We enter on a work whose practical usefulness no one, we suspect, will dispute, since it concerns perhaps the most memorable act of the reign of Pius IX.—the Syllabus. There has been a great deal of discussion about the Syllabus—much has been written on it in the way both of attack and defence—but it is remarkable that it has scarcely been studied at all. The remark was made by one of the editors of this review, Father Marquigny, in the General Congress of Catholic Committees at Paris; and, so true was it felt to be, that it provoked the approving laughter of the whole assembly. But to pass by those who busy themselves about this document without having read it, how many are there, even among Catholics, who, after having read it, have only the most vague and confused notions about it—how many who, if they were asked, “What does the Syllabus teach you; what does it make obligatory on you?” would not know what to answer! Thus is man constituted. He skims willingly over the surface of things; but he has no fancy for stopping awhile and digging underneath. If he is pleased with looking at a great many things, he does not equally concern himself to gain knowledge; because there is no true science without labor, and labor is troublesome. Yet nothing could be more desirable for him than to come by this luminous entrance from the knowledge to the possession of truth. Christian faith, when it is living and active, necessarily experiences the desire of it; for, according to the beautiful saying of S. Anselm, it is, by its very nature, a seeker of science—of knowing: Fides quærens intellectum.
But, not to delay ourselves by these considerations, is it possible to exaggerate the importance of the study of the Syllabus in the critical circumstances in which we are placed? The uncertainty of the future; the impossibility of discovering a satisfactory course in the midst of the shadows which surround us; the need of knowing what to seize a firm hold of in the formidable problems whose obscurity agitates, in these days, the strongest minds; above all, the furious assaults of the enemies of the church, and the authority belonging to a solemn admonition coming to us from the chair of truth—all these things teach us plainly enough how culpable it must be for us to remain indifferent and to neglect the illumination offered to us. The teachings of the Vicar of Jesus Christ deserve to be meditated on at leisure. It is this which inspires us with a hope that our work will be favorably received. Truth, moreover, claims the services of all, even of the feeblest, and we must not desert her cause for fear our ability may not suffice for her defence.
Certainly, no one will expect us, here, to give an analytical exposition of the eighty propositions condemned by Pius IX. Several numbers of the Etudes would scarcely suffice for that. General questions dominate all others; it is to the careful solution of these that we shall devote ourselves. They have always appeared to us to need clear and decisive explanation. Often they are incorrectly proposed, oftener still they are ill-defined. The object of our efforts will be to point out with precision the limits within which they must be restrained, the sense in which they must be accepted, and their necessary import; then, to give them, as clearly as we are able, a solution the most sure and the most conformable to first principles. If it should be objected that in this we are entering on a wide theological field, we shall not deny it. Proudhon, who desired anarchy in things, in principles—everywhere, in fact, except in reasoning—averred that rigorous syllogism lands us inevitably at theology. How, then, would it be possible not to find it in the Syllabus? They, on the other hand, who are unceasing in their violent attacks on this pontifical act, are they not the first to provoke theological discussions? We are compelled to take their ground. As Mgr. Dupanloup judiciously observed, in his pamphlet on the Encyclical of the 8th December: “It is needful to recur to first principles in a time when thousands of men, and of women even, in France talk theology from morning to night without knowing much about it.”
The first and fundamental question to be determined is: What is the precise weight to be ascribed to the Syllabus, or, rather, what is its doctrinal authority? On the manner in which we reply to this depends the solution of numerous practical difficulties which interest consciences, and which have more than once been the subject of the polemic of the journals themselves. For example, are the decisions of the Syllabus unchangeable; is it not possible that they should be modified some day; is it certain they will never be withdrawn; are Catholics obliged to accept them as an absolute rule of their beliefs, or may they content themselves with doing nothing exteriorly in opposition to them? It is understood, in fact, that if we are in presence of an act wherein the successor of S. Peter exercises his sovereign and infallible authority, the doctrine is irrevocably, eternally, fixed without possible recall; and, by an inevitable corollary, the most complete submission, not of the heart only, but also of the intelligence, becomes an obligation binding on the conscience of the Catholic which admits of no reserve or subterfuge. If, on the contrary, the step taken by the Pope is merely an act of good administration or discipline, the door remains open for hopes of future changes, the constraint imposed on the minds of men in the interior forum is much less rigorous; a caviller would remain in Catholic unity provided that, with the respectful silence so dear to the Jansenists, he should also practise proper obedience. Now, the question, in the terms in which we have stated it, although treated of at various times by writers of merit, has not always been handled in a complete manner. Writers have been too often contented with generalities, with approaching only the question, and nothing has been precisely determined.
Some have asserted, with much energy, the necessity of this submission, but they have not sufficiently defined its extent and nature. Others have dwelt upon the deference and profound respect with which every word of the Holy Father should be received, but, not having given any further explanation, they have left us without the necessary means for ascertaining what precisely they intended. Others have ventured to insinuate that the Syllabus was perhaps merely an admonition, a paternal advice benevolently given to some rash children, to which such as are docile are happy to conform, without feeling themselves under the absolute necessity of adopting it. Others, more adventurous still, have been unwilling to see more in it than a mere piece of information, an indication. According to these, Pius IX., wishing to notify to all the bishops of Christendom his principal authoritative acts since the commencement of his pontificate, had caused a list of them to be drawn out, and to be forwarded to them. The Syllabus was this illustrious catalogue, neither more nor less.
Is there any excuse to be found for this indecision on one hand, presumption on the other? We do not think so; but they do, we must confess, admit of a plausible explanation. And here, let it be observed, we come to the very marrow of the difficulty. The Syllabus was drawn out in an unusual form. It resembles no pontifical documents hitherto published. When, in other times, the sovereign pontiffs wished to stigmatize erroneous propositions, they did not content themselves with reproducing the terms of them, in order to mark them out for the reprobation of the people. They were always careful to explain the motives of the judgment they delivered, and above all to formulate with clearness and precision the judgment itself. Invariably, the texts they singled out for condemnation were preceded by grave and weighty words, wherein were explained the reasons for and the nature of the condemnation. In the Syllabus, there is nothing of the kind. The propositions, stated without commentary, are classified and distributed under general titles; at the end of each of them we read the indication of the Encyclical Letter, or pontifical Allocution, in which it had been previously rebuked. For the rest, there is no preamble, no conclusion, no discourse revealing the mind or intention of the pontiff, unless it be the following words, inscribed at the head of the document, and which we here give both in the Latin and in English: Syllabus complectens præcipuos nostræ ætatis errores, qui notantur in Allocutionibus consistorialibus, in Encyclicis, aliisque Apostolicis Litteris sanctissimi Domini Papæ Pii IX.—Table, or synopsis, containing the principal errors of our epoch, noted in the consistorial Allocutions, the Encyclicals, and other Apostolic Letters of our most Holy Father, Pope Pius IX.
We may add, that nowhere does the Pope formally express an intention of connecting the Syllabus with the bull Quanta cura, although he issued them both on the same day, at the same hour, under the same circumstances, and upon the same subjects. He left it to the public common sense and to the faith of Christians to decide whether these two acts are to be taken together, or whether they are to be considered as isolated acts having no common tie between them.
Such are the facts. Minds, either troubled or prejudiced, or, may be, too astute, have drawn from them consequences which, if we lay aside accessory details of not much importance here, we may reduce to two principal ones.
It has been stated—and they who hold this language form, as it were, the extreme group of opposers—that the Apostolic Letters mentioned in the Syllabus are the only documents which have authoritative force; that the latter, on the contrary, has no proper weight of its own—absolutely none, whether as a dogmatic definition, or as a disciplinary measure, or even as a moral and intellectual direction. To these assertions, not a little hazardous, have been added others whose rashness would fain be hidden under the veil of rhetorical artifices. We will lift the veil, and expose the naked assertions. The meaning of the Syllabus, it is stated, must not be looked for in the Syllabus, but in the pontifical letters whence it is drawn. The study of the letters may be useful; not only is that of the Syllabus not so, but it is dangerous, because it often leads to lamentable exaggerations. To know the true doctrines of Rome, we must search the letters for them, not the Syllabus. In fact, to sum up all in a few words, as a condemnation of error and a manifestation of truth, the letters are all, the Syllabus nothing.
The other group, which we may describe as the moderates, knows how to guard itself against excess. It does not diminish the authority of the Syllabus to the extent of annihilation. Very far from it—it recognizes it and proclaims it aloud; but, struck with the peculiar form given to the act, it asserts that it is impossible to discover in it the marks of a dogmatic definition, and, to borrow a stock expression, of a definition ex cathedra. The Syllabus, it is said, is undoubtedly something by itself—to deny it would be ridiculous and absurd. It has a weight of its own; who would venture to dispute it? It may be termed, if you please, an universal law of the church, so only that its pretensions be not carried further, and that it does not claim to be considered an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.
What, then, have we to do but to demonstrate that the Syllabus is by itself, and independently of the pontifical acts which supply the matter of it, a veritable teaching; that this teaching obliges consciences because it issues from the infallible authority of the head of the church? We shall not have omitted, it seems to us, any of the considerations calculated to throw light on this important subject if, after having thus followed it through all its windings and discussed all its difficulties, we succeed in illustrating the triple character of the pontifical act—its doctrinal character, its obligatory character, and its character of infallibility.
To assert that Pius IX., when he denounced with so much firmness to the Christian world the errors of our time, did not propose to teach us anything, that he had no intention of instructing us, was, even at the time of the appearance of the Syllabus, to advance a sufficiently hardy paradox; but to state it, to maintain it, at this time of day, when we are the fortunate witnesses of the effects produced by that immortal act, is to speak against evidence. Undoubtedly—we stated it at the commencement—the Syllabus is not sufficiently known nor sufficiently studied. Little known as it may be, however, it cannot be denied that it has already set right many ideas, and corrected and enlightened many minds. Thanks to it, not learned men only and those who are close observers of events, but Catholics generally, perceive more clearly the dangers with which certain doctrines threaten their faith. They have been warned, they keep themselves on their guard, they see more distinctly the course they must follow and the shoals they must avoid. Pius IX. has lighted a torch and placed it in their hands.
That being the case, what is the use of playing with words, as if vain subtleties could destroy the striking evidence of this fact? Let them say, as often as they please, “The Syllabus is only a list, a catalogue, a table of contents, a memorial of previously condemned propositions”—what good will they have done? What matter these denominations, more or less disrespectful, if it be otherwise demonstrated that this list, catalogue, or table of contents explains to us exactly what we must believe or reject, and is imposed upon us as a rule to which we owe subjection. The imprudent persons who speak thus would seem never to have studied the monuments of our beliefs. Had they considered their nature more attentively, would they have allowed themselves to indulge in such intemperance of language? If they would more closely examine them, their illusions would soon be dissipated. Are not all the series of propositions condemned by the Popes, veritable lists? Did not Martin V. and the Council of Constance, Leo X. and S. Pius V., when they smote with their anathemas the errors of Wycliffe, John Huss, Luther, Baïus, draw out catalogues? Are not the canons of our councils tables in which are inscribed an abridgment, summary, or epitome of the impious doctrines of heretics? Is not every solemn definition, every symbol of the faith, a memorial designed to remind the Christian what he is obliged to believe? It is, then, useless to shelter one’s self behind words of doubtful meaning, and which can only perplex the mind without enlightening it. It is to assume gratuitously the air of men who wish to deceive others and to deceive themselves. What is the use of it?
They are much mistaken who imagine themselves to be proposing a serious difficulty when they demand how the Syllabus, which, before its publication, existed already in the letters of the Holy Father, can possibly teach us anything new? Let us, for the sake of argument, since they ask it, reduce it to the humble rôle of echo or reverberator, if we may be pardoned such expressions. Let us suppose that its whole action consists in repeating what has been already said. We ask if an echo does not often convey to the ear a sound which, without it, would not have been heard—if it does not sometimes send back the sound stronger, more resounding, and even more distinct than the original voice? It is not a new voice it brings to us. Be it so. But it does bring it to us in fact, and is able to give it to us again fuller and more sonorous.
Comparison, it is true, is not reason. We will therefore abandon the redundancy of figurative language, and reply directly to the question put to us. What is wanted is to know what the Syllabus is in itself, independently of the pontifical letters which are its original sources. It is as follows:
It is, at least, a new promulgation, more universal, more authentic, and therefore more efficacious, of previous condemnations. Now, it is well known, it is a maxim of law, that a second promulgation powerfully confirms and, in case of need, supersedes the first. The history of human legislation is full of instances of this. When, by reason of the negligence of men, of the difficulty of the times, of the inconstancy or waywardness of peoples, a law has fallen into partial neglect and oblivion, they in whom the sovereign power resides re-establish its failing authority by promulgating it anew. It revives thus, and if it has been defunct it receives a second life. What can the greater number of Christians know of so many scattered condemnations, buried, one may say, in the voluminous collection of pontifical encyclicals, if the Syllabus had not revealed them? How could they respect them, how obey them? It was necessary that they should hear them resound, in a manner, a second time, in the utterance of the great Pontiff, in order to be able to submit anew to their authority, and to resume a yoke of which many of them did not know the very existence. The salvation of the church required this.
The Syllabus is, however, not only a new promulgation, it is often a luminous interpretation of the original documents to which it relates; an interpretation at times so necessary that, should it disappear, from that moment the meaning of those documents would become, on many points, obscure or at least doubtful. It is worthy of remark that in order to deny the doctrinal value of the Syllabus the following fact is relied on—that it is unaccompanied with any explanation, with any reflections. “It is a dry nomenclature,” it has been said, “of which we cannot determine either the character or the end.” Now, it happens to be exactly here that brevity has brought forth light. The eighty-four propositions, in fact, isolated from their context, appear to us more exact, in stronger relief, more decidedly drawn. One may perceive that in the bulls their forms were, as yet, slightly indistinct; here they detach themselves vividly, and with remarkable vigor. And we wish that all our readers were able to judge of this for themselves. They would better understand, possibly, wherefore certain men insist with so much energy on our abandoning the Syllabus and applying ourselves exclusively to the sources—an excellent mode of preventing certain questions from becoming too clear.
We will cite a few examples in illustration of our argument.
The second paragraph of the Syllabus has for its object the condemnation of moderate rationalism. Some of the seven propositions contained in it reproduce the doctrine of a man little known in France, but much thought of in Germany—a kind of independent Catholic, who, before he opposed himself to the church, from which he is now, we believe, quite separated, having transferred his allegiance to the pastoral staff of the aged Reinkens, wrote some works destined to sow among the students of the university of Munich the damaged grain of infidel science. We allude to M. Froschammer, a canon who has lost his hood, professor of misty philosophy, as befits a doctor on the other side of the Rhine. Pius IX. rebuked his errors in a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Munich the 12th December, 1862. We will lay aside the Syllabus, and take merely the letter. We shall find in it only the condemnation of M. Froschammer and his works; nothing whatever else. But who, in this our country, France, has ever opened the works of M. Froschammer? The Catholic Frenchman who might read the letter of Pius IX. knowing nothing of the condemned works, would say to himself: “This Munich professor has doubtless written according to his own fancy; he must have been rash, as every good German is bound to be who loses himself in the shadowy mazes of metaphysics. After all, there is nothing to show that he has written exactly my opinions. Why should I trouble myself about the letter of Pius IX.? It does not concern me.”
Another example. In Paragraph X. we find the same principle of modern liberalism enunciated in the following manner: “In this our age, it is no longer expedient that the Catholic religion should be considered as the only religion of the state, to the exclusion of all others.” “Ætate hac nostra, non amplius expedit religionem Catholicam haberi, tanquam unicam status religionem, cæteris quibuscumque cultibus exclusis.” The document to which we refer is a consistorial Allocution pronounced the 26th July, 1855, and it commences with these words, Nemo vestrum. What is this Allocution? A solemn protest against the criminality of the Spanish government, which, in contempt of its word and oath, of the rights of the church and the eternal laws of justice, had dared to perjure itself by abrogating, of its own single authority, the first and second articles of the concordat. Pius IX., full of grief, speaks in these terms: “You know, venerable brethren, how, in this convention, amongst all the decisions relative to the interests of the Catholic religion, we have, above all, established that this holy religion should continue to be the only religion of the Spanish nation, to the exclusion of every other worship.” The proposition of the Syllabus is not expressed in any other way in the Allocution. A man of great ability, or a scientific man, taking into account the facts, and weighing carefully the expressions of the Pontiff, might perhaps detect it therein. But how many others would it wholly escape! How many would not perceive it, or, if they should chance to catch sight of it, would remain in suspense, uncertain which was rebuked, the application of the doctrine or the doctrine itself! How many, in short, would be unwilling to recognize, in these words, aught but the sorrowful complaint of the Vicar of Jesus Christ outraged in his dearest rights! Return, however, to the Syllabus, and that which was obscure comes to light and manifests itself clearly. The two propositions we have cited do not appear, in it, confused or uncertain. Detached, on the contrary, from the particular circumstances which were calculated to weaken their meaning, and clad in a form more lofty, more universal, more abstract, they receive an unspeakable signification. No hesitation is possible. It is no longer the doctrine of M. Froschammer, nor the sacrilegious usurpations of the Spanish government, which are rebuked; it is but the doctrine considered in itself and in its substance. And since the Roman Pontiff, after having isolated it, fixes on it a mark of reprobation by declaring it erroneous, he denounces it to all ages and all people as deserving the everlasting censure of the church.
It is for this reason, as far as ourselves, at least, are concerned, we shall never accept without restriction a phrase which we find, under one form or other, in all directions, even from the pen of writers for whom we entertain, in other respects, the highest esteem: “The Syllabus has only a relative value, a value subordinate to that of the pontifical documents of which it is the epitome.” No! We are unable to admit an appreciation of it, in our opinion, so full of danger. We must not allow ourselves to weaken truth if we would maintain its salutary dominion over souls. They talk of the value of the Syllabus. What is meant by this? Its authority? It derives that most undoubtedly from itself, and from the sovereign power of him who published it. It is as much an act of that supreme authority as the letters or encyclicals to which it alludes. The meaning of the propositions it contains? Doubtless many of these, if we thus refer to their origin, will receive from it a certain illustration. Others, and they are not the fewest, will either lose there their precision, or will rather shed more light upon it than they receive from it. Between the two assertions—The pontifical letters explain the Syllabus, and, The Syllabus explains the pontifical letters—the second is, with a few exceptions, the most rigorously true. A very simple argument demonstrates it. Suppose that, by accident or an unforeseen catastrophe, one or other of these documents were to perish and not leave any trace of its existence, which is the one whose preservation we should most have desired, in order that the mind of Pius IX. and the judgment of the church concerning the errors of our age might be transmitted more surely to future generations?
Most fertile in subtleties is the mind of man when he wishes to escape from a duty that molests him. We must not, consequently, be astonished if many opponents of the Syllabus have lighted on ingenious distinctions which allow of their almost admitting, in theory, the doctrines we have just explained, whilst contriving to elude their practical consequences. For that, what have they done? They have acknowledged the real authority of this grand act in so far as it is a doctrinal declaration, or, if it is preferred, a manifestation of doctrine; adding, nevertheless, that the Pope has not imposed it on us in the way of obligation, but only in the way of guidance. The expression, only in the way of guidance, would have been a happy enough invention, had it been possible, in matter so important, and in an act so solemn, to imagine a guidance truly efficacious—such, for instance, as the Pope could not but wish it to be—which would not be an obligation. But we ourselves must avoid reasoning with too much subtlety, and content ourselves with opposing a difficulty more specious than solid with a few positive proofs.
We interpose, in the first place, the very title of the Syllabus: “Table, or abridgment, of the principal errors of our time, pointed out in consistorial Allocutions,” etc. To which we add the titles of various paragraphs: “Errors in relation to the church”; “Errors in relation to civil society”; “Errors concerning natural and Christian morals,” etc. For the Pope, the guardian and protector of truth, obliged by the duty of his office to hinder the church from suffering any decline or any alteration, to denounce to the Christian world a doctrine by inflicting on it the brand of error, is evidently to forbid the employment of it, and to command all the faithful to eschew it. What communion is there between light and darkness, between life and death? There can be no question about guidance or counsel when the supreme interest is at stake. The duty speaks for itself. It is imposed by the nature of things. When Pius IX. placed at the head of his Syllabus the word “error,” and intensified it by adding words even more significant, when he expressed himself thus, “Principal errors of this our age,” he as good as said, “Here is death! Avoid it.” And if, in order still to escape from the consequences, a distinction is attempted to be drawn between an obligation created by the force of circumstances and an obligation imposed by the legislator, we would wish it to be remembered that the same Pius IX. uttered, in reference to the Syllabus, the following memorable sentence: “When the Pope speaks in a solemn act, it is to be taken literally; what he has said, he intended to say.” For our part, we would say, “What the Pope has done, he intended to do.”
But what need is there of so much discussion? The proof of what we have urged is written in express terms in the letter accompanying the Syllabus—a letter signed by his eminence Cardinal Antonelli, secretary of state, and intended to make known to the bishops the will of His Holiness. It is sufficient to quote this decisive document, which we do in full, on account of its importance:
“Most Reverend Excellency:
“Our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., profoundly solicitous for the safety of souls and of holy doctrine, has never ceased, since the commencement of his pontificate, to proscribe and to condemn by his encyclicals, his consistorial Allocutions, and other apostolic letters already published, the most important errors and false doctrines, above all, those of our unhappy times. But since it may come to pass that all the political acts reach not every one of the ordinaries, it has seemed good to the same sovereign Pontiff that a Syllabus should be drawn out of these same errors, to be sent to all the bishops of the Catholic world, in order that these same bishops may have before their eyes all the errors and pernicious doctrines which have been reproved and condemned by him. He has therefore commanded me to see that this printed Syllabus be sent to your most reverend excellency, on this occasion, and at this time. When the same sovereign Pontiff, in consequence of his great solicitude for the safety and well-being of the Catholic Church, and of the whole flock which has been divinely committed to him by the Lord, has thought it expedient to write another encyclical letter to all the Catholic bishops, thus executing, as is my duty, with all befitting zeal and respect, the orders of the same Pontiff, I hasten to send to your excellency this Syllabus with this letter.”
This Syllabus, placed by the order of the Holy Father “before the eyes of all the bishops,” what else is it, we ask, than the text of the law brought under the observation of the judges charged with the duty of causing it to be executed? What is it except a rule to which they owe allegiance, and from which they must not swerve? They must not lose sight of it. Wherefore? Because it is their duty to be careful to promulgate its doctrine in their own teaching, because it is their duty to repress every rash opinion which should dare to raise itself against and contradict it. It is thus that all have understood the commandment given to them. The fidelity and unconquerable courage of their obedience prove it. What has taken place in France? In the midst of the universal emotion produced by the appearance of the Syllabus, the government, abusing its power, had the sad audacity to constitute itself judge of it. Through the instrumentality of the keeper of the seals, minister of justice and of public worship, it forbade the publication of the pontifical document in any pastoral instruction, alleging that “it contained propositions contrary to the principles on which the constitution of the empire rests.” What was the unanimous voice of the episcopate? Eighty-four letters of bishops are in existence to bear witness to it. All, united in the same mind, opposed to the ministerial letter the invincible word of the apostles, Non possumus. All declared that they must obey God rather then man; and two amongst them, ascending courageously their cathedral thrones, braved the menaces of a susceptible government by reading before the assembled people that which they had been forbidden to print. Could they have acted all alike with this power truly episcopal, if they had not been inspired by the conviction that they were fulfilling a duty, and putting into practice the adage of the Christian knights, “I do my duty, happen what may”?
We will insist no further on this point. We approach, lastly, the question which might well supersede all the others. Let us enquire whether the Syllabus is an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.
It appears to us that, in reality, we have already settled this question. Can a definition ex cathedra be anything else than an instruction concerning faith and morals addressed to, and imposed on, the whole church by her visible head upon earth? How can we recognize it except by this mark, and is not that the idea given to us of it by the Council of the Vatican? Read over the words, so weighty and selected with so much care by the fathers of that august assembly, and you will find that nothing could express more accurately the exact and precise notion of it. After that, all doubts ought to disappear. The Syllabus emanates from him who is the master and sovereign doctor of Catholic truth. It belongs exclusively to faith and morals by the nature of the subjects of which it treats. It has received from the circumstances which have accompanied its publication the manifest character of an universal law of the church. What is wanting to it to be an irreformable decision, an act without appeal, of the infallible authority of Peter?
We know the objection with which we shall be met. Peter may speak, it will be urged, and not wish to exert the plenitude of his doctrinal power. Yes; but when he restrains thus within voluntary limits the exercise of his authority, he gives us to understand it clearly. He is careful, in order not to overtax our weakness, to apprise us that, notwithstanding the obligation with which he binds consciences, it is not in his mind, as yet, to deliver a definitive sentence upon the doctrine. Frankly, does the Syllabus offer to us an indication, however faint, of any such reserve? What more definitive than a judgment formulated in these terms: “This is error, that is truth”? Is any revision possible of such a judgment? Is it possible to be revoked or abrogated? Does it not settle us necessarily in an absolute conclusion which excludes all possibility of diminution or of change? In a word, can the assertion be ever permissible—“Error in these days, truth in others”? It may be added that, by the admission of all, friends and enemies—an admission confirmed by the declaration of the cardinal secretary of state, the Syllabus is an appendix to, and as it were a continuation of, the bull Quanta cura, to which no one can reasonably refuse the character of a definitive and irreformable decree; and it will be understood how unreasonable it would be to despise the evidence of facts, in order to cling to an objection without consistency, and which falls of itself for want of a solid foundation.
For the rest, the mind of the Holy Father is not concealed, as has been at times suggested, under impenetrable veils. It appears the moment we look for it; and we find it, for example, in the preparation of the Syllabus. It should be known that the Syllabus was not the work of a day. Pius IX. has often asserted this. He had early resolved to strike a signal blow, and to destroy from top to bottom the monstrous edifice of revolutionary doctrines. To this end, immediately after the proclamation of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, he transformed the congregation of cardinals and theologians who had aided him in the accomplishment of that work into a congregation charged with the duty of singling out for the Apostolic See the new errors which, for a century, had been ravaging the church of God. Ten years passed away; encyclicals were published, allocutions pronounced; the theologians multiplied their labors. At length, on the 8th of December, 1864, the moment of action appearing to have arrived, Pius IX. addressed to the world that utterance whose prolonged echoes we all have heard. The bull Quanta cura and the Syllabus were promulgated. It is obvious that an act so long prepared, and with so much anxiety, cannot be likened to an ordinary act. The object of the Pontiff was not simply to check the evil—it was to uproot it. The object of such efforts could not have been to determine nothing. Who is there, then, who will venture to assert that the whole thought of an entire reign, and of such a reign as that of Pius IX., should miserably collapse in a measure without authority and without effectiveness? To believe it would be an outrage; to affirm it would be an insult to the wisdom and prudence of the most glorious of pontiffs.
But what need is there for searching for proofs? A single reflection banishes every difficulty. We have in the church two means for ascertaining whether a pontifical act is, or is not, a sovereign definition, an infallible decision. We have to enquire of the pontiff who is the author of it, or the people who subordinate themselves to his teaching. Neither one nor the other can deceive us in the answer they give. The divine promise continues equally assured in both: in the former, when he teaches; in the latter, when they listen and obey. It is what the theologians call active and passive infallibility. Admit that Pius IX. had left us in ignorance; that he published the Syllabus, but did not tell us what amount of assent he required of us. Well, none of us are in any doubt as to that. How many times has not this people said, how many times has it not repeated with an enthusiasm inspired by love, that this Syllabus, despised, insulted by the enemies of the church, they accept as the rule of their beliefs, as the very word of Peter, as the word of life come down from heaven to save us. Is it not thus that have spoken, one after the other, bishops, theologians, the learned and the ignorant, the mighty and the humble? Who amongst us has not heard this language? A celebrated doctor, Tanner, has said that in order to distinguish amongst the teachings of the church those which belong to its infallible authority, we must listen to the judgment of wise men, and above all consult the universal sentiment of Christians. If we adhere to this decision, it reveals to us our duties in regard to the sovereign act by which Pius IX. has withdrawn the world from the shadow in which it was losing its way, and has prepared for it a future of better destinies.
We have the more reason for acting thus as hell, by its furious hatred, gives us, for its part, a similar warning, and proclaims, after its fashion, the imperishable grandeur of the Syllabus. Neither has it, nor have those who serve it, ever been under any illusion in this respect. They have often revealed their mind both by act and word. What implacable indignation! what torrents of insults! what clamor without truce or mercy! And when importunate conciliators interfered to tell them they were mistaken, that the Syllabus was nothing or next to nothing, and need not provoke so much anger, how well they knew how to reply to them and to bury them under the weight of their contempt! At the end of 1864, at the moment when the struggle occasioned by the promulgation of the Encyclical and Syllabus was the most furious, an agency of Parisian publicity, the agency Bullier, could insert the following notice: “The Encyclical is not a dogmatic bull, but only a doctrinal letter. It is observable that the Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope. This Syllabus has besides been published in a manner to allow us to believe that the Holy Father did not intend to assign to it a great importance. One may conclude, therefore, that the propositions which do not attack either the dogma or morals of Catholics, and do not at all impeach faith, are not condemned, but merely blamed.” To these words, poor in sense, but crafty and treacherous in expression, the journal Le Siècle replied as follows:
“There are now people who tell us that the Encyclical is not a dogmatic bull, but a doctrinal letter; that the eighty propositions are not condemned, because they do not figure in the Encyclical, but only in the Syllabus; that this Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope; that it has been composed only by a commission of theologians, etc. These people would do better to be silent. Encyclical or Syllabus, the fact is that the theocracy has just hurled as haughty a defiance against modern ideas as it was possible for it to do. We shall soon see what will be the result.”
We will leave them to settle their quarrels between themselves. For ourselves, listening to these voices of heaven and of hell, of the church and of the world, which coincide in exalting the work eternally blessed by Pius IX., we repeat with profounder conviction than ever: “Yes, the Syllabus is the infallible word of Peter; and if our modern society is within the reach of cure, it is by the Syllabus that it is to be saved!”
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
In a sumptuous apartment, whose magnificent furniture and costly adornings announced it as the abode of kings, in a large Gothic arm-chair—whose massive sides were decorated with carvings in ebony and ivory of exquisite delicacy, and which was in itself, altogether, a model of the most skilful workmanship—there reclined the form of a stately and elegant woman.
Her small feet, but half-concealed beneath the heavy folds of a rich blue velvet robe, rested on a footstool covered with crimson brocade, embroidered with golden stars. Bands of pearls adorned her beautiful neck, contrasted with its dazzling whiteness, and were profusely twined amid the raven tresses of her luxuriant hair. An expression of profound melancholy was imprinted upon her noble features; her eyes were cast down, and the long, drooping lashes were heavy with tears which she seemed vainly endeavoring to repress, as she sat absorbed in thought, and nervously entwining her snowy fingers with the silk and jewelled cord which, according to the fashion of that day, she wore fastened at her girdle and hanging to her feet. This royal personage was Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, wife of Henry VIII., and queen of England.
The king himself was hurriedly pacing to and fro in the apartment, with contracted brow, a deeply troubled expression gleaming from his dark eyes and obscuring, with a shade of gloomy fierceness, the naturally fine features of his face. The ordinary grace of his carriage had disappeared; his step was hurried and irregular; and every movement denoted a man laboring under some violent excitement. From time to time he approached the window, and gazed abstractedly into the distance; then, returning to Catherine, he would address her abruptly, with a sharp expression or hurried interrogation, neither waiting for nor seeming to desire a reply.
While this strange scene was being enacted within the palace at Greenwich, one of an entirely different nature was occurring in the courtyard. From the road leading from Greenwich a cavalcade approached, headed by a personage invested with the Roman purple, and apparently entitled to and surrounded by all the “pomp and circumstance” of royalty. He was mounted on a richly caparisoned mule with silver-plated harness, adorned with silver bells and tufted with knots of crimson silk. This distinguished personage was no other than the Archbishop of York, the potent minister, who united in his person all the dignities both of church and state—the Cardinal Legate, the king’s acknowledged favorite, Wolsey. To increase his already princely possessions, to extend his influence and authority, had been this man’s constant endeavor, and the sole aim of his life. And so complete had been his success that he was now regarded by all as an object of admiration and envy. But how greatly mistaken was the world in its opinion!
In his heart, Wolsey suffered the constant agony of a profound humiliation. Compelled to yield in all things, and bow with servile submission to the haughty will of his exacting and imperious master—who by a word, and in a moment, could deprive him of his dignities and temporalities—he lived in a state of constant dread, fearing to lose the patronage and favor to secure which he had sacrificed both his honor and his conscience.
He was accompanied on this journey by a numerous retinue, composed of gentlemen attached to his household and young pages carrying his standard, all of whom were eagerly pressing upon him the most obsequious attentions. They assisted him to dismount, and as he approached the palace the guards saluted and received him with the utmost military deference and respect; and with an air of grave dignity Wolsey passed on, and disappeared beneath the arch of the grand stairway.
Let us again return to the royal apartments. The king, seeing Wolsey arrive, immediately turned from the window and, confronting Catherine, abruptly exclaimed:
“Come, madam, I wish you to retire; the affairs of my kingdom demand instantly all my time and attention.” And hastily turning to the window, he looked eagerly into the courtyard.
Catherine arose without uttering a word, and approaching the centre of the apartment she took from the table a small silver bell, and rang it twice.
On this table was a magnificent cloth cover that she had embroidered with her own hands. The design represented a tournament, in which Henry, who was devoted to chivalrous amusements, had borne off the prize over all his competitors. In those days her husband received such presents with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, and, as the souvenir recalled to her mind the joy and happiness of the past, tears of bitterness flowed afresh from the eyes of the unhappy princess.
In answer to her signal, the door soon opened, the queen’s ladies in waiting appeared, and, arranging themselves on either side, stood in readiness to follow their royal mistress. She passed out, and was slowly walking in silence through the vast gallery leading to the king’s apartments, when Wolsey appeared, advancing from the opposite end of the gallery, followed by his brilliant retinue.
Catherine, then, instantly understood why the king had so abruptly commanded her to retire. Suddenly pausing, she stood transfixed and immovable, her soul overwhelmed with anguish; but, with a countenance calm and impassible, she awaited the approach of the cardinal, who advanced to salute her. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could no longer control her feelings.
“My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed in a low voice, trembling with emotion, “go, the king waits for you!” And as she uttered these words, the unhappy woman fell senseless to the floor.
The hardened soul of the ambitious Wolsey was moved to its very depths with compassion as he silently gazed on the noble woman before him, who possessed the unbounded love and grateful esteem of all her household, not only as their sovereign, but also as their beneficent mother.
The cloud of ambition that forever surrounded him, darkening his soul and obscuring his perceptions, was for the moment illuminated, and for the first time he realized the enormity of Henry’s proceedings against the queen.
As this sudden light flashed on him, he felt remorse for having encouraged the divorce, and resolved that henceforward all his influence should be used to dissuade his sovereign from it.
At the approach of the royal favorite the ushers hastily made their salutations (although the queen had been permitted to pass them with scarcely the slightest mark of respect), and seemed to consider the most humble and servile attitude they could assume before him as only sufficiently respectful. They hastened to throw open the doors before him as he advanced, and Wolsey soon found himself in the presence of the king, who awaited his arrival in a state of almost angry impatience.
“Well! what do you come to tell me?” he cried. “Do you bring me good news?”
Wolsey, whose opinions had so recently undergone a very great change, for a moment hesitated. “Sire,” he at length replied, “Campeggio, the cardinal legate, has arrived.”
“Has he indeed?” said Henry, with an ironical smile. “After so many unsuccessful applications, we have then, at last, obtained this favor. Well, I hope now this affair will proceed more rapidly; and, Wolsey, remember that it is your business so entirely to compromise and surround this man, that he shall not be able even to think without my consent and sanction. And, above all, beware of the intrigues of the queen. Catherine is a Spaniard, with an artful, unyielding nature and fierce, indomitable will. She will, without doubt, make the most determined and desperate effort to enlist the legate in favor of her cause.”
“Is the decision of your majesty irrevocable on the subject of this divorce?” replied Wolsey, in a hesitating and embarrassed manner. “The farther we advance, the more formidable the accumulating difficulties become. I must acknowledge, sire, I begin myself to doubt of success. Campeggio has already declared that, if the queen appeals to Rome, he will not refuse to present her petition, and defend her cause; that he himself will decide nothing, and will yield to nothing he cannot conscientiously approve.”
On hearing Wolsey express these sentiments, Henry’s face flushed with rage, and a menacing scowl contracted his brow.
“Can it be possible,” he cried, “that you dare address me in this manner? I will castigate the Pope himself if he refuses his sanction. He shall measure his power with mine! He trembles because Charles V. is already on his frontier. I will make him tremble now, in my turn! I will marry Anne Boleyn—yes, I will marry her before the eyes of the whole world!”
“What do you say, sire? Anne Boleyn!” cried Wolsey.
“Yes, Anne Boleyn!” replied the king, regarding Wolsey with his usual haughty and contemptuous expression. “You know her well. She is attached to the service of Catherine.”
“Lady Anne Boleyn!” again cried Wolsey after a moment’s silence, for astonishment had almost for the time rendered him speechless and breathless. “Lady Anne Boleyn! The King of England, the great Henry, wishes, then, to marry Anne Boleyn! Why, if contemplating such a marriage as that, did you send me to seek the alliance of France, and to offer the hand of your daughter in marriage to the Duke of Orleans? And why did you instruct me to declare to Francis I. that your desire was to place on the throne of England a princess of his blood? It was only by these representations and promises that I succeeded in inducing him to sign the treaty which deprived Catherine of all assistance. You have assured me of your entire approval of these negotiations. This alliance with France was the only means by which to secure for yourself any real defence against the Pope and the Emperor. Do you suppose that Charles V. will quietly permit you to deprive his aunt of her position and title as queen of England?” Here Wolsey paused, wholly transported with indignation.
“Charles!” replied the king, “Charles? I can easily manage and pacify him by fine promises and long negotiations. As to our Holy Father, I will stir up strife enough to fill his hands so full that he will not be able to attend to anything else. The quarrels of Austria and France always end by recoiling on his head, and I imagine he will not soon forget the sacking Rome and his former imprisonment.”
“Yes, but you forget,” said Wolsey, “that the King of France will accuse you of flagrant bad faith: and will you bring on yourself their abhorrence in order to espouse Anne Boleyn?”
The minister pronounced these last words with an expression and in a tone of such contemptuous scorn as to arouse in a fearful degree the indignation of the king, accustomed only to the flattery and servile adulation of his courtiers. At the same time, he was compelled to feel the force of the cardinal’s reasoning, although the truth only served still more to irritate and enrage him.
“Cease, Wolsey!” cried Henry, fixing his flashing eyes fiercely upon him; “I am not here to listen to your complaints. I shall marry whom I please; and your head shall answer for the fidelity with which you assist me in executing my will.”
“My head, sire,” replied Wolsey courageously, “has long belonged to you; my entire life has been devoted to your service; and yet I shall most probably, in the end, have bitter cause to repent having always made myself subservient to your wishes. But your majesty will surely reflect more seriously on the dishonor you will necessarily incur by such a choice as this. The queen’s party will grow stronger and stronger, and I tell you frankly, I fear lest the legate be inflexible.”
“Wolsey,” cried Henry, elevating his voice in a threatening manner, “I have already declared my intentions—is that not sufficient? As to the legate, I repeat, he must be gained over to my cause. Gold and flattery will soon secure to us that tender conscience whose scruples you now so sorely apprehend. Bring him to me to-morrow.”
“He is suffering too much, sire. The cardinal is aged and very infirm; I have no idea he will be in a condition to see your majesty for several days yet.”
“Too long, entirely too long to wait!” replied the king. “I must see him this very day; he shall be compelled to make his appearance. I wish you to be present also, as we shall discuss affairs of importance, and then I shall depart.”
With these words Henry withdrew and went to look for a casket, of which he alone carried the key, and in which he usually kept his most valuable and important papers.
During his absence, Wolsey remained leaning on the table, before which he was seated, absorbed in deep and painful reflections. He feared Henry too much to oppose him long in any of his designs; besides, he saw no possible means to induce him to change his resolution. He had felt, as we have seen, a momentary compassion for the misfortunes of the queen, but that impression had been speedily effaced by considerations of far greater moment to himself.
As a shrewd diplomatist, he regretted the alliance with France; besides, he was really too much interested in the welfare of the king not to deplore his determination to contract such a marriage.
But the cause of his deepest anxiety was the knowledge he possessed of Anne’s great dislike for him, and the consciousness that her family and counsellors were his rivals and enemies; in consequence of which he clearly foresaw they would induce her to use all the influence she possessed with the king in order to deprive him of Henry’s favor and patronage. He was suffering this mental conflict when the king reappeared, bearing a bronze casket carved with rare perfection. Placing it on the table, he unlocked it. Among a great many papers which it contained was a very handsome book, the printing beautifully executed, and every page ornamented with arabesques exquisitely tinted and shaded. The cover, formed of two metal plates, represented in bass-relief the figures of Faith, Hope, and Charity as young virgins, bearing in their hands and on their foreheads the allegorical emblems of those sublime Christian virtues. Emeralds of immense value, surrounded by heavy gold settings, adorned the massive gold clasps, and also served to hold them firmly in their places.
On the back of this book, deeply engraven in the metal, were the following words: The Seven Sacraments. Henry had written this work in defence of the ancient dogmas of the Catholic Church, when first attacked by the violent doctrines of a monk named Luther. Whether the king had really composed it himself, or whether he had caused it to be secretly done by another, and wished to enjoy the reputation of being the author, he certainly attached great importance to the work. Not only had he distributed it throughout his own kingdom, but had sent it to the Pope and to all the German princes, through the Dean of Windsor, whom he instructed to say that he was ready to defend the faith, not only with his pen but, if need be, with his sword also. It was at that time that he asked and obtained from the court of Rome the title of “Defender of the Faith.”
Now he was constantly busy with a manuscript, which he took from the mysterious casket, containing a Treatise on Divorce, and to which he every day devoted several hours. Greatly pleased with a number of arguments he had just found, he came to communicate them to Wolsey. The latter, after urging several objections, at length reminded him of the fraudulent and persistent means that had been employed to extract from the University of Oxford an opinion favorable to divorce. “And yet,” added the cardinal, “it has been found impossible to prevent them from increasing the number of most important restrictions, and thus rendering your case exceedingly difficult, if not entirely hopeless.”
“What!” said the king, “after the good example of the University of Cambridge, are we still to encounter scruples? Consider it well, cardinal, in order not to forget the recompense, and, above all, the punishment, for that is the true secret of success! You will also take care to write to the Elector Frederick, and say that I wait to receive the humble apologies of that man Luther, whom he has taken so entirely under his protection.”
“Sire,” replied the cardinal, “I have received frequent intelligence with regard to that matter which I have scarcely dared communicate to you.”
“And why not?” demanded the king. “Do you presume, my lord cardinal, that the abuse of an obscure and turbulent monk can affect me? And besides, to tell you the truth, I do not know but this man may, after all, be useful to me. He has attracted the attention of the court of Rome, and may yet have to crave my protection.”
“Well, sire, since you compel me to speak, I will tell you that, far from making humble apologies, his violence against you has redoubled. I have just received a tract he has recently published. In it I find many passages where, in speaking of you, he employs the most abusive epithets and expressions. For instance, he repeatedly declares that your majesty ‘is a fool, an ass, and a madman,’ that you are ‘coarser than a hog, and more stupid than a jackass.’ He speaks with equal scurrility of our Holy Father the Pope, addressing him, in terms of the most unparalleled effrontery, this pretended warning, which is of course intended simply as an insult: ‘My petit Paul, my petit Pope, my young ass, walk carefully—it is very slippery—you may fall and break your legs. You will surely hurt yourself, and then people will say, “What the devil does this mean? The petit Pope has hurt himself.”’ Further on, I find this ridiculous comparison, which could only emanate from a vile and shameless pen: ‘The ass knows that he is an ass, the stone knows that it is a stone, but these asses of popes are unable to recognize themselves as asses.’ He concludes at length with these words, which fill the measure of his impiety and degradation: ‘If I were ruler of an empire, I would make a bundle of the Pope and his cardinals, and throw them altogether into that little pond, the Tuscan Sea. I pledge my word that such a bath would restore their health, and I pledge Jesus Christ as my security!’”
“What fearful blasphemy!” cried Henry. “Could a Christian possibly be supposed to utter such absurd, blasphemous vulgarities? I trow not! This pretended ‘reformer’ of the ‘discipline and abuses of the church’ seems to possess any other than an evangelical character. No one can doubt his divine mission and his Christian charity! A man who employs arguments like these is too vile and too contemptible to be again mentioned in my presence. Let me hear no more of this intolerable apostate! Proceed now with business.”
“Sire,” then continued the cardinal, presenting a list to the king, “here are the names of several candidates I wish you to consider for the purpose of appointing a treasurer of the exchequer. Thomas More has already filled, most honorably, a number of offices of public trust, and is also a man of equal ability and integrity. I recommend him to your majesty for this office.”
“I approve your selection most unhesitatingly,” replied the king. “I am extremely fond of More, and perfectly satisfied with the manner in which he has performed his official duties heretofore. You will so inform him from me. What next?”
“I would also petition your majesty that Cromwell be confirmed as intendant-general of the monasteries latterly transformed into colleges.”
“Who is this Cromwell?” inquired Henry. “I have no recollection of him.”
“Sire,” replied Wolsey, “he is of obscure birth, the son of a fuller of this city. He served in the Italian wars in his youth; afterwards he applied himself to the study of law. His energies and abilities are such as to entitle him to the favorable consideration of your majesty.”
“Let him be confirmed as you desire,” replied the king very graciously, as he proceeded to sign the different commissions intended for the newly appointed officials.
“I wish,” he added, regarding Wolsey with a keen, searching glance, “that you would find some position for a young ecclesiastic called Cranmer, who has been strongly recommended to me for office.”
The brow of the cardinal contracted into a heavy frown as he heard the name of a man but too well known to him. He immediately divined that it was from Anne Boleyn alone the king had received this recommendation.
In the meantime, the queen had been carried to her apartments. The devoted efforts of the ladies of her household, who surrounded her with the tenderest ministrations, soon recalled her to the consciousness and full realization of her misery.
Now the night has come, and found Catherine still seated before the grate, absorbed in deep thought. Born under the soft skies of Spain, she had never become acclimated, nor accustomed to the humid, foggy atmosphere of England. Like a delicate plant torn from its native soil, she sighed unceasingly for the balmy air and the golden sunlight of her own genial southern clime. Such regrets, added to the sorrows she had experienced, had thrown her into a state of habitual melancholy, from which nothing could arouse her, and which the slightest occurrence sufficed to augment. For a long time her firmness of character had sustained her; but her health beginning to fail, and no longer able to arouse the energy and courage which had before raised her above misfortune, she sank beneath the burden and abandoned herself to hopeless sorrow.
As she sat all alone in her chamber, she held in her hand a letter but recently received from her native country. Reading it slowly, she mused, dreaming of the days of her happy childhood, when suddenly the door was opened, and a young girl, apparently ten or twelve years of age, ran in and threw her arms around the neck of the queen. The figure of the child was slight and graceful; around her waist was tied a broad sash of rose-colored ribbon, with long ends floating over her white muslin dress; her beautiful blonde hair was drawn back from her forehead and fastened with bows of ribbon, leaving exposed a lovely little face glowing with animation and spirit, and a frank, ingenuous expression, at once prepossessing and charming. This was the Princess Mary, the daughter of Henry, the future consort of a Spanish prince, to whom the shrewd diplomatist Wolsey had promised her hand, in order to deprive the unfortunate mother of this her only remaining consolation.
“Why is it, my dearest mamma,” she exclaimed, “that you are again in tears?” And, laughingly, she took the handkerchief from the queen and put it to her own eyes, pretending to weep.
“See now, this is the way I shall do when I am grown up, for it seems to me grown-up people are always weeping. Oh! I wish I could always remain a child, and then I should never be miserable! Listen, my dear mamma,” she continued, again twining her arms around her mother’s neck, “why is it that you are always weeping and so sad? It must surely do you harm. Everybody is not like you, constantly sighing and in tears, I do assure you. Only this morning, I was at St. James’ Park with Alice, and there I met Lady Anne Boleyn; she was laughing gaily as she promenaded with a number of her friends. I ran immediately to her to say good morning, for I was really very glad to see her. How is it, mamma—I thought you told me she had gone to Kent to visit her father?”
“My child,” replied the queen, her tears flowing afresh, “what I told you was true; but she has since returned without my being informed.”
“But, mamma, since this is your own house, why has she not yet presented herself? I am very sorry she has acted so, for I love her better than any of the other ladies. She told me all she saw in France when she travelled with my aunt, the Duchess of Suffolk. Oh! how I would love to see France. Lady Anne says it is a most beautiful country. She has described to me all the magnificent entertainments that King Louis XII. gave in honor of my aunt. Mamma, when I marry, I want the King of France to be my husband.”
“And you—you also love Anne Boleyn?” replied the queen.
“Oh! yes, mamma, very much, very much indeed!” innocently answered the child. “I am very sorry she is no longer to be here, she is so amiable, and when she plays with me she always amuses me so much!”
“Well, my dear child,” replied the queen, “I will tell you now why people weep when they are grown up, as you say: it is because they very often love persons who no longer return their affection.”
“And do you believe she no longer loves me?” replied the impulsive little Mary with a thoughtful expression. “And yet, mamma, I kissed her this morning and embraced her with all my heart. However, I now remember that she scarcely spoke a word to me; but I had not thought of it before. She seemed to be very much embarrassed. But why should she no longer love me when I still love her so dearly?”
As Mary uttered these words, a woman entered the room and, whispering a moment in the ear of the queen, placed a note in her hand.
Catherine arose and approached the light; after reading the note, she called the young princess and requested her to retire to her chamber, as she had something to write immediately that was very important.
Mary ran gaily to her mother, and, after kissing and embracing her fondly and tenderly again and again, she at last bade her good-night, and with a smiling face bounded from the room in the same light and buoyant manner that she had entered it.
“Leonora,” said the queen, “my dear child, you have left for my sake our beautiful Spain, and have ever served me with faithful devotion. Listen, now, to the request I shall make—go bring me immediately the dress and outer apparel belonging to one of the servant women.”
“Why so, my lady?”
“Ask no questions—I have use for them; you will accompany me; I must go to London this night.”
“Good heaven! my dear mistress, what are you saying?” cried Leonora in great alarm. “Go to London to-night? It is five miles; you will never be able to walk it, and you well know it would be impossible to attempt the journey in any other way—they would detect us.”
“Leonora,” answered the queen, “I am resolved to go. Faithful friends inform me that the legate has arrived. Henry will now redouble his vigilance. I have but one day—if I lose this opportunity, I shall never succeed. My last remaining hope rests upon this. If you refuse to accompany me, I shall go alone.”
“Alone!—oh! my beloved mistress,” cried Leonora, her hands clasped and her eyes streaming tears, “you can never do this! Think of what you are going to undertake! If you were recognized, the king would be at once informed, and we would both be lost.”
“Even so, Leonora; but what have I to lose? Is it possible for me to be made more wretched? Shall I abandon this, my last hope? No, no, Leonora; I am accountable to my children for the honor of their birth. Go now, my good girl! fly—there is not a moment to lose. Fear nothing; God will protect us!”
Leonora, shrewd and adroit like the women of her country, was very soon in possession of the desired habiliments. Her actions might have excited suspicion, perhaps; but entirely devoted to the queen as she was she felt no fear, and would, without hesitation, have exposed herself to even greater danger, had it been necessary, in the execution of her mistress’ wishes.
Catherine feigned to retire; and, after her attendants had been dismissed, she left the palace, closely enveloped in a long brown cloak, such as was habitually worn by the working-women of that period. The faithful Leonora tremblingly followed the footsteps of her mistress. They breathed more freely when they found themselves at last beyond the limits of the castle. Leonora, however, when they entered the road leading to London, anxiously reflected on the danger of meeting some one who would probably recognize them. Her excited imagination even began to conjure up vague apprehensions of the dead, to blend with her fears of the living. She also dreaded lest the strength of the queen should prove unequal to the journey—in fine, she feared everything. The sighing winds, the rustling leaves, the sound of her own footsteps as she walked over the stones, startled and filled her with apprehension. Very soon there was another cause for alarm. The wind suddenly arose with violence; dark clouds overspread the heavens; the moon disappeared; large drops of rain began to fall, and soon poured in torrents, deluging the earth and drenching their garments.
In vain they increased their speed; the storm raged with such fury they were compelled to take refuge under a tree by the roadside.
“My poor Leonora,” said the queen, supporting herself against the trunk of the tree, whose wide-spread branches were being lashed and bent by the fury of the storm, “I regret now having brought you with me. I am already sufficiently miserable without the additional pain of seeing my burdens laid upon others.”
“My beloved lady and mistress,” cried Leonora, “I am not half so unhappy at this moment as I was when I feared my brothers would prevent me from following you to England. It seems to me I can see the vessel now, with its white sails unfurled, bearing you away, whilst I, standing on the shore, with frantic cries, entreated them to let me rejoin you. That night, I remember, being unable to sleep, I went down into the orange-grove, the perfume of whose fruits and flowers embalmed the air of the palace gardens. Wiping away the sad tears, I fixed my eyes upon your windows, which the light of our beautiful skies rendered distinctly visible even at night. In Spain, at that hour, we can walk by the light of the stars; but in this land of mud and water, this horrid England, one has to be wrapped to the ears in furs all the year round, or shiver with cold from morning till night. This is doubtless the reason why the English are so dull and so tiresome to others. In what a condition is this light mantle that covers our heads!” said Leonora, shaking the coarse woollen cloak dripping with water, that enveloped Catherine. “These Englishwomen,” she resumed, “know no more about the sound of a guitar than they do about the rays of the sun; they are all just as melancholy as moles. There is not one of them, except the Princess Mary, who seems to have the slightest idea of our beautiful Spain.”
“Ah!” sighed the queen, “she is just as I was at her age. God forbid that her future should resemble that of her mother!”
In the meantime the storm had gradually abated; time pressed, and Catherine again resumed her journey with renewed courage and accelerated speed. In spite of the mud, in which she sank at every step, she redoubled her efforts. For what cannot the strong human will accomplish, when opposed to feeble, physical strength alone, or even when the obstacles interposed proceed from the elements themselves? She at length arrived at the gate of the palace of Lambeth, situated on the banks of the Thames, where the cardinal Campeggio, according to the intelligence conveyed to her, would hold his court.
The courtyards, the doors, the ante-chambers, were thronged with servants and attendants, eager and active in the performance of their duties, for Henry had ordered that the cardinal should be entertained in a style of princely munificence, and entirely free from personal expense. All these valets, being strangers to their new masters, and unaccustomed to their new employments, permitted the queen to pass without question or detention, not, however, without a stare of stupid curiosity at her muddy boots and draggled garments.
Catherine, being perfectly familiar with the interior of the palace, had no difficulty in finding the legate’s cabinet.
The venerable prelate was slightly lame, and in a feeble and precarious state of health. She found him seated before the fire in a large velvet arm-chair, engaged in reading his Breviary. His face was pale and emaciated; a few thin locks of snow-white hair hung about his temples. Hearing the door open, he rested the book on his knee, casting upon the queen, as she entered, a keen, penetrating glance.
Without hesitation, Catherine advanced towards him. “My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed, removing the hood from her face, “you see before you the queen of England, the legitimate spouse of Henry VIII.”
Hearing these words, Campeggio was unable to suppress an exclamation of surprise. He arose at once to his feet, and, perceiving the extraordinary costume in which Catherine was arrayed, he cast upon her a look of incredulous astonishment. He was about to speak when she, with great vehemence, interrupted him.