The Wandering Jew, Complete

E >> Eugene Sue >> The Wandering Jew, Complete


"But, alas! a painful incident disturbed the serenity of the picture.
Suddenly I heard Dagobert's wife say to him: 'My dear--you are weeping!'

"At these words, Agricola, Angela, and Magdalen gathered round the
soldier. Anxiety was visible upon every face. Then, as he raised his head
abruptly, one could see two large tears trickle down his cheek to his
white moustache. 'It is nothing, my children,' said he, in a voice of
emotion 'it is nothing. Only, to-day is the first of June--and this day
four years--' He could not complete the sentence; and, as he raised his
hands to his eyes, to brush away the tears, we saw that he held between
his fingers a little bronze chain, with a medal suspended to it. That is
his dearest relic. Four years ago, almost dying with despair at the loss
of the two angels, of whom I have so often spoken to you, my friend, he
took from the neck of Marshal Simon, brought home dead from a fatal duel,
this chain and medal which his children had so long worn. I went down
instantly, as you may suppose, to endeavor to soothe the painful
remembrances of this excellent man; gradually, he grew calmer, and the
evening was passed in a pious and quiet sadness.

"You cannot imagine, my friend, when I returned to my chamber, what cruel
thoughts came to my mind, as I recalled those past events, from which I
generally turn away with fear and horror. Then I saw once more the
victims of those terrible and mysterious plots, the awful depths of which
have never been penetrated thanks to the death of Father d'A. and Father
R., and the incurable madness of Madame de St.-D., the three authors or
accomplices of the dreadful deeds. The calamities occasioned by them are
irreparable; for those who were thus sacrificed to a criminal ambition,
would have been the pride of humanity by the good they would have done.
Ah, my friend! if you had known those noble hearts; if you had known the
projects of splendid charity, formed by that young lady, whose heart was
so generous, whose mind so elevated, whose soul so great! On the eve of
her death, as a kind of prelude to her magnificent designs, after a
conversation, the subject of which I must keep secret, even from you, she
put into my hands a considerable sum, saying, with her usual grace and
goodness: 'I have been threatened with ruin, and it might perhaps come.
What I now confide to you will at least be safe--safe--for those who
suffer. Give much--give freely--make as many happy hearts as you can. My
happiness shall have a royal inauguration!!' I do not know whether I ever
told you, my friend, that, after those fatal events, seeing Dagobert and
his wife reduced to misery, poor 'Mother Bunch' hardly able to earn a
wretched subsistence, Agricola soon to become a father, and myself
deprived of my curacy, and suspended by my bishop, for having given
religious consolations to a Protestant, and offered up prayers at the
tomb of an unfortunate suicide--I considered myself justified in
employing a small portion of the sum intrusted to me by Mdlle. de
Cardoville in the purchase of this farm in Dagobert's name.

"Yes, my friend, such is the origin of my fortune. The farmer to whom
these few acres formerly belonged, gave us the rudiments of our
agricultural education, and common sense, and the study of a few good
practical books, completed it. From an excellent workman, Agricola has
become an equally excellent husbandman; I have tried to imitate him, and
have put my hand also to the plough there is no derogation in it, for the
labor which provides food for man is thrice hallowed, and it is truly to
serve and glorify God, to cultivate and enrich the earth He has created.
Dagobert, when his first grief was a little appeased, seemed to gather
new vigor from this healthy life of the fields; and, during his exile in
Siberia, he had already learned to till the ground. Finally, my dear
adopted mother and sister, and Agricola's good wife, have divided between
them the household cares; and God has blessed this little colony of
people, who, alas! have been sorely tried by misfortune, and who now only
ask of toil and solitude, a quite, laborious, innocent life, and oblivion
of great sorrows. Sometimes, in our winter evenings, you have been able
to appreciate the delicate and charming mind of the gentle 'Mother
Bunch,' the rare poetical imagination of Agricola, the tenderness of his
mother, the good sense of his father, the exquisite natural grace of
Angela. Tell me, my friend, was it possible to unite more elements of
domestic happiness? What long evenings have we passed round the fire of
crackling wood, reading, or commenting on a few immortal works, which
always warm the heart, and enlarge the soul! What sweet talk have we had,
prolonged far into the night! And then Agricola's pastorals, and the
timid literary confidences of Magdalen! And the fresh, clear voice of
Angela, joined to the deep manly tones of Agricola, in songs of simple
melody! And the old stories of Dagobert, so energetic and picturesque in
their warlike spirit! And the adorable gayety of the children, in their
sports with good old Spoil-sport, who rather lends himself to their play
than takes part in it--for the faithful, intelligent creature seems
always to be looking for somebody, as Dagobert says--and he is right.
Yes, the dog also regrets those two angels, of whom he was the devoted
guardian!

"Do not think, my friend, that our happiness makes us forgetful. No, no;
not a day passes without our repeating, with pious and tender respect,
those names so dear to our heart. And these painful memories, hovering
forever about us, give to our calm and happy existence that shade of mild
seriousness which struck you so much. No doubt, my friend, this kind of
life, bounded by the family circle, and not extending beyond, for the
happiness or improvement of our brethren, may be set down as selfish;
but, alas! we have not the means--and though the poor man always finds a
place at our frugal table, and shelter beneath our roof, we must renounce
all great projects of fraternal action. The little revenue of our farm
just suffices to supply our wants. Alas! when I think over it,
notwithstanding a momentary regret, I cannot blame my resolution to keep
faithfully my sacred oath, and to renounce that great inheritance, which,
alas! had become immense by the death of my kindred. Yes, I believe I
performed a duty, when I begged the guardian of that treasure to reduce
it to ashes, rather than let it fall into the hands of people, who would
have made an execrable use of it, or to perjure myself by disputing a
donation which I had granted freely, voluntarily, sincerely. And yet,
when I picture to myself the realization of the magnificent views of--my
ancestor--an admirable Utopia, only possible with immense resources--and
which Mdlle. de Cardoville hoped to carry into execution, with the aid of
M. Francois Hardy, of Prince Djalma, of Marshal Simon and his daughters,
and of myself--when I think of the dazzling focus of living forces, which
such an association would have been, and of the immense influence it
might have had on the happiness of the whole human race--my indignation
and horror, as an honest man and a Christian, are excited against that
abominable Company, whose black plots nipped in their bud all those great
hopes, which promised so much for futurity. What remains now of all these
splendid projects? Seven tombs. For my grave also is dug in that
mausoleum, which Samuel has erected on the site of the house in the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Francois, and of which he remains the keeper--faithful to the
end!

"I had written thus far, my friend, when I received your letter. So,
after having forbidden you to see me, your bishop now orders that you
shall cease to correspond with me. Your touching, painful regrets have
deeply moved me, my friend. Often have we talked together of
ecclesiastical discipline, and of the absolute power of the bishops over,
us, the poor working clergy, left to their mercy without remedy. It is
painful, but it is the law of the church, my friend, and you have sworn
to observe it. Submit as I have submitted. Every engagement is binding
upon the man of honor! My poor, dear Joseph! would that you had the
compensations which remained to me, after the rupture of ties that I so
much value. But I know too well what you must feel--I cannot go on I find
it impossible to continue this letter, I might be bitter against those
whose orders we are bound to respect. Since it must be so, this letter
shall be my last. Farewell, my friend! farewell forever. My heart is
almost broken.

"GABRIEL DE RENNEPONT."




CHAPTER II.

THE REDEMPTION.

Day was about to dawn. A rosy light, almost imperceptible, began to
glimmer in the east; but the stars still shone, sparkling with radiance,
upon the azure of the zenith. The birds awoke beneath the fresh foliage
of the great woods; and, with isolated warblings, sang the prelude of
their morning-concert. A light mist rose from the high grass, bathed in
nocturnal dew, while the calm and limpid waters of a vast lake reflected
the whitening dawn in their deep, blue mirror. Everything promised one of
those warm and joyous days, that belong to the opening of summer.

Half-way up the slope of a hill, facing the east, a tuft of old, moss
grown willows, whose rugged bark disappeared beneath the climbing
branches of wild honeysuckle and harebells, formed a natural harbor; and
on their gnarled and enormous roots, covered with thick moss, were seated
a man and a woman, whose white hair, deep wrinkles, and bending figures,
announced extreme old age. And yet this woman had only lately been young
and beautiful, with long black hair overshadowing her pale forehead. And
yet this man had, a short time ago, been still in the vigor of his age.
From the spot where this man and woman were reposing, could be seen the
valley, the lake, the woods, and, soaring above the woods, the blue
summit of a high mountain, from behind which the sun was about to rise.
This picture, half veiled by the pale transparency of the morning
twilight, was pleasing, melancholy, and solemn.

"Oh, my sister!" said the old man to the woman, who was reposing with him
beneath the rustic arbor formed by the tuft of willow-trees; "oh, my
sister! how many times during the centuries in which the hand of the Lord
carried us onward, and, separated from each other, we traversed the world
from pole to pole--how many times we have witnessed this awakening of
nature with a sentiment of incurable grief!--Alas! it was but another day
of wandering--another useless day added to our life, since it brought
death no nearer!"

"But now what happiness, oh, my brother! since the Lord has had mercy on
us, and, with us, as with all other creatures, every returning day is a
step nearer to the grave. Glory to Him! yes, glory!"

"Glory to Him, my sister! for since yesterday, when we again met, I feel
that indescribable languor which announces the approach of death."

"Like you, my brother, I feel my strength, already shaken, passing away
in a sweet exhaustion. Doubtless, the term of our life approaches. The
wrath of the Lord is satisfied."

"Alas, my sister! doubtless also, the last of my doomed race, will, at
the same time, complete our redemption by his death; for the will of
heaven is manifest, that I can only be pardoned, when the last of my
family shall have disappeared from the face of the earth. To him, holiest
amongst the holiest--was reserved the favor of accomplishing this end he
who has done so much for the salvation of his brethren!"

"Oh, yes, my brother! he who has suffered so much, and without
complaining, drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of woe--he, the minister
of the Lord, who has been his Master's image upon earth--he was fitted
for the last instrument of this redemption!"

"Yes, for I feel, my sister, that, at this hour, the last of my race,
touching victim of slow persecution, is on the point of resigning his
angelic soul to God. Thus, even to the end, have I been fatal to my
doomed family. Lord, if Thy mercy is great, Thy anger is great likewise!"

"Courage and hope, my brother! Think how after the expiration cometh
pardon, and pardon is followed by a blessing. The Lord punished, in you
and your posterity, the artisan rendered wicked by misfortune and
injustice. He said to you: 'Go on! without truce or rest--and your labor
shall be vain--and every evening, throwing yourself on the hard ground,
you shall be no nearer to the end of your eternal course!'--And so, for
centuries, men without pity have said to the artisan: 'Work! work! work!
without truce or rest--and your labor shall be fruitful for all others,
but fruitless for yourself--and every evening, throwing yourself on the
hard ground, you shall be no nearer to happiness and repose; and your
wages shall only suffice to keep you alive in pain, privation, and
poverty!'"

"Alas! alas! will it be always thus?"

"No, no, my brother! and instead of weeping over your lost race, rejoice
for them--since their death was needed for your redemption, and in
redeeming you, heaven will redeem the artisan, cursed and feared by
those--who have laid on him the iron yoke. Yes, my brother! the time
draweth nigh--heaven's mercy will not stop with us alone. Yes, I tell
you; in us will be rescued both the WOMAN and the SLAVE of these modern
ages. The trial has been hard, brother; it has lasted throughout eighteen
centuries; but it will last no longer. Look, my brother! see that rosy
light, there in the east, gradually spreading over the firmament! Thus
will rise the sun of the new emancipation--peaceful, holy, great,
salutary, fruitful, filling the world with light and vivifying heat, like
the day-star that will soon appear in heaven!"

"Yes, yes, my sister! I feel it. Your words are prophetic. We shall close
our heavy eyes just as we see the aurora of the day of deliverance--a
fair, a splendid day, like that which is about to dawn. Henceforth I will
only shed tears of pride and glory for those of my race, who have died
the martyrs of humanity, sacrificed by humanity's eternal enemies--for
the true ancestors of the sacrilegious wretches, who blaspheme the name
of Jesus by giving it to their Company, were the false Scribes and
Pharisees, whom the Saviour cursed!--Yes! glory to the descendants of my
family, who have been the last martyrs offered up by the accomplices of
all slavery and all despotism, the pitiless enemies of those who wish to
think, and not to suffer in silence--of those that would feign enjoy, as
children of heaven, the gifts which the Creator has bestowed upon all the
human family. Yes, the day approaches--the end of the reign of our modern
Pharisees--the false priests, who lend their sacrilegious aid to the
merciless selfishness of the strong against the weak, by daring to
maintain in the face of the exhaustless treasures of the creation, that
God has made man for tears, and sorrow, and suffering--the false priests,
who are the agents of all oppression, and would bow to the earth, in
brutish and hopeless humiliation, the brow of every creature. No, no! let
man lift his head proudly! God made him to be noble and intelligent free
and happy."

"Oh, my brother! your words also are prophetic. Yes, yes! the dawn of
that bright day approaches, even as the dawn of the natural day which, by
the mercy of God, will be our last on earth."

"The last, my sister; for a strange weakness creeps over me, all matter
seems dissolving in me, and my soul aspires to mount to heaven."

"Mine eyes are growing dim, brother; I can scarcely see that light in the
east, which lately appeared so red."

"Sister! it is through a confused vapor that I now see the valley--the
lake--the woods. My strength fails me."

"Blessed be God, brother! the moment of eternal rest is at hand."

"Yes, it comes, my sister! the sweetness of the everlasting sleep takes
possession of my senses."

"Oh, happiness! I am dying--"

"These eyes are closing, sister!"

"We are then forgiven!"

"Forgiven!"

"Oh, my brother! may this Divine redemption extend to all those who
suffer upon the earth!"

"Die in peace, my sister! The great day has dawned--the sun is
rising--behold!"

"Blessed be God!"

"Blessed be God!"

And at the moment when those two voices ceased forever, the sun rose
radiant and dazzling, and deluged the valley with its beams.

To M. C--P--.

To you, my friend, I dedicated this book. To inscribe it with your name,
was to assume an engagement that, in the absence of talent, it should be
at least conscientious, sincere, and of a salutary influence, however
limited. My object is attained. Some select hearts, like yours, my
friend, have put into practice the legitimate association of labor,
capital, and intelligence, and have already granted to their workmen a
proportionate share in the profits of their industry. Others have laid
the foundations of Common Dwelling-houses, and one of the chief
capitalists of Hamburg has favored me with his views respecting an
establishment of this kind, on the most gigantic scale.

As for the dispersion of the members of the Company of Jesus, I have
taken less part in it than other enemies of the detestable doctrines of
Loyola, whose influence and authority were far greater than mine.

Adieu, my friend. I could have wished this work more worthy of you; but
you are indulgent, and will at least give me credit for the intentions
which dictated it.

Believe me, Yours truly,

EUGENE SUE.

Paris, 25th August, 1845. Paris, 25th August, 1845.