Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER XI—A RESTRICTION
1664 words | Chapter 86
We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves, were we to
conclude from this that Monseigneur Welcome was “a philosophical
bishop,” or a “patriotic curé.” His meeting, which may almost be
designated as his union, with conventionary G——, left behind it in his
mind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him still more gentle. That
is all.
Although Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politician, this is,
perhaps, the place to indicate very briefly what his attitude was in
the events of that epoch, supposing that Monseigneur Bienvenu ever
dreamed of having an attitude.
Let us, then, go back a few years.
Some time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate, the
Emperor had made him a baron of the Empire, in company with many other
bishops. The arrest of the Pope took place, as every one knows, on the
night of the 5th to the 6th of July, 1809; on this occasion, M. Myriel
was summoned by Napoleon to the synod of the bishops of France and
Italy convened at Paris. This synod was held at Notre-Dame, and
assembled for the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the
presidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one of the ninety-five
bishops who attended it. But he was present only at one sitting and at
three or four private conferences. Bishop of a mountain diocese, living
so very close to nature, in rusticity and deprivation, it appeared that
he imported among these eminent personages, ideas which altered the
temperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to D—— He was
interrogated as to this speedy return, and he replied: _“I embarrassed
them. The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them
the effect of an open door.”_
On another occasion he said, _“What would you have? Those gentlemen are
princes. I am only a poor peasant bishop.”_
The fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is
said that he chanced to remark one evening, when he found himself at
the house of one of his most notable colleagues: “What beautiful
clocks! What beautiful carpets! What beautiful liveries! They must be a
great trouble. I would not have all those superfluities, crying
incessantly in my ears: ‘There are people who are hungry! There are
people who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people!’”
Let us remark, by the way, that the hatred of luxury is not an
intelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts.
Nevertheless, in churchmen, luxury is wrong, except in connection with
representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have
very little that is charitable about them. An opulent priest is a
contradiction. The priest must keep close to the poor. Now, can one
come in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all
these misfortunes, and this poverty, without having about one’s own
person a little of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible
to imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm? Can one imagine a
workman who is working near a furnace, and who has neither a singed
hair, nor blackened nails, nor a drop of sweat, nor a speck of ashes on
his face? The first proof of charity in the priest, in the bishop
especially, is poverty.
This is, no doubt, what the Bishop of D—— thought.
It must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call the
“ideas of the century” on certain delicate points. He took very little
part in the theological quarrels of the moment, and maintained silence
on questions in which Church and State were implicated; but if he had
been strongly pressed, it seems that he would have been found to be an
ultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making a portrait,
and since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced to add that
he was glacial towards Napoleon in his decline. Beginning with 1813, he
gave in his adherence to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He
refused to see him, as he passed through on his return from the island
of Elba, and he abstained from ordering public prayers for the Emperor
in his diocese during the Hundred Days.
Besides his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, he had two brothers, one a
general, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable
frequency. He was harsh for a time towards the former, because, holding
a command in Provence at the epoch of the disembarkation at Cannes, the
general had put himself at the head of twelve hundred men and had
pursued the Emperor as though the latter had been a person whom one is
desirous of allowing to escape. His correspondence with the other
brother, the ex-prefect, a fine, worthy man who lived in retirement at
Paris, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate.
Thus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirit, his hour
of bitterness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment
traversed this grand and gentle spirit occupied with eternal things.
Certainly, such a man would have done well not to entertain any
political opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning: we are
not confounding what is called “political opinions” with the grand
aspiration for progress, with the sublime faith, patriotic, democratic,
humane, which in our day should be the very foundation of every
generous intellect. Without going deeply into questions which are only
indirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say
this: It would have been well if Monseigneur Bienvenu had not been a
Royalist, and if his glance had never been, for a single instant,
turned away from that serene contemplation in which is distinctly
discernible, above the fictions and the hatreds of this world, above
the stormy vicissitudes of human things, the beaming of those three
pure radiances, truth, justice, and charity.
While admitting that it was not for a political office that God created
Monseigneur Welcome, we should have understood and admired his protest
in the name of right and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but
perilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which
pleases us in people who are rising pleases us less in the case of
people who are falling. We only love the fray so long as there is
danger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone
the right to be the exterminators of the last. He who has not been a
stubborn accuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of
ruin. The denunciator of success is the only legitimate executioner of
the fall. As for us, when Providence intervenes and strikes, we let it
work. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1813 the cowardly breach of
silence of that taciturn legislative body, emboldened by catastrophe,
possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime to
applaud, in 1814, in the presence of those marshals who betrayed; in
the presence of that senate which passed from one dunghill to another,
insulting after having deified; in the presence of that idolatry which
was loosing its footing and spitting on its idol,—it was a duty to turn
aside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air,
when France was seized with a shiver at their sinister approach, when
Waterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Napoleon, the mournful
acclamation of the army and the people to the condemned of destiny had
nothing laughable in it, and, after making all allowance for the
despot, a heart like that of the Bishop of D——, ought not perhaps to
have failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by
the embrace of a great nation and a great man on the brink of the
abyss.
With this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable,
intelligent, humble and dignified, beneficent and kindly, which is only
another sort of benevolence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It
must be admitted, that even in the political views with which we have
just reproached him, and which we are disposed to judge almost with
severity, he was tolerant and easy, more so, perhaps, than we who are
speaking here. The porter of the town-hall had been placed there by the
Emperor. He was an old non-commissioned officer of the old guard, a
member of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist
as the eagle. This poor fellow occasionally let slip inconsiderate
remarks, which the law then stigmatized as _seditious speeches_. After
the imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honor, he never
dressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so that he should not
be obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the
imperial effigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him; this made
a hole, and he would not put anything in its place. _“I will die,”_ he
said, _“rather than wear the three frogs upon my heart!”_ He liked to
scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. “The gouty old creature in English
gaiters!” he said; _“let him take himself off to Prussia with that
queue of his.”_ He was happy to combine in the same imprecation the two
things which he most detested, Prussia and England. He did it so often
that he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house, with his
wife and children, and without bread. The Bishop sent for him, reproved
him gently, and appointed him beadle in the cathedral.
In the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu had, by dint of holy
deeds and gentle manners, filled the town of D——with a sort of tender
and filial reverence. Even his conduct towards Napoleon had been
accepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were, by the people, the good and
weakly flock who adored their emperor, but loved their bishop.
Reading Tips
Use arrow keys to navigate
Press 'N' for next chapter
Press 'P' for previous chapter