Eminent Victorians, Lytton Strachey [books to improve english TXT] 📗

Manning had no thought of “yielding”; but, he pointed out to his agitated friend that an open conflict between himself and Newman would be “as great a scandal to the Church in England, and as great a victory to the Anglicans, as could be.” He would act quietly, and there would be no more difficulty. The Bishops were united, and the Church was sound.

On this, Monsignor Talbot hurried to Father St. John’s lodgings in Rome to express his regret at the misunderstanding that had arisen, to wonder how it could possibly have occurred, and to hope that Dr. Newman might consent to be made a Protonotary Apostolic. That was all the satisfaction that Father St. John was to obtain from his visit to Rome. A few weeks later, the scheme of the Oxford Oratory was finally quashed.

When all was over, Manning thought that the time had come for a reconciliation. He made advances through a common friend; what had he done, he asked, to offend Dr. Newman? Letters passed, and, naturally enough, they only widened the breach. Newman was not the man to be polite.

“I can only repeat,” he wrote at last, “what I said when you last heard from me. I do not know whether I am on my head or my heels when I have active relations with you. In spite of my friendly feelings, this is the judgment of my intellect.” “Meanwhile,” he concluded, “I propose to say seven masses for your intention amid the difficulties and anxieties of your ecclesiastical duties.”

And Manning could only return the compliment.

At about this time, the Curate of Littlemore had a singular experience. As he was passing by the Church he noticed an old man, very poorly dressed in an old grey coat with the collar turned up, leaning over the lych gate, in floods of tears. He was apparently in great trouble, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes as if he wished to hide his features. For a moment, however, he turned towards the Curate, who was suddenly struck by something familiar in the face. Could it be⁠—? A photograph hung over the Curate’s mantelpiece of the man who had made Littlemore famous by his sojourn there more than twenty years ago⁠—he had never seen the original; but now, was it possible⁠—? He looked again, and he could doubt no longer. It was Dr. Newman. He sprang forward, with proffers of assistance. Could he be of any use? “Oh no, no!” was the reply. “Oh no, no!” But the Curate felt that he could not run away and leave so eminent a character in such distress. “Was it not Dr. Newman he had the honour of addressing?” he asked, with all the respect and sympathy at his command. “Was there nothing that could be done?” But the old man hardly seemed to understand what was being said to him. “Oh no, no!” he repeated, with the tears streaming down his face, “Oh no, no!”

Meanwhile, a remarkable problem was absorbing the attention of the Catholic Church. Once more, for a moment, the eyes of all Christendom were fixed upon Rome. The Temporal Power of the Pope had now almost vanished; but, as his worldly dominions steadily diminished, the spiritual pretensions of the Holy Father no less steadily increased. For seven centuries the immaculate conception of the Virgin had been highly problematical; Pio Nono spoke, and the doctrine became an article of faith. A few years later, the Court of Rome took another step: a Syllabus Errorum was issued, in which all the favourite beliefs of the modern world⁠—the rights of democracies, the claims of science, the sanctity of free speech, the principles of toleration⁠—were categorically denounced, and their supporters abandoned to the Divine wrath.

Yet it was observed that the modern world proceeded as before. Something more drastic appeared to be necessary⁠—some bold and striking measure which should concentrate the forces of the faithful, and confound their enemies. The tremendous doctrine of Papal Infallibility, beloved of all good Catholics, seemed to offer just the opening that was required. Let that doctrine be proclaimed, with the assent of the whole Church, an article of faith, and, in the face of such an affirmation, let the modern world do its worst! Accordingly, a General Council⁠—the first to be held since the Council of Trent more than 300 years before⁠—was summoned to the Vatican, for the purpose, so it was announced, of providing “an adequate remedy to the disorders, intellectual and moral, of Christendom.” The programme might seem a large one, even for a General Council; but everyone knew what it meant.

Everyone, however, was not quite of one mind. There were those to whom even the mysteries of infallibility caused some searchings of heart. It was true, no doubt, that Our Lord, by saying to Peter, “Thou art Cephas, which is by interpretation a stone,” thereby endowed that Apostle with the supreme and full primacy and principality over the Universal Catholic Church; it was equally certain that Peter afterwards became the Bishop of Rome; nor could it be doubted that the Roman Pontiff was his successor. Thus it followed directly that the Roman Pontiff was the head, heart, mind, and tongue of the Catholic Church; and moreover, it was plain that when Our Lord prayed for Peter that his faith should not fail, that prayer implied the doctrine of Papal Infallibility. All these things were obvious, and yet⁠—and yet⁠—might not the formal declaration of such truths in the year of his grace 1870 be, to say the least of it, inopportune? Might it not come as an offence, as a scandal even, to those unacquainted with the niceties of Catholic dogma? Such were the uneasy reflections of grave and learned ecclesiastics and theologians in England, France, and Germany. Newman was more than usually upset; Monseigneur Dupanloup was disgusted; and Dr. Dollinger prepared himself for resistance. It was clear that there would be