The Arm and the Darkness by Taylor Caldwell
The men, startled and dazed and stricken, only gaped at him, blinking. But many drew nearer, with the noiseless and slinking step of aroused tigers.
“You have taken crumbs and watered milk with fatuous adoration!” he shouted. “You have licked the boot that refrained from kicking you, for its own reasons! You have sunken into lathargy and sleep, sung into unconsciousness by sly lullabies! And never have you said to yourselves: ‘All this is being done for us because of a lord’s fear that much more shall be given us, honorably and with dignity, as free men!’”
He approached them from behind the table, his head bent and thrust forward like the head of an enraged bull. They gaped at him, fascinated, trembling, their dull faces wrinkling and darkening as his eloquence stirred their simple souls.
“The King has planned that the land upon which you work shall belong to you, as free Frenchmen! That your labors shall be for yourselves, that the harvests shall be your own! Have you reflected upon this? No! Only I have perceived, only I have known. And you have laughed at me, cackling in your foolish voices!”
The priest rose soundlessly and slipped away, smiling to himself. No one noticed his departure. Even when he had left the copse of trees and its infuriated haranguer, he could hear Dumont’s voice and the dull faint roar of an awakening audience.
CHAPTER XXXII
The moon rose that night with singular argent beauty, frosting every tree with quivering silver light, liquid and cool. The valleys were lustrous and brilliant in it, like valleys in the moon, itself, and the dark forests shook with the songs of countless nightingales. The roof of the château was plated with silver, the walls trembling with black leafy shadows. The hills ran with silver cataracts, and the flashing of the distant river was like the flashing of thousands of bared swords. From the vineyards rose the sweet strong smell of ripening grapes, and from the east came a wind heavy with fragrances and faint mysterious sounds. Where was the heart that was not shaken by the songs of the nightingales, and the long white shadows of the moon, and the dark murmurous peace?
There was one heart, and that was the heart of Monseigneur Antoine de Pacilli, reading and writing in Père Lovelle’s little humble house. He studied and wrote by the light of a taper, never once consciously gazing through the open window at the scene of unearthly loveliness and silence which lay outside. The candlelight carved his pale and sinister countenance and cavernous cheeks, so that it was the sharp hard sketch of an artist done in charcoal. Those narrow almond eyes under winged brows had no human warmth in them, no gentle human meditation.
He was writing his essay on Reason:
“There are those who expound the principle of reason in the realm of spiritual and physical humanity. But history is her own plagiarist, and repeats old truths persistently throughout the ages.
“When one searches the physical universe for Reason, one is confounded. The sentimentalist will discern benevolent reason in rain and wind, snow and sun, the wheeling of the seasons and the tides of the moon. He will ascribe an anthropomorphic and anthropocentric pattern in this. But in reality, all these things have transpired for many ages, long before there was a man to appreciate them and ascribe them as agencies to minister to his own egotiscal perfection and importance. When he listens to the singing of a bird in the moonlight, he says to himself: ‘Lo, what beauty God hath created for me!’ When trees lift themselves in the radiant mist of morning, he cries: ‘How lovely that God hath made this for mine eyes!’—But the bird will sing, and the mist will brighten when the last man has removed his afflicting presence from the earth.
“Therefore, in the universe there is no Reason, and where there is no reason, there is no anthropomorphic or anthropocentric pattern of ordered events.
“Man creates Reason for himself, for it is his necessity that there must be order in the universe. Reason, and order, therefore, are artificial concepts, existing only in the imaginations of men. However, these are necessary imaginations. Civilization could not exist, or existing, would be destroyed without them.
“But man’s invention of reason does not postulate that he is a creature of reason. He remains elemental, primordial, in all his relations. Reason is his poesy, apart from life. It does not extend into his own reality. Therefore, those who advocate reason in manipulating and guiding mankind, are operating in a fantastic realm, doomed to destruction. One cannot ‘appeal to the reason’ of men, for it is an element he does not possess as relating to himself.
“Princes, per se, are strong in proportion to the lack of reason with which they rule. Understanding the nature of man, the prince will only command. He will not hesitate to use the lash and the gallows, the torture and the wheel, in enforcing his decrees. Let him be merciful, and his people will argue: ‘Why?’ Let him use force only, and they will obey. The Church has long known this. It says: ‘Thou shalt,’ and not ‘Wilt thou, for this good and sufficient and intelligent Reason?’
Tomorrow, he reflected, as he laid down his pen and precisely wiped it clean, he would refine, pare down, and sharpen this essay, over and over, until it was a sharp and glittering gem. He opened a drawer in the table, and regarded a heap of manuscript with cold pleasure. His “Essays on Man and the Nature of the Universe” would soon be finished, and ready for the printer. He contemplated dedicating the book to the Cardinal, who would appreciate it; however, many would be the wry mouths he would make over it. For the Cardinal, whose emotions would disagree violently, would feel the reason implicit in the essays. For a moment or two, de Pacilli contemplated the thought that these essays were far superior to anything written by Machiavelli, who hated mankind because he had once loved it.
The priest was always cold, even on the warmest day or night. The core of black ice which was his heart was never touched by rays of sunlight or the effulgence of any moon. He wrapped his cloak about him, drew the hood far over his face, and proceeded on his mission.
His thin black shadow writhed behind him on the cobbled stones of the village street as he made his way in the moonlight to the small home of Guy La Farge, the overseer once in charge of the vineyards, and now only one of the workers in them under the supervision of François Grandjean. Long and careful study had brought to the priest the information that this thin, sullen and silent man, in his forties, had a passion for Cecile. He was a childless widower, and was of a saturnine and sour temperament.
When he answered the priest’s timid knock upon the door, he scowled at the sight of his visitor. But he was surlily polite enough to step aside and invite him to enter. He was a thin man, with graying hair, but with a lean and alert countenance, always suspicious and sultry. He sat down on the opposite side of the table, and awaited what the priest would say.
De Pacilli glanced about the bare and shining order of the little room with open pleasure. “Ah, it is a monk’s cell!” he murmured. “In cluttered surroundings, one’s thoughts are muddled and confused. I see in this chamber the evidence that you are a man of thought, my dear Monsieur La Farge!”
La Farge had this conceit, himself, which was the mother of the contempt and detestation he felt for the simple peasants. He smiled darkly, and with an air of secret but mournful self-knowledge. He gazed into space gloomily, tapping his brown fingers against his lips and chin.
“There are some,” continued the priest, with a regretful sigh, “who affect to discover danger in men who think. I cannot ascribe to this sophistry. I see, however, that those who might be endangered by men of thought might set themselves furiously to destroy them, for their own evil ends.”
He began to speak of other things. He expressed himself as the humble son of humble cultivators of vineyards. With his knowledge of men, he had discovered in La Farge a passion and dedication to vineyards, warm and spicy under the sun. The former overseer began to listen with great intentness, and his dour countenance appeared much moved. There was a moisture, now, at the corner of his eyes, such as appears in the eyes of those who think suddenly of a lost beloved.
“Why do you, my dear Monsieur La Farge, remain in this quiet village, when you would be enormously appreciated by greater lords who would find in your discrimination an invaluable assistant? Or, in Paris, for instance, your delicate talent would bring fortune to you!”
He said this, with such open wonder and candor and appearance of bewilderment, that La Farge felt a well of warm exhilaration leap up in his lonely heart. He bridled. He curled his thin gray mustachios. He simpered a little. Then a darkness clouded his eyes, and he looked away.
The priest noted all this. “Ah,” he said, smiling, and shaking an arch finger at the man, “it is I who am wrong! It is loyalty to your good and excellent lord which keeps you in this lovely but isolated spot!”
As this statement appeared to excite the approbation of this amiable and unexpectedly discerning priest, La Farge merely simpered again, bashfully. But his eyelids flickered with a sudden balefulness and hatred.
“It is fortunate,” continued the priest, in a tone of fond meditation, “that the good Comte de Vitry is a gentleman of rural and simple habits, with no grand aspirations and no love for the courtier’s life. It has been whispered to me—and I hope this is true—that he even has the thought of espousing a daughter of his people, a simple maid of health and comeliness. This is an excellent thought, if true. It will bind him closer to his land and his people.”
La Farge uttered a savage and guttural sound. His light blue eyes blazed in the candlelight. He regarded the priest with the infuriated gaze of an elemental animal, and his fists clenched on the table.
The priest affected not to see this demonstration. He contemplated space with a benign and very sweet smile, as if seeing a vision that touched a tender heart. Then suddenly he sighed, dropped his head mournfully, shook it, covered his eyes with his hand. Even La Farge, in his passion, observed this, and cried out: “Pardieu, Monsieur le Curé, what ails you?”
“Nothing,” murmured the priest, in a broken voice. “Forgive me. I was only remembering another story, and this was an evil one. I must forget it.”
“Tell me!” exclaimed La Farge, rising.
“It has nothing to do with your good lord!” cried the priest, with an affectation of great distress. “I was only remembering a story I had heard on another estate! Please forgive me, my dear Monsieur La Farge.—It was a sordid story. The lord of these estates became enamored of a virtuous and beautiful young maiden, the daughter of the tavern-keeper. The girl believed he intended to marry her, in spite of her low birth, for she was of much gentleness, and had been well educated by the dear nuns. However, he only seduced her, and the poor child drowned herself: You can see, then, why this should sadden me, for I was her godfather.”
He continued, in a tone of great passion: “Even this heinous act might have been forgiven, had it not been that the lord had affected to be concerned with his people’s welfare, in order to seduce the girl more easily. For she had the tenderest heart, and loved her people. She believed that in yielding to the importunities of her lord she would make permanent the reforms he had begun. But, alas. After her dolorous death, he was more savage than ever in his treatment of his hapless peasants—” He paused. “He was assassinated. None was brought to justice, for the culprits could never be found. The opinion of the judges, however, was that he had richly deserved his fate.”
La Farge began to pace up and down the room, muttering to himself, striking his breast with his fists. His face was contorted. Sweat rolled down from his brow. He was a man in agony and uncontrolled rage. The priest smiled to himself. He knew that La Farge, in spite of his past sternness, was highly regarded by the peasants as a man of integrity and truth. Whatever he might say would be hearkened to.
The priest rose. He reached out and took La Farge by the arm. But the former overseer’s eyes were blind and dazzling with madness and fury.
“You are a man of sensibility,” said the priest. “And it touches my heart that my sad story had reached to your soul. Praise God, Monsieur, that your own dear lord is not guilty of any such evil plotting.”
He continued on his way, this man who could find equal joy in seducing and disordering the wits of the humble as well as the wits of the great.
He approached the cottage of Pietre Dubonnet, the former steward, also a man of integrity, if renowned for his sternness. He was also a prideful man, of limited imagination and much energy. Best of all, he was a devout Catholic, fanatical and passionate. One of his daughters was a nun. He had some education, and some shrewd intelligence.
He lived with his devout and sly wife in the largest of the cottages, which François Grandjean, upon replacing him, had refused to occupy. Conscious of the man’s honesty and uprightness, Paul de Vitry had continued to pay him generously, though he was now only a laborer in the fields with the other peasants. The injury to the man’s pride was permanent. He smoldered constantly. This, the priest knew.
He was received by Dubonnet and his wife with deep reverence. Their plain dull faces glowed with wonder and pleasure at this visit from the priest in the night. They knelt before him as he blessed them with great solemnity. Then Dubonnet escorted the priest to the table and lit another candle. De Pacilli glanced about the warm clean chamber with real approval, admiring the red tiles of the floor, the dark wooden walls and rafters, the gleaming pewter hanging near the fireplace, the simple but polished settles, chests and commodes. The large crucifix hanging over the bed in the nearby room was a gift from Paul de Vitry to his former overseer, and the priest was surprised at its delicate excellence and workmanship as he observed it from his stool.
Dubonnet brought a dusty bottle of wine and a thin crimson glass to the table, and poured it slowly and carefully. Sighing to himself, acridly, the priest lifted the glass. He was amazed when the wine touched his tongue and pervaded the dry narrow cavity of his mouth. Never had he tasted better bouquet, more wonderful flavor.
“It is from the cellar of Monsieur le Comte, himself,” said Dubonnet, with pleasure, observing the amazement and delight of the priest. “Three of these bottles were given me at Christmastide by our lord.”
The priest glanced at Madame Dubonnet. She was a short fat woman, shapeless with flesh, but giving an impression of great activity and stolid peasant endurance. Her black hair was neatly combed back from a broad dull face, the color of a plum, and in this ruddy flesh her black eyes were small and restless like the eyes of some sly animal. Astute in his reading of human countenances, the priest knew that Madame Dubonnet was everything that was suspicious and greedy, cruel and rapacious, cunning and stupid, yet possessing a virulent shrewdness. He decided that it was to her that most of his insinuations must be expressed, for in Dubonnet, himself, he had discerned an obstinate integrity, a forthrightness and simplicity which even the cleverest seduction might find hard to overcome.
“I have noted the comforting devoutness of you, Monsieur, and Madame,” said the priest, turning a face full of love and sweetness upon them and smiling in a paternal fashion. Then his eyelids drooped, and he appeared to be overcome by melancholy. “How delightful is this devoutness, my dear children! It is like coming upon a brilliant flower in a desert.”
Dubonnet flushed, averted his gaze, but said, stubbornly: “This is no desert, Monsieur le Curé.”
But Madame had become excited. Her full breast heaved. “Hold your tongue, Pietre, you old fool!” she cried, shrilly. “How dare you speak
“Oh, forgive me!” exclaimed the priest, with soft distress. “My choice of words, my dear Madame, was unfortunate! It is an extravagance of mine. When I spoke of your piety, and mentioned the desert, I really meant the desert of the world, and not Chantilly—”
Madame was more excited. She approached the priest, bent sideways so she could stare inflexibly into his face. He felt her hot breath, flavored with garlic, upon his cheek, and winced.
“Monsieur le Curé spoke in truth! This place is a desert! There is no piety here. And why? Who knows? Perhaps it is because Monsieur le Comte is too lenient with these rascals. He forces them to do nothing. He suggests. He leads them into Church: Hah! Some will go, others not. He declares that no man should do what he does not desire to do, in the matter of God! I have heard him say this, himself!”
The priest allowed his expression to become grave and somber, and somewhat grief-stricken. He spread out his hands helplessly, and implored them with bewilderment in his eyes:
But how is the humble child, the simple child, to know what is just and right, if he goes not into the schoolroom? No child by choice would subject himself to discipline and learning. Madame, I am afraid that you impugn strange things to your dear lord, who is all justice and mercy, and exercises these things among his people—”
Madame flung herself upright, put her hands on her hips, tossed her head and regarded the priest with malevolently glittering eyes:
“So! Monsieur le Curé, in his good simplicity and out of the greatness of his heart believes that our dear lord is all justice? Hark, Pietre, I will finish! Monsieur le Curé perhaps does not know that my husband, here, was removed from his position because he was stern with the peasants, and served Monsieur le Comte with devotion, regarding only his interests? Is that justice, Monsieur le Curé? Is that mercy and understanding, and gratitude? Is it good that my husband is reduced to a worker in the fields? Does Monsieur le Curé know what our dear good lord said in doing this: ‘Pietre, it will give you understanding of the sufferings of others, and their labor, if you work with them.’ I ask you, Monsieur le Curé, if this is sensible, if it is intelligent, is it just?”