Читать книгу Lamy of Santa Fe - Paul Horgan - Страница 15

vi.

The Two Friends

LAMY’S VOCATION came alive in his childhood. Equipped with the simple learning of his family, he was enrolled before the age of nine in the Jesuit collège at Billom, a short distance from Clermont-Ferrand. Billom, like all the regional towns, was ancient, and its school, older than any in Clermont, was the first which the Jesuits administered in Auvergne. After their order was suppressed in 1773, the school was conducted by secular teachers. In 1814 Jesuits again took charge.

Nine years later, now with study for the priesthood his clear purpose, Lamy was entered at the preparatory seminary of Clermont, where he took the usual classical curriculum and presently, for the long course of theology, he was admitted to the diocesan seminary of Mont-Ferrand, which, administered by the Sulpicians, occupied a mass of seventeenth-century buildings on the outskirts of the city. Later used in turn by the gendarmerie as a barracks, and finally by Clermont’s Ecole Supérieure de Commerce, the seminary in 1832 was still a closed world of studies and devotions, under strict discipline. In its long echoing corridors, under its mansard roof, and within its high interiors and general institutional darkness, the seminarian on entering could look forward to six years of separation from the open life to which he would one day be returned as a leader, fixed in purpose and sure of his means. In such an institution, the opportunity for personal affinity remained formal; but in a class two years ahead of Lamy was the seminarian who became his closest friend, then, and for life.

Outwardly, the two could not have been less alike. Lamy was taller than average, with a long-boned frame and a large head with dark hair, a tall wide brow, and a strongly modelled square-jawed face. Photographs later showed him as a gravely handsome man. His temperament reflected the country life he came from—orderly if not rapid in thought, mild in expression, strong and patient in a mind made up. He was so gentle with his early school companions that they nicknamed him “the Lamb.” If he generally looked serious, he could be robustly humorous. Behind his eyes lay emotions which could be powerfully stirred and at times become exhausting. He knew what hard physical work was, and when necessary he expended reserves in effort which sometimes left him ill. Strong as he looked, he was peculiarly subject to periodic bad health, which was not always entirely physical in origin, but arose from a nervous fragility which he came to ignore through hard work. He seemed all simplicity, but he was woven of many strands—warm intelligence, charm, modesty, with a certain hardnesss veiled by habitual patience. Slow-moving, he went about his days with long strides at the pace of a countryman who thought in seasons rather than in days or hours.

By contrast, his fellow seminarian, Machebeuf, born in Riom south of Vichy on 11 August 1812, the elder by two years, was conspicuous for his small size, his pale hair and eyelashes (his nickname was “Whitey”), and his liveliness. His mind darted from notion to notion. Mischief played about in his gaiety; his small, plain, clever face was animated by a venturesome spirit; his little body hated to be still. He had come to his priestly studies despite early distractions—at one time, seeing a grand military review, he was all for a soldier’s life; but ever after his mother’s death during his ninth year, the priesthood held a powerful call, and despite the trials of his youth, “pleins de chasmes et illusions” as someone wrote of him, it took him all the way to Mont-Ferrand. But even there, the confining regimen soon threatened his health and he was forced to spend a brief time away from the seminary to restore himself in free action. His resolve held, he returned, and like Lamy after him, completed his course.

It was a time of the religious revival under Louis Philippe, after the iconoclasms of the first Revolution, followed by Napoleon’s self-serving rapprochement with the Roman Church. Religious orders and education had been secularized, the Papacy had been bent to the parvenu emperor’s will, and the energy of the new politics was still animated by doctrinaire idealism. Alexis de Tocqueville was examining for the Old World how democracy was working in the New. America was becoming a world factor, calling to the religious mind as well as to the political hopes of the increasing tide of colonists who went to be free and rich—partners to the open promise of the new republic overseas.

Taking his “course of philosophy and theology” at Mont-Ferrand, where he distinguished himself “by his talents and above all by his exemplary life,” Lamy spent much time reading of the missioners abroad in the “Lettres Edifiantes” of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, and the heroic endurances which at times were required of them.

He was not alone in his thoughts of far places. Machebeuf had also thought of missionary life, always with America as its imaginary scene. France had already partaken of America in determining ways—early exploration, support for the ideal and act of the American Revolution, and more lately the religious colonization of the new states by clergy who had fled revolutionary France.

French missioners returning from across the Atlantic reported news and marvels of the sort to challenge youth. The seminarians at Mont-Ferrand heard a certain Lazarist, John Mary Odin, who first became bishop of Galveston and later archbishop of New Orleans, tell of hardships and needs on the barbaric coast of the Gulf of Mexico. Begging for money and men, he was rewarded also with stirred imaginations. In 1833 an old bishop—Benedict Joseph Flaget, who long ago was a seminarian at Mont-Ferrand—came back to his native Auvergne from Kentucky and spoke to his young successors of how he had spent his forty years in America. In his time, the Appalachians had been breached, the westward map was slowly unfolding. He was consecrated bishop of Bardstown, Kentucky, by Archbishop Carroll in Baltimore in 1810, and his first cathedral—in a Roman and Gothic town they heard him tell of this—was an open log cabin, and his diocesan parishioners consisted of four families in an area half a dozen times as large as Italy. He was at times companioned by Algonquins, and slept in the open air or in the conical hide tents of the Indians. His work in Auvergne while Lamy and Machebeuf were still seminarians was to give zest to others who would follow such a path as he had walked in all weathers—the exhausting prairie summer heat, the blizzard of prairie winter, the slow progress through vast pathless woods. The old bishop looked frail but was hardy as dried rawhide, and his seamed old face suggested gem-hard wits mixed with Latin gaiety, rather like traits seen in such faces as those of Voltaire and Leo XIII. During the early 1830s, at the express wish of Pope Gregory XVI, he worked for two years in France and Sardinia, stirring alive America and her needs in the aspirations of the new generation of clergy and religious. His authority was that of the survivor of far and dangerous enterprise; his vision was of that sort which kindled youth. Lamy and Machebeuf often talked together of the appeal of that distant life, and not only they—other seminarians were drawn toward it, until their priesthood converged with the needs of history. Their ordeal of preparation must be so solemn, under ancient ways, as to be an irrevocable source of strength.