Christ in Flanders

H >> Honore de Balzac >> Christ in Flanders




There at the convent I found myself shortly after the Revolution of
1830. I was weary of life. If you had asked me the reason of my
despair, I should have found it almost impossible to give it, so
languid had grown the soul that was melted within me. The west wind
had slackened the springs of my intelligence. A cold gray light poured
down from the heavens, and the murky clouds that passed overhead gave
a boding look to the land; all these things, together with the
immensity of the sea, said to me, "Die to-day or die to-morrow, still
must we not die?" And then--I wandered on, musing on the doubtful
future, on my blighted hopes. Gnawed by these gloomy thoughts, I
turned mechanically into the convent church, with the gray towers that
loomed like ghosts though the sea mists. I looked round with no
kindling of the imagination at the forest of columns, at the slender
arches set aloft upon the leafy capitals, a delicate labyrinth of
sculpture. I walked with careless eyes along the side aisles that
opened out before me like vast portals, ever turning upon their
hinges. It was scarcely possible to see, by the dim light of the
autumn day, the sculptured groinings of the roof, the delicate and
clean-cut lines of the mouldings of the graceful pointed arches. The
organ pipes were mute. There was no sound save the noise of my own
footsteps to awaken the mournful echoes lurking in the dark chapels. I
sat down at the base of one of the four pillars that supported the
tower, near the choir. Thence I could see the whole of the building. I
gazed, and no ideas connected with it arose in my mind. I saw without
seeing the mighty maze of pillars, the great rose windows that hung
like a network suspended as by a miracle in air above the vast
doorways. I saw the doors at the end of the side aisles, the aerial
galleries, the stained glass windows framed in archways, divided by
slender columns, fretted into flower forms and trefoil by fine
filigree work of carved stone. A dome of glass at the end of the choir
sparkled as if it had been built of precious stones set cunningly. In
contrast to the roof with its alternating spaces of whiteness and
color, the two aisles lay to right and left in shadow so deep that the
faint gray outlines of their hundred shafts were scarcely visible in
the gloom. I gazed at the marvelous arcades, the scroll-work, the
garlands, the curving lines, and arabesques interwoven and interlaced,
and strangely lighted, until by sheer dint of gazing my perceptions
became confused, and I stood upon the borderland between illusion and
reality, taken in the snare set for the eyes, and almost light-headed
by reason of the multitudinous changes of the shapes about me.

Imperceptibly a mist gathered about the carven stonework, and I only
beheld it through a haze of fine golden dust, like the motes that
hover in the bars of sunlight slanting through the air of a chamber.
Suddenly the stone lacework of the rose windows gleamed through this
vapor that had made all forms so shadowy. Every moulding, the edges of
every carving, the least detail of the sculpture was dipped in silver.
The sunlight kindled fires in the stained windows, their rich colors
sent out glowing sparks of light. The shafts began to tremble, the
capitals were gently shaken. A light shudder as of delight ran through
the building, the stones were loosened in their setting, the
wall-spaces swayed with graceful caution. Here and there a ponderous
pier moved as solemnly as a dowager when she condescends to complete a
quadrille at the close of a ball. A few slender and graceful columns,
their heads adorned with wreaths of trefoil, began to laugh and dance
here and there. Some of the pointed arches dashed at the tall lancet
windows, who, like ladies of the Middle Ages, wore the armorial
bearings of their houses emblazoned on their golden robes. The dance
of the mitred arcades with the slender windows became like a fray at a
tourney.

In another moment every stone in the church vibrated, without leaving
its place; for the organ-pipes spoke, and I heard divine music
mingling with the songs of angels, and unearthly harmony, accompanied
by the deep notes of the bells, that boomed as the giant towers rocked
and swayed on their square bases. This strange Sabbath seemed to me
the most natural thing in the world; and I, who had seen Charles X.
hurled from his throne, was no longer amazed by anything. Nay, I
myself was gently swaying with a see-saw movement that influenced my
nerves pleasurably in a manner of which it is impossible to give any
idea. Yet in the midst of this heated riot, the cathedral choir felt
cold as if it were a winter day, and I became aware of a multitude of
women, robed in white, silent, and impassive, sitting there. The sweet
incense smoke that arose from the censers was grateful to my soul. The
tall wax candles flickered. The lectern, gay as a chanter undone by
the treachery of wine, was skipping about like a peal of Chinese
bells.

Then I knew that the whole cathedral was whirling round so fast that
everything appeared to be undisturbed. The colossal Figure on the
crucifix above the altar smiled upon me with a mingled malice and
benevolence that frightened me; I turned my eyes away, and marveled at
the bluish vapor that slid across the pillars, lending to them an
indescribable charm. Then some graceful women's forms began to stir on
the friezes. The cherubs who upheld the heavy columns shook out their
wings. I felt myself uplifted by some divine power that steeped me in
infinite joy, in a sweet and languid rapture. I would have given my
life, I think, to have prolonged these phantasmagoria for a little,
but suddenly a shrill voice clamored in my ears:

"Awake and follow me!"

A withered woman took my hand in hers; its icy coldness crept through
every nerve. The bones of her face showed plainly through the sallow,
almost olive-tinted wrinkles of the skin. The shrunken, ice-cold old
woman wore a black robe, which she trailed in the dust, and at her
throat there was something white, which I dared not examine. I could
scarcely see her wan and colorless eyes, for they were fixed in a
stare upon the heavens. She drew me after her along the aisles,
leaving a trace of her presence in the ashes that she shook from her
dress. Her bones rattled as she walked, like the bones of a skeleton;
and as we went I heard behind me the tinkling of a little bell, a
thin, sharp sound that rang through my head like the notes of a
harmonica.

"Suffer!" she cried, "suffer! So it must be!"

We came out of the church; we went through the dirtiest streets of the
town, till we came at last to a dingy dwelling, and she bade me enter
in. She dragged me with her, calling to me in a harsh, tuneless voice
like a cracked bell:

"Defend me! defend me!"

Together we went up a winding staircase. She knocked at a door in the
darkness, and a mute, like some familiar of the Inquisition, opened to
her. In another moment we stood in a room hung with ancient, ragged
tapestry, amid piles of old linen, crumpled muslin, and gilded brass.

"Behold the wealth that shall endure for ever!" said she.

I shuddered with horror; for just then, by the light of a tall torch
and two altar candles, I saw distinctly that this woman was fresh from
the graveyard. She had no hair. I turned to fly. She raised her
fleshless arm and encircled me with a band of iron set with spikes,
and as she raised it a cry went up all about us, the cry of millions
of voices--the shouting of the dead!

"It is my purpose to make thee happy for ever," she said. "Thou art my
son."

We were sitting before the hearth, the ashes lay cold upon it; the old
shrunken woman grasped my hand so tightly in hers that I could not
choose but stay. I looked fixedly at her, striving to read the story
of her life from the things among which she was crouching. Had she
indeed any life in her? It was a mystery. Yet I saw plainly that once
she must have been young and beautiful; fair, with all the charm of
simplicity, perfect as some Greek statue, with the brow of a vestal.

"Ah! ah!" I cried, "now I know thee! Miserable woman, why hast thou
prostituted thyself? In the age of thy passions, in the time of thy
prosperity, the grace and purity of thy youth were forgotten.
Forgetful of thy heroic devotion, thy pure life, thy abundant faith,
thou didst resign thy primitive power and thy spiritual supremacy for
fleshly power. Thy linen vestments, thy couch of moss, the cell in the
rock, bright with rays of the Light Divine, was forsaken; thou hast
sparkled with diamonds, and shone with the glitter of luxury and
pride. Then, grown bold and insolent, seizing and overturning all
things in thy course like a courtesan eager for pleasure in her days
of splendor, thou hast steeped thyself in blood like some queen
stupefied by empery. Dost thou not remember to have been dull and
heavy at times, and the sudden marvelous lucidity of other moments; as
when Art emerges from an orgy? Oh! poet, painter, and singer, lover of
splendid ceremonies and protector of the arts, was thy friendship for
art perchance a caprice, that so thou shouldst sleep beneath
magnificent canopies? Was there not a day when, in thy fantastic
pride, though chastity and humility were prescribed to thee, thou
hadst brought all things beneath thy feet, and set thy foot on the
necks of princes; when earthly dominion, and wealth, and the mind of
man bore thy yoke? Exulting in the abasement of humanity, joying to
witness the uttermost lengths to which man's folly would go, thou hast
bidden thy lovers walk on all fours, and required of them their lands
and wealth, nay, even their wives if they were worth aught to thee.
Thou hast devoured millions of men without a cause; thou hast flung
away lives like sand blown by the wind from West to East. Thou hast
come down from the heights of thought to sit among the kings of men.
Woman! instead of comforting men, thou hast tormented and afflicted
them! Knowing that thou couldst ask and have, thou hast demanded
--blood! A little flour surely should have contented thee, accustomed
as thou hast been to live on bread and to mingle water with thy wine.
Unlike all others in all things, formerly thou wouldst bid thy lovers
fast, and they obeyed. Why should thy fancies have led thee to require
things impossible? Why, like a courtesan spoiled by her lovers, hast
thou doted on follies, and left those undeceived who sought to explain
and justify all thy errors? Then came the days of thy later passions,
terrible like the love of a woman of forty years, with a fierce cry
thou hast sought to clasp the whole universe in one last embrace--and
thy universe recoiled from thee!

"Then old men succeeded to thy young lovers; decrepitude came to thy
feet and made thee hideous. Yet, even then, men with the eagle power
of vision said to thee in a glance, 'Thou shalt perish ingloriously,
because thou hast fallen away, because thou hast broken the vows of
thy maidenhood. The angel with peace written on her forehead, who
should have shed light and joy along her path, has been a Messalina,
delighting in the circus, in debauchery, and abuse of power. The days
of thy virginity cannot return; henceforward thou shalt be subject to
a master. Thy hour has come; the hand of death is upon thee. Thy heirs
believe that thou art rich; they will kill thee and find nothing. Yet
try at least to fling away this raiment no longer in fashion; be once
more as in the days of old!--Nay, thou art dead, and by thy own deed!'

"Is not this thy story?" so I ended. "Decrepit, toothless, shivering
crone, now forgotten, going thy ways without so much as a glance from
passers-by! Why art thou still alive? What doest thou in that beggar's
garb, uncomely and desired of none? Where are thy riches?--for what
were they spent? Where are thy treasures?--what great deeds hast thou
done?"

At this demand, the shriveled woman raised her bony form, flung off
her rags, and grew tall and radiant, smiling as she broke forth from
the dark chrysalid sheath. Then like a butterfly, this diaphanous
creature emerged, fair and youthful, clothed in white linen, an Indian
from creation issuing her palms. Her golden hair rippled over her
shoulders, her eyes glowed, a bright mist clung about her, a ring of
gold hovered above her head, she shook the flaming blade of a sword
towards the spaces of heaven.

"See and believe!" she cried.

And suddenly I saw, afar off, many thousands of cathedrals like the
one that I had just quitted; but these were covered with pictures and
with frescoes, and I heard them echo with entrancing music. Myriads of
human creatures flocked to these great buildings, swarming about them
like ants on an ant-heap. Some were eager to rescue books from
oblivion or to copy manuscripts, others were helping the poor, but
nearly all were studying. Up above this countless multitude rose giant
statues that they had erected in their midst, and by the gleams of a
strange light from some luminary as powerful as the sun, I read the
inscriptions on the bases of the statues--Science, History,
Literature.

The light died out. Again I faced the young girl. Gradually she
slipped into the dreary sheath, into the ragged cere-cloths, and
became an aged woman again. Her familiar brought her a little dust,
and she stirred it into the ashes of her chafing-dish, for the weather
was cold and stormy; and then he lighted for her, whose palaces had
been lit with thousands of wax-tapers, a little cresset, that she
might see to read her prayers through the hours of night.

"There is no faith left in the earth! . . ." she said.

In such a perilous plight did I behold the fairest and the greatest,
the truest and most life-giving of all Powers.



"Wake up, sir, the doors are just about to be shut," said a hoarse
voice. I turned and beheld the beadle's ugly countenance; the man was
shaking me by the arm, and the cathedral lay wrapped in shadows as a
man is wrapped in his cloak.

"Belief," I said to myself, "is Life! I have just witnessed the
funeral of a monarchy, now we must defend the church."



PARIS, February 183l.