<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></SPAN></p>
<h2> CHAPTER XII—THE SOLITUDE OF MONSEIGNEUR WELCOME </h2>
<p>A bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of little abbes,
just as a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what that
charming Saint Francois de Sales calls somewhere "les pretres
blancs-becs," callow priests. Every career has its aspirants, who form a
train for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power which
has not its dependents. There is no fortune which has not its court. The
seekers of the future eddy around the splendid present. Every metropolis
has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses the least influence
has about him his patrol of cherubim from the seminary, which goes the
round, and maintains good order in the episcopal palace, and mounts guard
over monseigneur's smile. To please a bishop is equivalent to getting
one's foot in the stirrup for a sub-diaconate. It is necessary to walk
one's path discreetly; the apostleship does not disdain the canonship.</p>
<p>Just as there are bigwigs elsewhere, there are big mitres in the Church.
These are the bishops who stand well at Court, who are rich, well endowed,
skilful, accepted by the world, who know how to pray, no doubt, but who
know also how to beg, who feel little scruple at making a whole diocese
dance attendance in their person, who are connecting links between the
sacristy and diplomacy, who are abbes rather than priests, prelates rather
than bishops. Happy those who approach them! Being persons of influence,
they create a shower about them, upon the assiduous and the favored, and
upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasing, of large
parishes, prebends, archidiaconates, chaplaincies, and cathedral posts,
while awaiting episcopal honors. As they advance themselves, they cause
their satellites to progress also; it is a whole solar system on the
march. Their radiance casts a gleam of purple over their suite. Their
prosperity is crumbled up behind the scenes, into nice little promotions.
The larger the diocese of the patron, the fatter the curacy for the
favorite. And then, there is Rome. A bishop who understands how to become
an archbishop, an archbishop who knows how to become a cardinal, carries
you with him as conclavist; you enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you
receive the pallium, and behold! you are an auditor, then a papal
chamberlain, then monsignor, and from a Grace to an Eminence is only a
step, and between the Eminence and the Holiness there is but the smoke of
a ballot. Every skull-cap may dream of the tiara. The priest is nowadays
the only man who can become a king in a regular manner; and what a king!
the supreme king. Then what a nursery of aspirations is a seminary! How
many blushing choristers, how many youthful abbes bear on their heads
Perrette's pot of milk! Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call
itself vocation? in good faith, perchance, and deceiving itself, devotee
that it is.</p>
<p>Monseigneur Bienvenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not accounted among the
big mitres. This was plain from the complete absence of young priests
about him. We have seen that he "did not take" in Paris. Not a single
future dreamed of engrafting itself on this solitary old man. Not a single
sprouting ambition committed the folly of putting forth its foliage in his
shadow. His canons and grand-vicars were good old men, rather vulgar like
himself, walled up like him in this diocese, without exit to a
cardinalship, and who resembled their bishop, with this difference, that
they were finished and he was completed. The impossibility of growing
great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well understood, that no sooner
had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they got
themselves recommended to the archbishops of Aix or of Auch, and went off
in a great hurry. For, in short, we repeat it, men wish to be pushed. A
saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation is a dangerous neighbor; he
might communicate to you, by contagion, an incurable poverty, an
anchylosis of the joints, which are useful in advancement, and in short,
more renunciation than you desire; and this infectious virtue is avoided.
Hence the isolation of Monseigneur Bienvenu. We live in the midst of a
gloomy society. Success; that is the lesson which falls drop by drop from
the slope of corruption.</p>
<p>Be it said in passing, that success is a very hideous thing. Its false
resemblance to merit deceives men. For the masses, success has almost the
same profile as supremacy. Success, that Menaechmus of talent, has one
dupe,—history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone grumble at it. In our day,
a philosophy which is almost official has entered into its service, wears
the livery of success, and performs the service of its antechamber.
Succeed: theory. Prosperity argues capacity. Win in the lottery, and
behold! you are a clever man. He who triumphs is venerated. Be born with a
silver spoon in your mouth! everything lies in that. Be lucky, and you
will have all the rest; be happy, and people will think you great. Outside
of five or six immense exceptions, which compose the splendor of a
century, contemporary admiration is nothing but short-sightedness. Gilding
is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival by pure chance, so long
as you do arrive. The common herd is an old Narcissus who adores himself,
and who applauds the vulgar herd. That enormous ability by virtue of which
one is Moses, Aeschylus, Dante, Michael Angelo, or Napoleon, the multitude
awards on the spot, and by acclamation, to whomsoever attains his object,
in whatsoever it may consist. Let a notary transfigure himself into a
deputy: let a false Corneille compose Tiridate; let a eunuch come to
possess a harem; let a military Prudhomme accidentally win the decisive
battle of an epoch; let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the
army of the Sambre-and-Meuse, and construct for himself, out of this
cardboard, sold as leather, four hundred thousand francs of income; let a
pork-packer espouse usury, and cause it to bring forth seven or eight
millions, of which he is the father and of which it is the mother; let a
preacher become a bishop by force of his nasal drawl; let the steward of a
fine family be so rich on retiring from service that he is made minister
of finances,—and men call that Genius, just as they call the face of
Mousqueton Beauty, and the mien of Claude Majesty. With the constellations
of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft
mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.