BOOK REVIEWS: Charles Morice's "Il est ressuscité": by H. A. Fussell

Once to every man and nation Comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of truth with falsehood, For the good or evil side.

THAT there do occur critical periods in the lives of nations and of individuals, when the irrevocable step is taken which allies them definitely with the beneficent or maleficent forces which are contending for the mastery of the world, has become a truism. It is seldom a spectacular contest—this "battle of Armageddon"; even when it is, at the moment of choice we are alone, face to face with the Higher Self.

The many and varied ways in which this contest may occur furnish the moralist and the preacher with occasions for the highest flights of eloquence, and it forms the background of history, biography, and fiction. One of its most recent presentations is by Charles Morice in his book Il est ressuscité! of which we give a résumé.

One day in the middle of December the Parisians were surprised on opening their daily papers to see the last page perfectly blank, all the questionable advertisements had disappeared, no Stock Exchange news, all the transactions by which clever financiers attract the unwary and pile up their millions, had been suppressed. Why? No one could say! Amazement on all faces! It was the same the next day, and the next—even the feuilleton, containing the inevitable sensational and sometimes salacious story was no more. At the Bourse itself there was "nothing doing"; would-be purchasers were told of the watered stocks, were advised not to buy.

In the evening the leading journalists met as usual at the "Lapin Cru." They were no wiser than the rest. Consternation was on all faces. Their occupation was gone, there was not a single piquant event in all Paris—suddenly become virtuous—to write up. On unfolding their papers—the first impression was always brought in at midnight by the office-boys from the publishers—on one of the blank pages was this notice in small print:

The Son of God needs no advertising. He has put up at the Three Kings' Hotel, Place de l'Étoile. He will be at home from noon to noon, all the day, the 14th of December and tomorrow.

Narda, a prince among journalists, sat apart, moodily. Suddenly he became aware of a man opposite him at the next table.

But what a man! There was in fact nothing remarkable about him, except that perhaps he lacked precisely those little peculiarities and idiosyncracies which distinguish one man from another. Yet he was a fine man, but his remarkable beauty did not cause surprise. The fact is, that one would have been surprised, nay scandalized, if it were not so, for his beauty, formed of the perfect equilibrium of all the elements of his person, revealed man in his ordinary and magnificent integrity. It was as if necessitated by the soul, sovereignly and ineffably serene, which shone in the eyes of the man: a constant, rich, intense light, eclipsing the crude brilliancy of the electric lights, and forming a halo in his unusually long hair. Narda was not dazzled by the light: on the contrary, he felt himself illuminated by it to the very depths of his being. He looked at this unknown man with a sympathy mingled with trust and deference. He had no desire to speak to him, to question him, fully satisfied by his presence alone, the presence of a man. A real man! he said to himself, and not a puppet like my comrades and myself.

The stranger went, Narda scarcely knew how; and without him the room, life itself, seemed empty and vain again.

The subject is not new—the incompatibility of the Christ and modern civilization. We are all acquainted with sensational pictures, painted by well-known artists, depicting Christ in the midst of decadent modern society, with all its revolting contrasts; or with lurid sketches written by clever journalists; but never have we seen the subject treated with so much reverence and psychological insight as in the work before us. Read the scene the following night at the "Lapin Cru," where Narda was sure he would meet again with the Son of God. They communed as of old the disciples with the Master.

"I thought, Lord, you were to come in a different manner."

"Are you also without intelligence?" Jesus replied. "Visible or invisible the Son of Man comes every day."

The question rose to the lips of Narda: "You come, doubtless, to finish the work begun two thousand years ago?"

"It is finished to all eternity."

"Why then have you not conquered?"

"Because I wished to leave to you the merit of the victory."

After some further talk, Narda, who has been led into the depths of his own conscience, depths unsuspected by him before, exclaims: "Lord, perhaps you are only myself, my self raised to perfectness...."

"But has not one of your writers said: 'It is only God who is really man.' How do you know, if I have not become little by little divine?"

And while they were speaking Jesus was giving, at "the Three Kings," in its three hundred rooms, private audience to three hundred interviewers at the same time, and to each he appeared different. On leaving, some declared he had fair hair, others that it was dark. To the philosopher he appeared a philosopher; to the artist more beautiful than Apollo; to the soldier a divine warrior.

Last of all came "the Scribes and Pharisees," as of old, to question him. "Are you really the Son of God?" "Are you going to tell us again that salvation is difficult for the rich?" "Are you going to be crucified anew?" and so on. The Churches held aloof. He had not come as they expected.

We will not describe how our author solves the problems, economic, social, and religious, which this unsuspected advent of Jesus causes in Paris. It suffices to say that the crisis was met and tided over for the time being.

One circumstance, however, must be mentioned: woman was honored as never before. Civil marriage alone is legal in France; in more than sixty per cent of the couples presenting themselves before the civil authorities for the ratification of their marriage, the unexpected happened. Instead of the perfunctory "Yes" which was almost invariably the rule, one or other of the contracting parties would say "No." There were no more ill-assorted matches, none of those crimes against humanity that the marriage service, not only among the French, but in every nation, condones. And the children, they had never been so happy before, so unrestrained, and yet so well-behaved. Even the youths and maidens, as they walked through the streets or wandered in the parks, showed a self-restraint and tenderness for one another never remarked before. Older people stood and looked after them in wonder. Something idyllic and noble had entered into and stopped the bantering, mocking, scoffing tone of the average Parisian. It was beautiful, some thought it unnatural—would it last?

Towards the end of December Jesus preaches to the people—this time from Montmartre. All Paris is gathered there to hear him. Again the gracious words are heard, but are received and interpreted by each in accordance with his own interests and prejudices. "The common people heard him gladly," but the rich and learned murmured. He spoke of self-sacrifice and devotion to ideals; the majority, though convicted of sin, with seared hearts, felt revolt rising within. When Jesus had ended and had betaken himself away, "for their eyes were holden, that they should not see," it was in a state of astonishment, deception, consternation, even rage, that the crowd slowly melted away. Many men, mere simulacra of humanity—though considered the pillars of society—made haste to flee the place where all they held most dear, their success, their station, their darling sins, were menaced. But the innocent, the poor and the wretched, felt that it was an awakening from an all-too-sweet dream to the harsh realities of the pitiless struggle for life.

It was the beginning of the end. Ere many days had passed, Jesus was asked to leave the city, "and normal life, with its political institutions, its scientific progress, its suffragettes, its railway accidents, theater-parties, and fashionably attired women, resumed its wonted course." By a kind of tacit agreement no one spoke any more of the disconcerting events of the last days of December. The newspapers wore their wonted appearance; "twenty lines, identical in every case," was all the press notice of what had so profoundly stirred men's souls.

And Narda, the veteran journalist, the new disciple of Jesus? Brought face to face with his divine self, he saw himself once again when in youth, with forehead high and heart full of hope, he had vowed allegiance to the highest. And now? Was it lack of courage? He lost his grasp of that divine life to which all are called, and which had awakened once again with so much power in him. "He has come in vain," he cried, "we cannot endure him."

How true, alas! are the sad words of Baudelaire, which Charles Morice prefixes to his work: "Mais le damné répond toujours: Je ne veux pas!"—The lost soul always replies: I do not want to.