It shall scarce boot me
To say ‘Not guilty’: mine integrity
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so received. But thus: if powers divine
Behold our human actions, as they do,
I doubt not then but innocence shall make
False accusation blush and tyranny
Tremble at patience.

–Hermione from “Winter’s Tale”

The mystical body of Christ as defined in “A Tale Told Softly: Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale and Hidden Catholic England” written by Robert Morrison

The delight of Don Quixote increased in relevancy as I came across a quote of Immanuel Kant: “It is the Land of Truth (enchanted name!), surrounded by a wide and stormy ocean, the true home of illusion, where many a fog bank and ice, that soon melts away, tempt us to believe in new lands, while constantly deceiving the adventurous mariner with vain hopes, and involving him in adventures which he can never leave, yet never bring to an end.” Now on to another misadventurous conversation between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. They have departed the luxurious home of the Duke and Duchess, loving pranksters, Don Quixote convinced he has avoided the passionate love of a young pretty maiden—all a part of the charades—now the knight-errant and his squire re-embark upon the wonderous road of adventure.

When Don Quixote saw himself in open country, free, and relieved from the attentions of Altisidora, he felt at his ease, and in fresh spirits to take up the pursuit of chivalry once more; and turning to Sancho, he said, “Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that heaven has bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds buried or the sea conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for honour, life may and should be ventured; and on the other hand, captivity is the greatest evil that can fall to the lot of man. I say this, Sancho, because thou hast seen the good cheer, the abundance we have enjoyed in this castle we are leaving; well then, amid those dainty banquets and snow-cooled beverages I felt as though I were undergoing the straits of hunger, because I did not enjoy them with the same freedom as if they had been mine own; for the sense of being under an obligation to return benefits and favours received is a restraint that checks the independence of the spirit. Happy he, to whom heaven has given a piece of bread for which he is not bound to give thanks to any but heaven itself!”

“For all your worship says,” said Sancho, “it is not becoming that there should be no thanks on our part for two hundred gold crowns that the duke’s majordomo has given me in a little purse which I carry next my heart, like a warming plaster or comforter, to meet any chance calls; for we shan’t always find castles where they’ll entertain us; now and then we may light upon roadside inns where they’ll cudgel us.”

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Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master’s knowledge, as much as if he had never known him, for it seemed to him that there was no story or event in the world that he had not at his fingers’ ends and fixed in his memory, and he said to him, “In truth, master mine, if this that has happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure, it has been one of the sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen us in the whole course of our travels; we have come out of it unbelaboured and undismayed, neither have we drawn sword nor have we smitten the earth with our bodies, nor have we been left famishing; blessed be God that he has let me see such a thing with my own eyes!”

“Thou sayest well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but remember all times are not alike nor do they always run the same way; and these things the vulgar commonly call omens, which are not based upon any natural reason, will by him who is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy accidents merely. One of these believers in omens will get up of a morning, leave his house, and meet a friar of the order of the blessed Saint Francis, and, as if he had met a griffin, he will turn about and go home. With another Mendoza the salt is spilt on his table, and gloom is spilt over his heart, as if nature was obliged to give warning of coming misfortunes by means of such trivial things as these. The wise man and the Christian should not trifle with what it may please heaven to do. Scipio on coming to Africa stumbled as he leaped on shore; his soldiers took it as a bad omen; but he, clasping the soil with his arms, exclaimed, ‘Thou canst not escape me, Africa, for I hold thee tight between my arms.’ Thus, Sancho, meeting those images has been to me a most happy occurrence.”

“I can well believe it,” said Sancho; “but I wish your worship would tell me what is the reason that the Spaniards, when they are about to give battle, in calling on that Saint James the Moorslayer, say ‘Santiago and close Spain!’ Is Spain, then, open, so that it is needful to close it; or what is the meaning of this form?”

“Thou art very simple, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “God, look you, gave that great knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint and protector, especially in those hard struggles the Spaniards had with the Moors; and therefore they invoke and call upon him as their defender in all their battles; and in these he has been many a time seen beating down, trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering the Hagarene squadrons in the sight of all; of which fact I could give thee many examples recorded in truthful Spanish histories.”

Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, “I marvel, señor, at the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess’s handmaid; he whom they call Love must have cruelly pierced and wounded her; they say he is a little blind urchin who, though blear-eyed, or more properly speaking sightless, if he aims at a heart, be it ever so small, hits it and pierces it through and through with his arrows. I have heard it said too that the arrows of Love are blunted and robbed of their points by maidenly modesty and reserve; but with this Altisidora it seems they are sharpened rather than blunted.”

“Bear in mind, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that love is influenced by no consideration, recognises no restraints of reason, and is of the same nature as death, that assails alike the lofty palaces of kings and the humble cabins of shepherds; and when it takes entire possession of a heart, the first thing it does is to banish fear and shame from it; and so without shame Altisidora declared her passion, which excited in my mind embarrassment rather than commiseration.”

“Notable cruelty!” exclaimed Sancho; “unheard-of ingratitude! I can only say for myself that the very smallest loving word of hers would have subdued me and made a slave of me. The devil! What a heart of marble, what bowels of brass, what a soul of mortar! But I can’t imagine what it is that this damsel saw in your worship that could have conquered and captivated her so. What gallant figure was it, what bold bearing, what sprightly grace, what comeliness of feature, which of these things by itself, or what all together, could have made her fall in love with you? For indeed and in truth many a time I stop to look at your worship from the sole of your foot to the topmost hair of your head, and I see more to frighten one than to make one fall in love; moreover I have heard say that beauty is the first and main thing that excites love, and as your worship has none at all, I don’t know what the poor creature fell in love with.”

“Recollect, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “there are two sorts of beauty, one of the mind, the other of the body; that of the mind displays and exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, in honourable conduct, in generosity, in good breeding; and all these qualities are possible and may exist in an ugly man; and when it is this sort of beauty and not that of the body that is the attraction, love is apt to spring up suddenly and violently. I, Sancho, perceive clearly enough that I am not beautiful, but at the same time I know I am not hideous; and it is enough for an honest man not to be a monster to be an object of love, if only he possesses the endowments of mind I have mentioned.”

We should cleanse our interior house, empty it out, give more room to God in it, by increasing our life of penance. We ought also to seek God with more ardor in the practice of virtue, especially of a lively faith and generous love, and of a life of silence, recollection and prayer. The more our soul is emptied of profane things and becomes a holy sanctuary, the more will it attract the Divine Guest. Penance will suppress whatever repels infinite purity; the virtues will adorn in a worthy manner the temple of so lofty a Majesty ; the calm and peace of the sanctuary and the incense of prayer will invite God to honor us with His presence and with His intimate friendship. This beginning of a preparation, which leads the soul to the threshold of mystical contemplation, does not exceed the power of our own efforts aided by grace; perhaps God, some day, by putting us through special purifications, will deign to complete our preparation, and so open to us the gates of contemplation.  –‘The Ways of Mental Prayer’ written by Dom Vitalis Lehodey.

Magnificat duplication.

Philippe de Champaigne (1602–1674) was 61 years old when he painted this picture for the Carthusian church in Paris. It is a work of maturity, illuminated by the supernatural shades of blue that were his secret—here on Jesus’ toga, Mary’s palla (mantle), and the view of Jerusalem beyond the openwork arcades of the Temple. We find again here, to an excellent degree, the theological dimension that he usually gave to the shadows. At the time of the original tohu wa-bohu (formless void), there was nothing but confusion, and then through the play of shadows and light the Creator brought differentiation and diversity into the world. Similarly a painter must make use of shadow in order to give distinction and relief to his works. This principle proves accurate both in the details—the quality of the draperies—and in the groupings—only Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are in the light, thus distinguished from the subjects of the Mosaic Law who remain half in the shadows, since they were unable to recognize the light born from light. 

Hands that speak

Jesus is 12 years old. After seeking him for three days, his parents find him again in the Temple. The artist presents to us the moment of their reunion. He composes his work on both sides of the line traced out by the play of the figures’ hands, a line that ends at Jesus’ index finger, pointing toward the highest heavens. And look: the interplay of these hands allows us to hear the dialogue of the episode (Luke 2:48): Mary’s right hand resting on her heart says: Son, why have you treated us so? while her left hand, pointing to Joseph, says: See, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously! Joseph’s right hand ­supports Mary’s words with all his paternal authority and joins in her questioning. Jesus’ left hand attempts to calm his parents and answers them: How is it that you sought Me?; finally, His right hand gives the full story of the episode: Did you not know that I owe myself to my Father’s work?

A moment of eternity

Did you not know that I owe myself to my Father’s work? Here we have the first words of Jesus recorded by the Gospel. And the reason is to reveal to us the mystery of the Incarnation. By its nature, painting, like photography, is a snapshot. The artist’s art is to cause this fixed moment to speak by making visible much more than its objectivity shows. Here, the Catholic painter Champaigne comes to grips with the calling to express in this moment nothing less than eternity: Isn’t eternity a moment without beginning or end, yet filled with both meaning and accomplishments? And so look at how Champaigne causes the grace of the Incarnation, contemplated from the perspective of eternity, to be fulfilled right before our eyes. Thus in this Gospel narrative, related in a painting, what is offered for our contemplation is ultimately the ontological state of the event, taken in its unchangeable essence. In this regard we can admire how the figure—so beautifully human!—of the young man Jesus manages to express the Divine Trinity at work in the kenosis (emptying-out) of the Son: his garments are blown up and stirred by the breath of the Holy Spirit,* and his whole being is expressed in his index finger that points to the Father who sent him. 

*Indeed, see how, of all the figures and objects, the wind stirs only the garments of Jesus. 

Pierre-Marie Dumont