V. The Anglican Service

Quel que soit le peuple et le point de l’histoire, au sein du paganisme, comme au sein d’Israël et dans les diverses parties du patrimoine Chrétien, il sera permis à une élite de percevoir le soupir de l’homme vers le Dieu inconnu et la réponse de ce Dieu.

L. Wagner.

An eventful morning!

For the first time in my life I am present at an Anglican service. The ball-room, unused since Mrs. Deslandes’ ill-health, has been improvised into a chapel.

All the people of the station and the surrounding homesteads are assembled. The men, for the most part tall, vigorous and sunburnt, look one in the face as equals, free men in a free land. The women, with their beautiful hair and eyes, their fresh dainty frocks, are very sweet and attractive. Generally speaking, they possess more refinement than the men. One feels that the majority, even the poorest among them, read and reflect.

Mr. Brown, my uncle’s manager, is in the front row with his wife. Daisy marshals in the children, looking after them with quite a maternal air. Her glorious blue eyes flash me a smiling greeting.

The domestics place themselves behind Mrs. Deslandes, who has left her room early in order to be present at the service conducted by her son.

As I take my place beside her mistress, Meg looks dumbfounded. Daisy seats herself at the harmonium and the service begins. It is with the greatest astonishment that I recognise almost all the ritual of the Mass—the Vestments of the priest, the Crucifix, the flowers, and even the candles burning on the altar. If it were not that the prayers are recited in English instead of Latin, I might think myself in a Roman Catholic Church like those to which I often used to go to hear the beautiful music.

What would some of our French Protestants say to it all? Rabid Calvinists, for example?

As for me, too indifferent, perhaps, to attach much importance to forms, I concentrate my attention on the clergyman.

He is no longer the simple young man who chatted and jested with us last night. He is a true priest, a hierophant even, accomplishing a divine mystery. A mystic atmosphere envelops him; an ardent faith illumines his face; his gestures are majestic. The sermon is scarcely eloquent, perhaps, but permeated with absolute conviction. Some words echo strangely in my modern ears, accustomed to the broad-minded discourses of good “Pasteur Wagner,” the author of “The Simple Life,” who used to welcome me every Sunday in Paris in his little Oratory. They were addresses rather than sermons, on Charity, Love, Justice. Hector speaks of Predestination, of Salvation reserved for the Elect, the chosen Vessels of Grace. I look curiously at the congregation to see the effect of this strange doctrine. Nobody seems restive.

My aunt follows with eyes and heart the utterances of the preacher, whose face is animated with an expression almost fanatic in its intensity. Meg listens with unction. It is quite clear she counts herself among the chosen few. For the life of me I cannot help thinking of Max O’Rell’s story of the woman taken to task for her intolerance. “Do you think, my good woman, that only you and your husband will be saved?”

“Nae, nae,” replied the old dame, shaking her head, “I’m na sae sure o’ John.”

Mr. and Mrs. Brown remain to dinner; on service days that has always been the custom.

I love Daisy more and more. She is youth and freshness incarnate. The sermon has not made much impression on her. The great problems of Predestination and Grace glide over her head like water on the proverbial duck’s back. Her thoughts are busy with the forthcoming ball at Strathalbyn, when she is to “come out.” Soon we are talking gaily of ball-dresses, partners and cotillions—things which after all are natural to youth.

Miracle of miracles! Meg has brought me a cup of tea, that delightful morning tea which puts one in a good temper for the rest of the day.

After fidgetting about for some minutes she says:

“Well, Miss Joan (it is thus she gives my name a Scottish flavour) I was surprised to see ye at the sairvice yester morn. Then it’s nae true ye’re a Papist?”

“Certainly not, Meg. What put that notion into your head?”

“For sure, Miss, I thocht that all Frenchies were Papists.”

“What about my uncle, then?”

“Indeed, for all the religion the maister has, he micht be a pagan.”

It is true, my dear uncle is much more interested in his sheep than in church services. But never mind, “le Bon Dieu” will keep a place for him in His Paradise.

Meg continues: “Hoo is it, then, Miss Joan, that you belong to the true Church?”

I cannot suppress a smile. Whatever one’s particular creed may be, it is always that of the only true Church.

I explain that there are many Protestants in France, Calvinists especially.

Meg can scarcely credit her ears, and despite all my protestations, will not believe that John Calvin, as she calls him, was a Frenchman. That is quite beyond her.

Only out of deference does she finally submit, inwardly sure that if he did happen to be born at Noyon, in France, it was only through an evil chance. He ought to have been a SCOT at any rate.

She leaves the room muttering: “John Calvin a Frenchy! It’s nae posseeble.”