XI. The Letter Kills

D’où viennent l’intolérance, les haines religieuses, la polémique et le fanatisme? Ils tiennent tous à une fausse conception de l’essence et du but de la Religion.

C. Wagner (Justice).

The inquisitor was sometimes conscientious when he racked and burned his brother man for the glory of God and the salvation of the souls of others who might be inclined to follow that heretical brother; he acted with a clear conscience, honestly believing himself to be doing service both to God and to man.

Annie Besant.

His letter has arrived....

A cold chill has passed over my heart. Can it really be Hector who, ignoring the spirit of the Gospel, has written these words, with their sophistry and fanatical respect for the letter of the Jewish Bible?

“... If you deny Revelation everything crumbles under your feet.... It is your duty to accept and believe the truth taught by the Church. Has not the Saviour promised that He will always be with his Church even to the end of the world, to guide it in the path of Truth?... The Bible is the directly inspired word of God, and we must bow before its teaching without presuming to judge it.... All Faith rests on the doctrine of the Redemption, of Predestination, of the Day of Judgment.... Many of our clergy themselves ignore these subjects. They are spiritual heretics, freethinkers under the garb of the Church....”

Then follows an exhortation:

“Beloved, cease your doubts. Prostrate yourself before the Cross, stained with the blood of Christ, that blood shed in order to efface the sins of the world. Come, before the justice of an angry God bars the way.”

He finishes with these words, which in his sincere but blind faith he believes must touch me:

“Pray for the Light! Oh, my life, may our Saviour enlighten you with his Grace!”

No, no, I cannot pray. I do not want this unjust Grace which would single me out arbitrarily. Rather would I remain in doubt, in negation, even, than admit this conception of a partial Creator who cannot be appeased but by the abasement of Conscience and intelligence, the greatest gifts bestowed by him.

Hector is here. For a week he has tried all means, arguments, persuasion, tenderness, to break what he calls my intellectual pride.

He makes me read Pusey, Stanley, Weldon.... In vain he cites the great minds, the lofty spirits who have accepted unmurmuringly the dogmas which revolt me—above all, that of an eternal Hell. This is the one upon which he is most inflexible.

“Then those you term pagans,” I argue, “you condemn them also to this eternal punishment?”

“We have no right to judge God. In his immutable justice He separates the sheep from the goats.”

“If He is cruel enough to condemn those who have no means of knowing Him, I should prefer to be with them in Hell rather than in Heaven with your God.”

These controversies, which leave me utterly broken and exhausted, only increase the gulf between us.

Hector has adjured me by the regard I have for him, by the submission I owe him as priest, by our love for each other, to make an act of intellectual humility and come to the Communion Table to-morrow morning.

I could have done so once. In the little Paris oratory of Pasteur Wagner I sometimes partook of the Communion. But he never preached this God of Vengeance, this Father appeased only by the blood of his own Son!... Now, this act of Communion would be sheer hypocrisy, a blasphemy against my conscience. No, even though I lose Hector’s love, sunder our lives, I must be honest with myself and him.

The evening has passed apparently as usual, dinner en famille, followed by bridge, but the atmosphere is charged with suppressed emotion. My aunt, sensitive like all nervous natures to external influences, suspects that something is wrong. She is troubled and looks at us anxiously. My guardian asks me to sing. I cannot. My throat is constricted as though in a vice.

As I look up from the book I have taken I encounter Hector’s gaze.

His eyes are fixed upon me, seeking to impose his will on my soul. Thought is really a force. I feel his beating against my brain, seeking to break down my resistance, to absorb my personality, stupefying me as with an anaesthetic....

The night has been one long struggle.

My tortured heart has striven to convince my reason.

I have retraced again and again all the old theological arguments, the problems remain unsolved. I endeavour to pray; the words halt on my lips. I see before me only a precipice, a void, ready to engulf me....

I have no courage to appear at breakfast. I even hesitate whether I shall go to matins, but it looks too cowardly to stay away. Besides, who knows? A flash of Faith, a spark from the Divine Light may descend upon me and dissipate my doubts.

When I enter the little improvised chapel Hector is already at the altar.

For one moment his eyes seek mine with devouring intensity. Then he turns and gives himself wholly to his office.

His voice, more sonorous than usual, has deep notes in it which go straight to my soul as he pronounces the words of the solemn ritual.

“I bid you in the name of God, I call you in Christ’s behalf, I exhort you as ye love your own salvation, that ye will be partakers of this holy Communion.” My whole being rushes towards him. I rise to follow the communicants. A force greater still holds me back. The voice of my conscience cries so loudly that I seem to actually hear it within my heart. “You no longer believe, you no longer believe. It is a crime towards him, towards God, to yield to a momentary emotion. Better to separate than live a life of lies.”

My engagement is broken.

Hector has gone, never to come back.

Here is the letter which was brought to my room where, almost unconscious, I returned after the service.

“Jeanne,—God has not granted my prayer and enlightened your heart. There is only one means to propitiate Him—the sacrifice of my life, the sacrifice of my love. I submit to His will. An atheist (my heart bleeds in giving you that name) who denies Revelation, the authority of the Divine Book, cannot be the wife of a minister of God. To continue to see you, to feel the charm of your presence, would be impossible.... I am only a man, a man who loves you with all his heart, and soul and body.... From afar as near, O my loved one, my prayers shall follow you, my supplications shall mount to the God of Justice who is also the God of Mercy. He will break down the barrier of your pride and lead you to His feet. I am writing to my mother to explain my departure. Love her, my dear mother, who loves me so dearly; soften by your affection the grief she will feel ... be to her the daughter she hoped to find indeed in you.

“Adieu, Jeanne, my beloved. I confide you to His care.

“Hector.”

My poor Aunt Molly! Her heart will be broken!