it was the feast of the assumption, and the archbishop, as he left his palace and stepped into the summer sunlight, breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the brilliance that glowed about him. for, during the mass which was about to be celebrated in the great cathedral, the passion of his life, one of the most impressive moments occurred when the sun shot its rays with pure and dazzling radiance for the first time into the middle of the apse. with exact calculation the architect had arranged that this took place on the fête day of st. remi, the patron saint of rheims, and when the day was overcast or rain obscured the sun it seemed to the archbishop that the almighty was expressing his displeasure of some negligence or wrongful act on the part of the guardian of this, to him, most precious and wonderful trust in the world.
but today the sun’s effulgence surpassed in warmth and splendor that of any august fifteenth in the archbishop’s memory, and brought into his heart an intense calm and peace which even the knowledge that german guns were despoiling belgium, not many leagues away, could not entirely dispel. nevertheless, the remembrance cast a shadow over the spirituality of his broad brow, and his lips moved in silent supplication for the suffering inhabitants, and that the onward march of the invaders would be stayed before their presence desecrated the sacred soil of france.
p. 133in rapt contemplation he stood, kindliness and benevolence radiating from his mild face, crowned with its silver halo of hair. his large, gentle eyes wandered over the massive pile raising its lofty steeples in eloquent testimony to the omnipotence of god; its slender spires, pointed portals, and lancet windows indicating the heights to which the thoughts and lives of men must reach before perfection can be attained.
when the archbishop emerged from the sacristy at the end of the long procession of choir, acolytes and coped priests, and entered the cathedral, the voice of the mighty organ was rolling through the edifice in rushing waves of melody, which ebbed and flowed in and out among the great columns in a wealth of harmonics, whose exquisite beauty, as they broke around him, caused a band to tighten about the old man’s throat.
the crossing was filled with a throng of devout worshippers whose faces wore a look of expectancy, for france, la belle france, was threatened by a danger greater than even the oldest among them could recall. war had always been a horror, but today it transcended, in the vague reports that reached them from stricken belgium, the worst the most imaginative of them could conceive, and the thought haunted them, in spite of their faith that the blessed virgin would not permit such a calamity to befall france, that notwithstanding their entreaties, the hand of the hun might descend on her as it had on her equally innocent and unprovoking neighbor.
the procession wound slowly to its place in the choir, and the organ broke into the great, swelling chords of gounod’s mass, mors et vita. the p. 134music, inspired by the sublime grandeur of the sanctuary where it had partly been composed, proclaimed an unshakable faith in the majesty and power of the almighty, whose protecting arm stands between his children and harm. gradually the tense look of alarm on the faces of the congregation changed to the serenity of souls in the presence of god.
the organ’s voice subsided to a breath, wafted in and out among the incense-filled recesses of the cathedral like the rustling of angels’ wings, and the deep-toned peal of the great cathedral bell rang through the tense stillness. all at once a shaft of pure radiance shot into the center of the apse from the angel’s spire. straight as a dart it descended until it found the jeweled arms of the cross. here it rested, throwing out myriad rays of effulgence, as if through them the spirit of the founder of their faith was renewing his promises of salvation to his flock.
a breathless hush rested on the congregation until, in an ecstasy of triumph, the organ burst once more into a p?an of praise. the procession receded into the remote spaces of the cathedral, and the worshippers passed out into the sunlit square. as they walked by the statue of joan of arc, who sits on her charger before the cathedral, many paused and spoke in low, reverent tones of the sacrifice she had made for france, and wondered if the same spirit of loyalty would spring into life if the land of their adoration stood in need of defense.
through the great western rose window of the cathedral the sun was casting quivering masses of rubies, topazes, emeralds, sapphires and amethysts p. 135to the floor below, where they lay in gorgeous profusion, melting one into the other in extravagant richness of beauty.
an old man stood in contemplation of the splendor of that mighty work of the ages which for a century and a half had been the especial care of his forefathers, and to which end, with reverent preparation, each succeeding generation of his family had been trained. to the old vitrier the windows in the sacred structure were not only a holy trust, but a prized heritage, each separate particle to be watched and studied, as a mother guards its offspring from possible injury, and passed on to posterity in as perfect a condition as it was received.
so deep was his absorption in the magnificence of the spectacle before him that he did not notice the approaching step of the archbishop. the ecclesiastic laid his hand on monneuze’s shoulder.
“exquisite, is it not, mon vieux?” he asked in his resonant voice. “i have never seen the colors more superb than they are this afternoon.”
the old glass-maker started, and turned toward him. the expression of ecstatic wonder still lingered on his lined face, from which, behind his heavy glasses, peered eyes round and childlike in their unquestioning trust.
“the beauty of it passes belief, monseigneur,” he murmured fervently. “oh, that i knew the art of reproducing those marvelous colors! it is the sorrow of my life that, try as i may, i can never duplicate the depth, the richness—” he shook his head dejectedly, and fixed his eyes once more on the flaming window.
“ah, jean,” answered the archbishop a little p. 136sadly. “so it is with all of us; no matter how hard we strive, we never reach the goal to which we are pressing. our attainments are ever a disappointment to us. we can only labor on, and live in the hope that on the last day, when we see our endeavors through the eyes of the blessed redeemer, we may find that his estimate of them, graded on the knowledge of our limitations, will be higher than ours. it may be that our efforts and the sincerity of our motives will be judged instead of the results we were able to achieve. we must remember that no man can do bigger things than his capacity allows.”
the vitrier did not reply. his eyes wavered from the magnificence above him to the spiritualized countenance at his side. it surprised him that the archbishop, renowned alike for his piety and good works, should speak so slightingly of his life.
the ecclesiastic had turned and was gazing at the representation of the almighty on the great rose window of the south transept. something of the sublimity of the conception and execution of the masterpiece was reflected on his face, over which still hovered an expression of humility. his eyes left the window and swept up the vast stretches of the cathedral, over mighty pillars, great misty aisles, glorious choir, its beauty half shrouded in the encroaching shadows, until they reached the very penetralia of the lady chapel.
“ah, jean,” he went on in a deep, vibrant voice, “great is god’s goodness that he has seen fit to confide this marvelous structure to our keeping. may we so live that, when we are called to give an accounting of our stewardship, we may hear the wondrous words: ‘well done, good and faithful servant!’”
p. 137the lips of the aged vitrier moved in a murmured “amen,” and they watched in silence the sun, as it threw its dying rays through the window to their feet. they fell in a great splash of red, like blood, on the pavement, and a shudder shook the archbishop’s frame. he passed his hand over his forehead, and the shadow that had clouded his face in the morning settled once more on it. bidding the old glass-painter good night, he moved up the dusky nave.
days and weeks slipped by, and the gray waves of the invaders rolled nearer to rheims. notwithstanding the heroic, almost superhuman, efforts of her sons, the vandals swept across her borders into france, ravishing, desecrating, destroying in a frenzy of frightfulness so terrible that the world, shocked beyond belief, stood aghast and incredulous at the reports that reached it.
the archbishop of rheims, with others who believed that there was good in the worst of men, at first resolutely declined to credit the rumors that reached him. but when, at last, driven before the attacking force, the refugees, with terror-stricken faces, came breathlessly into the city, the mothers clutching their babies to their breasts, with little tots scarce able to toddle clinging to their skirts and, throwing themselves on his mercy, recounted with white lips, in a dull monotone, the horrors that had befallen them and theirs, the hopeful trust in the old priest’s face turned into a crushed look of sadness as the knowledge came home to him that his faith in man was an illusion of which, at the end of his life, he was to be bereaved.
he lent such aid as lay in his power to the stricken peasants, and when the wounded, friend p. 138and foe, were brought in and, overflowing hospital and private dwelling, still clamored for succor, he threw open the great sanctuary to the germans with the thought that here they would at least be safe from the shells that were beginning to fall on the outlying districts of the city.
then one night, when the foreboding chill of autumn had replaced summer’s golden warmth, the archbishop was awakened by a noise, apparently in his bedroom, which shook the house to its foundations. he rose hurriedly and, going to the window, saw that the east was ablaze with light. although the dawn was approaching, he realized that the refulgence that flared across the horizon was man-made, for the rumble of mighty guns which, when he had retired the night before, had been louder and more resonant than before, had risen to a threatening roar that forced a sickening sense of impotence upon him.
startled by the sudden proximity of the enemy, the archbishop dressed hurriedly and made his way to the square, already half filled with people. an old woman approached him and, with blanched face, asked whether he thought the city would be shelled and destroyed, as were the belgian towns. he shook his head despairingly, and his lips framed the words:
“god forbid!”
as she turned away he prayed fervently that, even though the pillaging hordes might, in their fury against the inhabitants, devastate the city, the fact that they claimed the same god as their savior to whose glory the cathedral had been erected would prove its safeguard and protection. but, even as he prayed, a great bomb blazed a trail p. 139through the gray light, and hurled itself on the roof of the sacred edifice. it exploded with concentrated fury, tearing off great pieces of the roof and casting them at his feet.
“they’ve found the range!” excitedly exclaimed a man who stood near the archbishop. “can it be possible that they intend to destroy the cathedral?”
the archbishop was staring with incredulous eyes at the gaping wound the shot had made.
“no,” he declared firmly, without removing his eyes. “it is not possible. this injury is an unfortunate mistake. sacred edifices are protected by human and moral laws, and, besides, the cathedral of rheims, because of its perfection, belongs to all time and all peoples. no one destroys his own heritage.”
nevertheless, the remembrance of the destruction of louvain and the desecration of many churches by the germans since their treacherous entrance into belgium, when they cast aside men’s faith in their honor, seared itself across his mind. their acts had disproved their vaunted belief in god which, had it existed, would have shown itself in a reverent solicitude for his dwelling place.
the words had hardly left his lips when a shower of explosives fell on and about the massive structure, hewing out huge lumps of the masonry, which descended in a deluge of stone on the roofs of the adjacent houses.
a glare of light flared behind the great rose-window, throwing for the last time a blaze of glory into the horror-stricken faces below; then it burst into a thousand fragments that shivered to pieces on the pavement of the square.
surrounded by the gleaming bits of imprisoned p. 140sunshine, jean monneuze gazed with wide, unbelieving eyes at the yawning space in the fa?ade. the thought took shape in his mind that this act of profanation could not be true, that it must be some hideous nightmare at which he would scoff in the morning, and he prayed aloud that the awakening would be soon, that he might be relieved of the torture he was undergoing. a voice at his elbow roused him.
“may god curse the kaiser, and the rest of his breed, for this sacrilege!”
the old vitrier turned quickly, the fury of a mother for her ravished young in his working face. “amen!” he exclaimed harshly.
a group of people near him parted, and out of it jean saw the archbishop slowly advance. the look of intense suffering on his face had driven away the peace that formerly rested there, but his countenance was untinged by venom or desire for revenge. his sunken eyes met the glass-maker’s, and jean, a sob clutching at his throat, fell on his knees and began gathering up the gems of shattered glass that lay at his feet. he rose as the archbishop reached him, and held out the fragments to him. for a moment they gazed into each other’s eyes without speaking, then a wistful little smile flitted across the archbishop’s face.
“the lord hath given—the lord hath taken away.” there was a pause while he waited for the response; but the old vitrier’s chin had sunk on his breast, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were fastened on the gleaming bits of glass. once more the archbishop’s voice fell on his ears:
“blessed be the name of the lord.” there was an accent of surprised reproach in the patient p. 141tones, but only pity shone on the gentle countenance as he noted the quivering face of the old man who, turning abruptly away, disappeared into the crowd.
a chorus of voices rose shrilly above the shrieking of the shells:
“the roof is on fire! it’s burning!”
the words galvanized the archbishop into action.
“the wounded!” he exclaimed. “they will perish if they remain where they are!”
“let ’em!” retorted a thick-set ouvrier. he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. “they deserve to die, and they’re not fit to live!” he turned brusquely away, and stared with sullen eyes at the smoking roof from which jets of flame were spurting.
a look of anguish crept over the archbishop’s face. could it be that his flock had caught so little of the spirit of his teaching that, when it was put to the test, it collapsed as the mighty edifice was crumbling under the demolishing shells? if this were so, it explained the destruction of the cathedral as the retribution for the failure of his ministry. his life work, as well as his life trust, was disintegrating before his eyes. even jean monneuze, the spirituality of whose life, in daily contact with the inspiring sanctuary they both adored, had faltered under the supreme test, and if jean, for whom he would have vouched under all circumstances, would succumb, how could he expect that the others, with so incomparably less sustaining spiritual strength in their lives, would respond to the call. the bitterness of gethsemane fell on him, and his face, lighted by the glare from the burning structure, was drawn with pain.
p. 142a shell hurtled through the air, and fell against the portal. rending from its place the head of the angel with the smile, it flung it into the square. angry mutterings rose from the crowd as the ouvrier picked up the head and held it aloft for every one to see.
the archbishop stepped up on the base of the pedestal of the statue to the maid of orleans. he raised his hand impressively.
“my children,” he began in a voice tremulous with emotion. “the master admonishes us to love our enemies, to do good to them that hate us, to pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us. if we do good only to those who love us, how much better are we than the heathen? did you not see that, despite its destruction, the angel of rheims smiled on?” he spread out his arms in an agony of entreaty. “oh my children,” he pleaded, “do not fail me now!”
the rays of the rising sun shone on his face and illumined it with unearthly radiance. the people stood spellbound before him.
once more he raised his hand and, pointing to the burning cathedral, cried in a resonant voice that rang like a clarion:
“the wounded! who helps me rescue them?”
still that tense silence hung over the motionless throng which the crackling of the flames, and the moaning and singing of death as it whistled through the air, only served to accentuate.
the old vitrier elbowed his way through the crowd and, laying his hand on the base of the statue, said in a clear, loud voice:
“monseigneur, i will assist.”
in the uncertain light the two old men stood p. 143scanning the quivering, upturned faces. then a sudden change swept over the mass.
“au secours! au secours!” the voice of the crowd rose as from one man in a cry, increasing in volume with each repetition until, in the archbishop’s ears, it sounded like a shout of victory. the men turned, and surged toward the entrance of the cathedral.
the archbishop’s face went white, and he grasped the spurred foot of the maid for support. he closed his eyes, and his lips moved spasmodically. then they parted in a smile of such celestial beauty that the old vitrier, standing at his feet, averted his eye as though unable to bear the sight.
the large central door of the cathedral swung open, and four men, carrying a litter on which lay a gray, motionless form, emerged. they were followed by others in what seemed an endless procession, gently bearing their burdens through the showers of flying pieces of granite statuary and structure stone which the shells were cleaving from the fa?ade.
the flames that were devouring the roof rose in a dull roar; a great bomb crashed through the hallowed walls, and fell on the palace, where it exploded with terrific force.
the archbishop looked silently at the ruin of his home, then he concentrated his attention on the stream of wounded still flowing from the mutilated pile, and directed and guided the movements of the rescuers. when the last of the sufferers had been removed to a place of safety, he stepped down from the pedestal and, entering a little house on the other side of the square, mounted the stairs until he reached a small room which faced the east.
p. 144he entered and, softly closing the door, walked to the window, from which the glass had fallen. kneeling down in the chill morning air he gazed out at the blackened, smoking husk, his soul in his eyes, as one kneels by the bedside of all that life holds dear, waiting with bated breath for the final dissolution of soul from body with the dull knowledge that, with the passing of that spirit, the light of the world is extinguished.
still he watches, noting day by day the destruction by wanton shells of one of man’s most glorious tributes to god, ever with the patient look of suffering on his face, as though the prayer from ceaseless repetition had crystallized on his brain:
“father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”
emily w. scott.
