself, is the impossibility of error in every case within the sphere to which that infallibility extends. This attribute is essentially necessary to the church, but before we enter upon its vindication we will say a word about its nature, the subject in whom it resides, the object it embraces, and the mode of exercising it. The nature of the infallibility claimed by the church does not consist in a new inspiration: because inspiration implies an interior revelation of an idea not previously revealed or known. Now, this does not occur, and is not necessary, in order that the church may fulfil its office. The revelation of the whole _gnosis_ respecting God, the cosmos, and their mutual relations in time and in eternity, was made by the Theanthropos in the beginning. The church carries it in her mind, heart, and life, as she traverses centuries and generations. But as all the particular principles constituting that _gnosis_ are not all distinctly and explicitly formulated and set in human language, so it becomes the office of the church from time to time to formulate one of those principles. In this she is assisted by the Theanthropos in such a manner that she may infallibly express her mind in the new formula she utters. Again, an error may arise against the revealed gnosis she carries in her mind. Then it is her office to proclaim what her mind is upon the subject, and condemn whatever may be contrary to it. Again, she is assisted by the Theanthropos in such a manner as to effect both these things infallibly. Infallibility in the present case, therefore, may be defined a permanent assistance of the Theanthropos preserving the church from falling into error in the exercise of her office.

The object of this attribute is limited to these three:

1. She is infallible in teaching and defining all theoretical doctrines contained in the revelation, be it written or not, but handed down socially from the beginning.

2. In all doctrines having reference to morality. 836

3. In the choice and determination of the external means of embodying that doctrine, theoretical or practical; whether the external means which embodies the doctrine be used by the church, or, used by others, must be judged by the church.

This last object of infallibility is so absolutely necessary that without it the other two would become nugatory and fictitious. If, in propounding a doctrine, the church could err in fixing upon such objective expressions of language as would infallibly exhibit her mind, men could never be assured whether the church had expressed herself correctly or not, and could never, consequently, be certain of her meaning. Likewise, if the church could err in teaching whether such and such expression of language, intended to embody a doctrine, contains an error or a truth, men would be left in doubt whether to embrace or reject it, and could never, in embracing it, be absolutely certain whether they were holding a revealed doctrine or a falsehood.

From this it follows that: First, the church is not infallible in things belonging exclusively to natural sciences, and in no way connected with revelation; second, she is not infallible in reference to historical facts, and much less in reference to personal facts, unless these are connected with dogma. The subjects in whom this attribute resides are the following:

1. The Supreme Pontiff, the head of the hierarchy, who, independent of the rest, enjoys this attribute, in reference to all the objects above explained. Because, by the interior organism of the church, as we shall see, he is made the source of all authority in teaching and governing.

2. The hierarchy, together with the Supreme Pontiff, either assembled in council or agreeing through other means of communication.

We almost blush to have to remark that this, infallibility, centred in the Pope or bishops, does not render them personally impeccable. The two things are as distant as the poles, and can only be brought together and confounded in minds who, according to the expression of Dante, have lost the light of the intellect, and live in a darkness which is little short of death.

The modes of exercising this attribute are three:

She is infallible as teacher, as witness, and as judge.

As teacher: when she proclaims and expounds to the faithful the revelation of the Theanthropos.

As witness: when she affirms what belongs or does not belong to that revelation.

As judge: when she pronounces final judgment on controversies and disputes which arise in relation to revealed doctrines.

Having thus given a brief idea of all that belongs to the subject of infallibility, it seems to us that no one who has understood the nature and essence of the church, and the object for which it was established, can fail to perceive not only the entire reasonableness, but also the absolute necessity of such a doctrine.

We have said that the church in its active element is nothing less than the Theanthropos himself, communicating the term of the supernatural moment, which includes teaching, through the agency of secondary agents, both physical and personal. The church, therefore, under the aspect from which we are now regarding her, is the Theanthropos teaching his revelation, expounding his revelation, affirming and witnessing to his revelation, declaring what agrees with it, and what is contradictory to it, through the agency of the 837 Supreme Pontiff, or of the Pontiff and the rest of the hierarchy. And can anything be more reasonable than the assertion that she is infallible? Protestantism has boasted, and boasts yet, of having emancipated reason, of having brought it to the highest possible degree of culture and development. But when will Protestantism begin to exercise its vaunted reason?

Is it reasonable to suppose that the Theanthropos, the God made man, the infallible wisdom of God, the very intelligibility of the Father, who established the church, that is, united himself, either as to action or substance, with a sacramental element, be it material or personal, in order, among other things, to teach all men in time and space what was absolutely necessary for them to know to attain their ultimate perfection--is it reasonable to suppose, we say, that the Theanthropos should, through his personal agents, teach anything but absolute truth?