“Tell Ursula to come and speak to me,” he said, seating himself in the center of his library.
The girl came; she ran up to him and kissed him. The doctor took her on his knee, where she sat contentedly1, mingling2 her soft fair curls with the white hair of her old friend.
“Do you want something, godfather?”
“Yes; but promise me, on your salvation3, to answer frankly4, without evasion5, the questions that I shall put to you.”
Ursula colored to the temples.
“Oh! I’ll ask nothing that you cannot speak of,” he said, noticing how the bashfulness of young love clouded the hitherto childlike purity of the girl’s blue eyes.
“Ask me, godfather.”
“What thought was in your mind when you ended your prayers last evening, and what time was it when you said them.”
“It was a quarter-past or half-past nine.”
“Well, repeat your last prayer.”
The girl fancied that her voice might convey her faith to the sceptic; she slid from his knee and knelt down, clasping her hands fervently6; a brilliant light illumined her face as she turned it on the old man and said:—
“What I asked of God last night I asked again this morning, and I shall ask it till he vouchsafes7 to grant it.”
Then she repeated her prayer with new and still more powerful expression. To her great astonishment8 her godfather took the last words from her mouth and finished the prayer.
“Good, Ursula,” said the doctor, taking her again on his knee. “When you laid your head on the pillow and went to sleep did you think to yourself, ‘That dear godfather; I wonder who is playing backgammon with him in Paris’?”
Ursula sprang up as if the last trumpet9 had sounded in her ears. She gave a cry of terror; her eyes, wide open, gazed at the old man with awful fixity.
“Who are you, godfather? From whom do you get such power?” she asked, imagining that in his desire to deny God he had made some compact with the devil.
“What seeds did you plant yesterday in the garden?”
“Mignonette, sweet-peas, balsams —”
“And the last were larkspur?”
She fell on her knees.
“Do not terrify me!” she exclaimed. “Oh you must have been here — you were here, were you not?”
“Am I not always with you?” replied the doctor, evading10 her question, to save the strain on the young girl’s mind. “Let us go to your room.”
“Your legs are trembling,” she said.
“Yes, I am confounded, as it were.”
“Can it be that you believe in God?” she cried, with artless joy, letting fall the tears that gathered in her eyes.
The old man looked round the simple but dainty little room he had given to his Ursula. On the floor was a plain green carpet, very inexpensive, which she herself kept exquisitely11 clean; the walls were hung with a gray paper strewn with roses and green leaves; at the windows, which looked to the court, were calico curtains edged with a band of some pink material; between the windows and beneath a tall mirror was a pier-table topped with marble, on which stood a Sevres vase in which she put her nosegays; opposite the chimney was a little bureau-desk of charming marquetry. The bed, of chintz, with chintz curtains lined with pink, was one of those duchess beds so common in the eighteenth century, which had a tuft of carved feathers at the top of each of the four posts, which were fluted12 on the sides. An old clock, inclosed in a sort of monument made of tortoise-shell inlaid with arabesques13 of ivory, decorated the mantelpiece, the marble shelf of which, with the candlesticks and the mirror in a frame painted in cameo on a gray ground, presented a remarkable14 harmony of color, tone, and style. A large wardrobe, the doors of which were inlaid with landscapes in different woods (some having a green tint15 which are no longer to be found for sale) contained, no doubt, her linen16 and her dresses. The air of the room was redolent of heaven. The precise arrangement of everything showed a sense of order, a feeling for harmony, which would certainly have influenced any one, even a Minoret–Levrault. It was plain that the things about her were dear to Ursula, and that she loved a room which contained, as it were, her childhood and the whole of her girlish life.
Looking the room well over that he might seem to have a reason for his visit, the doctor saw at once how the windows looked into those of Madame de Portenduere. During the night he had meditated17 as to the course he ought to pursue with Ursula about his discovery of this dawning passion. To question her now would commit him to some course. He must either approve or disapprove18 of her love; in either case his position would be a false one. He therefore resolved to watch and examine into the state of things between the two young people, and learn whether it were his duty to check the inclination19 before it was irresistible20. None but an old man could have shown such deliberate wisdom. Still panting from the discovery of the truth of these magnetic facts, he turned about and looked at all the various little things around the room; he wished to examine the almanac which was hanging at a corner of the chimney-piece.
“These ugly things are too heavy for your little hands,” he said, taking up the marble candlesticks which were partly covered with leather.
He weighed them in his hand; then he looked at the almanac and took it, saying, “This is ugly too. Why do you keep such a common thing in your pretty room?”
“Oh, please let me have it, godfather.”
“No, no, you shall have another tomorrow.”
So saying he carried off this possible proof, shut himself up in his study, looked for Saint Savinien and found, as the somnambulist had told him, a little red dot at the 19th of October; he also saw another before his own saint’s day, Saint Denis, and a third before Saint John, the abbe’s patron. This little dot, no larger than a pin’s head, had been seen by the sleeping woman in spite of distance and other obstacles! The old man thought till evening of these events, more momentous21 for him than for others. He was forced to yield to evidence. A strong wall, as it were, crumbled22 within him; for his life had rested on two bases — indifference23 in matters of religion and a firm disbelief in magnetism24. When it was proved to him that the senses — faculties25 purely26 physical, organs, the effects of which could be explained — attained27 to some of the attributes of the infinite, magnetism upset, or at least it seemed to him to upset, the powerful arguments of Spinoza. The finite and the infinite, two incompatible28 elements according to that remarkable man, were here united, the one in the other. No matter what power he gave to the divisibility and mobility29 of matter he could not help recognizing that it possessed30 qualities that were almost divine.
He was too old now to connect those phenomena31 to a system, and compare them with those of sleep, of vision, of light. His whole scientific belief, based on the assertions of the school of Locke and Condillac, was in ruins. Seeing his hollow ideas in pieces, his scepticism staggered. Thus the advantage in this struggle between the Catholic child and the Voltairean old man was on Ursula’s side. In the dismantled32 fortress33, above these ruins, shone a light; from the center of these ashes issued the path of prayer! Nevertheless, the obstinate34 old scientist fought his doubts. Though struck to the heart, he would not decide, he struggled on against God.
But he was no longer the same man; his mind showed its vacillation35. He became unnaturally36 dreamy; he read Pascal, and Bossuet’s sublime37 “History of Species”; he read Bonald, he read Saint–Augustine; he determined38 also to read the works of Swedenborg, and the late Saint–Martin, which the mysterious stranger had mentioned to him. The edifice39 within him was cracking on all sides; it needed but one more shake, and then, his heart being ripe for God, he was destined40 to fall into the celestial41 vineyard as fall the fruits. Often of an evening, when playing with the abbe, his goddaughter sitting by, he would put questions bearing on his opinions which seemed singular to the priest, who was ignorant of the inward workings by which God was remaking that fine conscience.
“Do you believe in apparitions42?” asked the sceptic of the pastor44, stopping short in the game.
“Cardan, a great philosopher of the sixteenth century said he had seen some,” replied the abbe.
“I know all those that scholars have discussed, for I have just reread Plotinus. I am questioning you as a Catholic might, and I ask if you think that dead men can return to the living.”
“Jesus reappeared to his disciples45 after his death,” said the abbe. “The Church ought to have faith in the apparitions of the Savior. As for miracles, they are not lacking,” he continued, smiling. “Shall I tell you the last? It took place in the eighteenth century.”
“Pooh!” said the doctor.
“Yes, the blessed Marie–Alphonse of Ligouri, being very far from Rome, knew of the death of the Pope at the very moment the Holy Father expired; there were numerous witnesses of this miracle. The sainted bishop46 being in ecstasy47, heard the last words of the sovereign pontiff and repeated them at the time to those about him. The courier who brought the announcement of the death did not arrive till thirty hours later.”
“Jesuit!” exclaimed old Minoret, laughing, “I did not ask you for proofs; I asked you if you believed in apparitions.”
“I think an apparition43 depends a good deal on who sees it,” said the abbe, still fencing with his sceptic.
“My friend,” said the doctor, seriously, “I am not setting a trap for you. What do you really believe about it?”
“I believe that the power of God is infinite,” replied the abbe.
“When I am dead, if I am reconciled to God, I will ask Him to let me appear to you,” said the doctor, smiling.
“That’s exactly the agreement Cardan made with his friend,” answered the priest.
“Ursula,” said Minoret, “if danger ever threatens you, call me, and I will come.”
“You have put into one sentence that beautiful elegy48 of ‘Neere’ by Andre Chenier,” said the abbe. “Poets are sublime because they clothe both facts and feelings with ever-living images.”
“Why do you speak of your death, dear godfather?” said Ursula in a grieved tone. “We Christians49 do not die; the grave is the cradle of our souls.”
“Well,” said the doctor, smiling, “we must go out of the world, and when I am no longer here you will be astonished at your fortune.”
“When you are here no longer, my kind friend, my only consolation50 will be to consecrate51 my life to you.”
“To me, dead?”
“Yes. All the good works that I can do will be done in your name to redeem52 your sins. I will pray God every day for his infinite mercy, that he may not punish eternally the errors of a day. I know he will summon among the righteous a soul so pure, so beautiful, as yours.”
That answer, said with angelic candor53, in a tone of absolute certainty, confounded error and converted Denis Minoret as God converted Saul. A ray of inward light overawed him; the knowledge of this tenderness, covering his years to come, brought tears to his eyes. This sudden effect of grace had something that seemed electrical about it. The abbe clasped his hands and rose, troubled, from his seat. The girl, astonished at her triumph, wept. The old man stood up as if a voice had called him, looking into space as though his eyes beheld54 the dawn; then he bent55 his knee upon his chair, clasped his hands, and lowered his eyes to the ground as one humiliated56.
“My God,” he said in a trembling voice, raising his head, “if any one can obtain my pardon and lead me to thee, surely it is this spotless creature. Have mercy on the repentant57 old age that this pure child presents to thee!”
He lifted his soul to God; mentally praying for the light of divine knowledge after the gift of divine grace; then he turned to the abbe and held out his hand.
“My dear pastor,” he said, “I am become as a little child. I belong to you; I give my soul to your care.”
Ursula kissed his hands and bathed them with her tears. The old man took her on his knee and called her gayly his godmother. The abbe, deeply moved, recited the “Veni Creator” in a species of religious ecstasy. The hymn58 served as the evening prayer of the three Christians kneeling together for the first time.
“What has happened?” asked La Bougival, amazed at the sight.
“My godfather believes in God at last!” replied Ursula.
“Ah! so much the better; he only needed that to make him perfect,” cried the old woman, crossing herself with artless gravity.
“Dear doctor,” said the good priest, “you will soon comprehend the grandeur59 of religion and the value of its practices; you will find its philosophy in human aspects far higher than that of the boldest sceptics.”
The abbe, who showed a joy that was almost infantine, agreed to catechize the old man and confer with him twice a week. Thus the conversion60 attributed to Ursula and to a spirit of sordid61 calculation, was the spontaneous act of the doctor himself. The abbe, who for fourteen years had abstained62 from touching63 the wounds of that heart, though all the while deploring64 them, was now asked for help, as a surgeon is called to an injured man. Ever since this scene Ursula’s evening prayers had been said in common with her godfather. Day after day the old man grew more conscious of the peace within him that succeeded all his conflicts. Having, as he said, God as the responsible editor of things inexplicable65, his mind was at ease. His dear child told him that he might know by how far he had advanced already in God’s kingdom. During the mass which we have seen him attend, he had read the prayers and applied66 his own intelligence to them; from the first, he had risen to the divine idea of the communion of the faithful. The old neophyte67 understood the eternal symbol attached to that sacred nourishment68, which faith renders needful to the soul after conveying to it her own profound and radiant essence. When on leaving the church he had seemed in a hurry to get home, it was merely that he might once more thank his dear child for having led him to “enter religion,”— the beautiful expression of former days. He was holding her on his knee in the salon69 and kissing her forehead sacredly at the very moment when his relatives were degrading that saintly influence with their shameless fears, and casting their vulgar insults upon Ursula. His haste to return home, his assumed disdain70 for their company, his sharp replies as he left the church were naturally attributed by all the heirs to the hatred71 Ursula had excited against them in the old man’s mind.
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1
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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8
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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9
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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10
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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11
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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12
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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13
arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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14
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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15
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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16
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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17
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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18
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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19
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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20
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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21
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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22
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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23
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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24
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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25
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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26
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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27
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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28
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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29
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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32
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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33
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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34
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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35
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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36
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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37
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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40
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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41
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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42
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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43
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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44
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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45
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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46
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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47
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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48
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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49
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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50
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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51
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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52
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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53
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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54
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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57
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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58
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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59
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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60
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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61
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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62
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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63
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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64
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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65
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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66
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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67
neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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68
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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69
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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70
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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71
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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