Christ in Flanders | Page 7

perhaps at that very
moment she was bathing, perfuming herself, robing herself in velvet,
fastening her necklace and her jeweled clasps; and the perverse Bishop,
so far from thinking of the power of Holy Church, of his duty to
comfort Christians and exhort them to trust in God, mingled worldly
regrets and lover's sighs with the holy words of the breviary. By the
dim light that shone on the pale faces of the company, it was possible
to see their differing expressions as the boat was lifted high in air by a
wave, to be cast back into the dark depths; the shallop quivered like a
fragile leaf, the plaything of the north wind in the autumn; the hull
creaked, it seemed ready to go to pieces. Fearful shrieks went up,
followed by an awful silence.
There was a strange difference between the behavior of the folk in the
bows and that of the rich or great people at the other end of the boat.
The young mother clasped her infant tightly to her breast every time
that a great wave threatened to engulf the fragile vessel; but she clung
to the hope that the stranger's words had set in her heart. Each time that
the eyes turned to his face she drew fresh faith at the sight, the strong
faith of a helpless woman, a mother's faith. She lived by that divine
promise, the loving words from his lips; the simple creature waited
trustingly for them to be fulfilled, and scarcely feared the danger any
longer.
The soldier, holding fast to the vessel's side, never took his eyes off the
strange visitor. He copied on his own rough and swarthy features the
imperturbability of the other's face, applying to this task the whole
strength of a will and intelligence but little corrupted in the course of a
life of mechanical and passive obedience. So emulous was he of a calm
and tranquil courage greater than his own, that at last, perhaps
unconsciously, something of that mysterious nature passed into his own
soul. His admiration became an instinctive zeal for this man, a
boundless love for and belief in him, such a love as soldiers feel for
their leader when he has the power of swaying other men, when the
halo of victories surrounds him, and the magical fascination of genius
is felt in all that he does. The poor outcast was murmuring to herself:
"Ah! miserable wretch that I am! Have I not suffered enough to expiate

the sins of my youth? Ah! wretched woman, why did you leave the gay
life of a frivolous Frenchwoman? why did you devour the goods of
God with churchmen, the substance of the poor with extortioners and
fleecers of the poor? Oh! I have sinned indeed!--Oh my God! my God!
let me finish my time in hell here in this world of misery."
And again she cried, "Holy Virgin, Mother of God, have pity upon
me!"
"Be comforted, mother. God is not a Lombard usurer. I may have killed
people good and bad at random in my time, but I am not afraid of the
resurrection."
"Ah! master Lancepesade, how happy those fair ladies are, to be so
near to a bishop, a holy man! They will get absolution for their sins,"
said the old woman. "Oh! if I could only hear a priest say to me, 'Thy
sins are forgiven!' I should believe it then."
The stranger turned towards her, and the goodness in his face made her
tremble.
"Have faith," he said, "and you will be saved."
"May God reward you, good sir," she answered. "If what you say is
true, I will go on pilgrimage barefooted to Our Lady of Loretto to pray
to her for you and for me."
The two peasants, father and son, were silent, patient, and submissive
to the will of God, like folk whose wont it is to fall in instinctively with
the ways of Nature like cattle. At the one end of the boat stood riches,
pride, learning, debauchery, and crime--human society, such as art and
thought and education and worldly interests and laws have made it; and
at this end there was terror and wailing, innumerable different impulses
all repressed by hideous doubts--at this end, and at this only, the agony
of fear.
Above all these human lives stood a strong man, the skipper; no doubts
assailed him, the chief, the king, the fatalist among them. He was
trusting in himself rather than in Providence, crying, "Bail away!"
instead of "Holy Virgin," defying the storm, in fact, and struggling with
the sea like a wrestler.
But the helpless poor at the other end of the wherry! The mother
rocking on her bosom the little one who smiled at the storm; the
woman once