Читать книгу Robert Annys: Poor Priest. A Tale of the Great Uprising - Annie Nathan Meyer - Страница 5

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The following Sunday a great concourse of people flocked to the Cathedral. There was much curiosity concerning the sermon of the poor priest. Many who for years had been accustomed on the plea of ill-health or old age to ask for a stave for support during the long service, now passed by the doorkeeper oblivious of everything save their desire to secure a good place in which to stand.

To begin with, sermons were growing infrequent. In some churches they had fallen into complete disuse, and it had been necessary for the "Father Bishops" to enjoin "upon all those that had under them the cure of souls openly in English upon Sundays to preach and teach them that they know God Almighty."

And even when there was a sermon, it frequently turned out to be upon some light and immoral bit from Ovid or Boccaccio taken as a text, while the people hungered for the words of the Gospel. Or perhaps some formal schoolman would preach upon the seven works of mercy, or the seven spiritual sins: "Pride—that lyking of office and high state, Envy—that sorrowe at the syte of welefare and ioy, Anger—that wykkyde stirrynge of herte, Gluttony—that lufe in taste of mete and drynke, Covetousness, Sloth, and Lechery,"—to which last were always tacked on for good measure,—"Fornication, Adultery, and Incest."

Holy Father! of what use was it to hear a description of these sins. They were familiar enough to all. What they wanted was some hope and comfort in their daily life, some counsel in their daily struggles, some love to help them bear their daily burdens. And it was pretty certain that the poor priest would give them that. When at last a priest approached the altar and lit the tall wax candles, full three thousand persons were glad that their patient wait was at an end.

The ringing of the great bells of the Cathedral and the breaking forth of the organ into sound announced the arrival of the Bishop. The stately procession appeared, blazing a sinuous path of light and color through the dim spaces of the chancel. First came an acolyte bearing the censer, followed by the cross-bearer carrying the great cross and escorted on either side by boys with tall lighted tapers in their hands. After them followed the entire body of clergy, the Bishop, resplendent in his robes, leaning slightly upon the two assistant deacons who accompanied him. In his left hand he held the beautiful pastoral staff, while the right hand was somewhat elevated, as was meet, to bless such of the faithful as might come upon his way. In the midst of all the splendor of violet and gold and swaying lights walked one slender figure in plain russet sacking, a living protest against all the pomp and magnificence that surrounded him.

Impressive figure! No buskins of cloth of gold on those feet, no annice of pure white linen about his head, no long linen albe reaching to his heels, no girdle of white tasselled silk. From those slender shoulders hung no dalmatic gorgeous with embroidered border, nor graceful chasuble of fine velvet studded with rare pearls. Only a simple, bareheaded, poor priest in a garb which had become a familiar sight enough in the fields of harrowed earth or among the rows of waving corn, but here in the Cathedral a strange prophetic figure, portending the beginning of the end—the end of a priesthood that would act before the people, the beginning of a priesthood that would act for the people; the end of the sway of the mortmain with its icy touch of the past, the beginning of the sway of the living hand, red with the quickly flowing blood, warm with the throbbing sense of the fellowship of man.

Through the hearts of the vast congregation the solemn service swept, majestic, sublime, stupendous in its power. Power? Everything spoke of power. Power, power, power—the power of the lesser clergy, the power of deacons and archdeacons, the power of Bishops and Archbishops, the power of the Papal Legate, the power of the Pope, the power of Mighty—Imperial Rome. What though the note of the prayers was always humility? What knew the people of the Latin words that rose to Heaven? What though the exquisitely intoned phrases of the Bishop were all a self-confessed unworthiness to appear before the Lord? There was none of it observable in the stately motions of the celebrant. What though he cast himself upon his knees and cried out, "I am an unclean sinner! Oh, wash me, dear Lord, from all the stains of sin"? What the people saw was a proud prelate in superb dalmatic, wearing a golden mitre and carrying a jewelled crozier. To them he was the great Bishop of Ely, Peer of the realm, Lord of many towns, holder of many manors, possessor of ten great palaces of residence.

Little by little the people's part in the service had shrunk, until now the Mass was frankly but a great and magnificent spectacle performed before them, the choir and the clergy taking upon themselves the responses that once had been the duty of the congregation. It was well for the people to know when to kneel, when to bow the head, and when to genuflect. Also it was well to remember that the devil writes down every word said during Mass. Every one knew by heart the tale which St. Augustine related to St. Gregory the Great, of the two chattering women and the fiend. And it was well to know that a special indulgence is granted to all that kiss the ground when the Mass is ended.

As the beautiful service took its course, the young poor priest, who had come with a sneer on his lips, found himself more profoundly stirred than he would have liked to confess—even to himself. While in the sacristy, he had been disgusted at the levity of the priests who stood about in evident indifference while the Bishop was being most augustly invested. Small wonder that they wearied of the infinitude of detail performed before their eyes week after week without variation of a motion or a word. It was the supreme genius of Rome to enforce obedience to its slightest demand. It was beyond even that genius to infuse life into the performance. Annys looked about him during the investiture with a sickening sense of the futility of it all. From the putting on of the sandals to the last act of handing the Bishop his beautifully embroidered gloves (the deacon handing him the right one, the subdeacon the left one) there must be no one prayer or form omitted. The prelate must be surrounded by eight acolytes upon their knees, the acolytes and deacons who touch the episcopal vestments must first wash their hands, the acolytes must elevate the vestments, then they are solemnly passed over to the deacons who do the actual enrobing. As the Bishop receives each one of the nine different articles, he must kiss each one and then murmur the appropriate prayer for each.

What had all this to do with the telling of "Christ and him crucified?" Alack for the holy Church of Christ!

Yet, once within the noble interior of the Cathedral, it was impossible not to fall completely under the sway of the wonderful Art that had squandered itself, not alone on the general conception, but on each slightest detail of arch or pillar, so that the least touch of the humblest stonecutter revealed the presence of Genius. The mind was caught up and lifted to God by the exquisite delicacy and grace of execution. If it was but the carving of a single oak leaf, it was done so that the breath of the woods stirred in the perfect turning of the serrated edge.

And the ponderous, throbbing voice of the organ, how it overwhelmed him! And the angelic sweetness of the trained boy voices, how it thrilled through him! The tears rose to his eyes. He was in the presence of a Beauty, of a Harmony, the very faintest shadow of which he could not possibly have conceived. His will lay dormant, a kind of stupor of deadly sweetness crept over him. Not one sense that was not subjugated, not one emotion that was not played upon. There crept into his heart a whisper that perhaps after all there was something in religion that was not summed up in just a man and a book. Emotions hitherto unknown thrilled through him as he sat there with the wonderful service going on about them. Once he came unexpectedly in contact with the coarse sacking of his gown, and raged against the harsh touch; he wanted to feel silk and linen between his fingers.

"Benedicamus Patri et Filio: cum Spiritu Sancto,"

the sweetish fumes of the incense penetrated through the vast edifice. He forgot his dislike of the pagan custom.

"Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis"

rang out from the choir, while the strong chords of the organ filled the great spaces and made them vibrate. His soul swooned in exaltation.

"Laudamus te, Benedicimus te, Adoramus te, Glorificamus te."

Yes, yes, he adored. He must have been mad to refuse to spend his life ever within this glorious Minster, ever within sight of these beautiful vistas, ever within hearing of these heavenly sounds. He would go immediately after the service to the Bishop and confess his error. Fool, fool that he had been to hesitate. Was it now too late? Would the Mass never be over that he could fling himself once again before the Bishop?

"O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, grant us peace."

Yes, peace, peace at any price. That was all that his soul now yearned for. Could anything be more divine than that exquisite refrain?

"Agnus Dei."

Could the most hardened sinner listen unmoved to that celestial music? He recalled the words of the Bishop—the savage wolves of the north pausing in the face of this—the great, visible, tangible power of the Spirit. Oh, he could not wait to confess to the Bishop how foolish and stiff-necked he had been. He, Robert Annys, could be the Archdeacon of Ely and he had refused it.

And yet, accompanying the strong emotional exaltation, there came slowly over him a sense of helplessness, as if a net were closing tightly down over him, until there was no escape from its entangling meshes. He felt the awful eye of Rome upon him, the eye before which Barbarian chiefs, and Emperors as well, had quailed. It was not alone that the Papal Legate sat there before him, the presence of Rome was felt in every one of the countless forms of the Rubric. In the ringing of the sacring bell, here twice, there thrice; the position of the deacon and the subdeacon as the celebrant chants the Introit; the kissing and the incensing of the various articles that are used in the service, the facing of the altar here, and the facing of the congregation there; the putting on of the mitre and the taking it off; the angle of the body in the various degrees of bowing; the precise position of the second and third fingers; the placing of the veil over the host, slightly lower on the right than on the left side; and finally the giving of the left cheek for the kiss of peace.

So much, so very much to come from the simple rule: "Love your neighbors as yourselves."

He could not but think of that proud boast of the Roman general, Scipio Africanus, "It is ever our fate that conquered, we conquer."

Did Rome ever more truly conquer than when apparently she lay crushed and helpless before the triumphant Church of Christ? Had not the Holy Roman Church (mark the very name!) of the fourteenth century far more in it of pagan Rome than of Hebraic Nazareth? Was there no one to tell those people gathered there that all these stately processions bringing with them light and color into the twilight of the churches, these swaying banners of gorgeous design, these choir boys in violet robes, these tall, solemn-faced priests resplendent in their vestments—all had been employed centuries before to delight and subjugate the Roman populace? Did they not know that these same triumphal trains had wound their way through gayly decorated streets to the temples of the immortal gods? The incense that was swayed so solemnly in the jewelled censers, did they suspect that this same sweet odor once rose at the feet of Roman idols? Did they dream—these simple, confiding people—that even the holy water itself was compounded from a heathen recipe? that even the very halos about their saints were copied from the statue of the wicked Nero, where it had symbolized the glory of the sun? that the devotion paid to the Pope had been received by Caligula, even down to the kissing of his toe?

The entire organization of the Holy Roman Church, what was it but the organization of Imperial Rome changed merely in nomenclature?

He looked at the resplendent figure of the Bishop: each scrap of the episcopal vestments bore its special significance—the sandals signifying purity, their red bows the patience of martyrs, the girdle symbolizing continency, the two points or horns of the mitre standing for the knowledge of the two Testaments—and so on through every detail—the annice which was wound about the neck being a very encyclopædia of symbolism, standing for five distinctly different things.

His eye rested a long time upon that wonderful insignia of office, the pastoral staff, symbolically shaped on the lines of a shepherd's crook. The staff was of enamelled gilt copper terminating in an ivory crook upon which was an exquisitely carved figure of the Virgin. About the knop were four compartments each containing a figure illustrative of the history of David, while above these were representations of the six vices overcome by the same number of virtues, a pleasant microcosm (which could scarcely be said to be symbolic of the larger life on earth) where Faith overcame Idolatry, Chastity conquered Impurity, Charity swept away Envy, Temperance subdued Gluttony, Bounty dispelled Avarice, and Peace did away with Strife.

And was he to concern himself with all this—give up his freedom to become a kind of prompter to the Bishop? For the Archdeacon must see to it that no slightest duty of the celebrant is overlooked, that this part of the Gospel is read on the north side of the altar and that part on the east side, and see that his arms are extended here and withdrawn there.

No, no, after all, his religion was of a totally different kind.