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Title: Christ in Flanders
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Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com<br>
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<p>Christ in Flanders</p>
<p>by Honore de Balzac</p>
<p>Translated by Ellen Marriage</p>
<h3><br>
DEDICATION</h3>
<p>To Marcelline Desbordes-Valmore, a daughter of Flanders, of
whom<br>
these modern days may well be proud, I dedicate this quaint
legend<br>
of old Flanders.</p>
<h4>DE BALZAC.</h4>
<h4> </h4>
<h1><br>
CHRIST IN FLANDERS</h1>
<h1> </h1>
<p>At a dimly remote period in the history of Brabant,
communication<br>
between the Island of Cadzand and the Flemish coast was kept up
by a<br>
boat which carried passengers from one shore to the other.
Middelburg,<br>
the chief town in the island, destined to become so famous in
the<br>
annals of Protestantism, at that time only numbered some two or
three<br>
hundred hearths; and the prosperous town of Ostend was an
obscure<br>
haven, a straggling village where pirates dwelt in security
among the<br>
fishermen and the few poor merchants who lived in the place.</p>
<p>But though the town of Ostend consisted altogether of some
score of<br>
houses and three hundred cottages, huts or hovels built of
the<br>
driftwood of wrecked vessels, it nevertheless rejoiced in
the<br>
possession of a governor, a garrison, a forked gibbet, a
convent, and<br>
a burgomaster, in short, in all the institutions of an
advanced<br>
civilization.</p>
<p><br>
Who reigned over Brabant and Flanders in those days? On this
point<br>
tradition is mute. Let us confess at once that this tale
savors<br>
strongly of the marvelous, the mysterious, and the vague;
elements<br>
which Flemish narrators have infused into a story retailed so
often to<br>
gatherings of workers on winter evenings, that the details vary
widely<br>
in poetic merit and incongruity of detail. It has been told by
every<br>
generation, handed down by grandames at the fireside, narrated
night<br>
and day, and the chronicle has changed its complexion somewhat
in<br>
every age. Like some great building that has suffered many<br>
modifications of successive generations of architects, some
sombre<br>
weather-beaten pile, the delight of a poet, the story would
drive the<br>
commentator and the industrious winnower of words, facts, and
dates to<br>
despair. The narrator believes in it, as all superstitious minds
in<br>
Flanders likewise believe; and is not a whit wiser nor more
credulous<br>
than his audience. But as it would be impossible to make a
harmony of<br>
all the different renderings, here are the outlines of the
story;<br>
stripped, it may be, of its picturesque quaintness, but with all
its<br>
bold disregard of historical truth, and its moral teachings
approved<br>
by religion--a myth, the blossom of imaginative fancy; an
allegory<br>
that the wise may interpret to suit themselves. To each his
own<br>
pasturage, and the task of separating the tares from the
wheat.</p>
<p>The boat that served to carry passengers from the Island of
Cadzand to<br>
Ostend was upon the point of departure; but before the skipper
loosed<br>
the chain that secured the shallop to the little jetty, where
people<br>
embarked, he blew a horn several times, to warn late lingerers,
this<br>
being his last journey that day. Night was falling. It was
scarcely<br>
possible to see the coast of Flanders by the dying fires of
the<br>
sunset, or to make out upon the hither shore any forms of
belated<br>
passengers hurrying along the wall of the dykes that surrounded
the<br>
open country, or among the tall reeds of the marshes. The boat
was<br>
full.</p>
<p>"What are you waiting for? Let us put off!" they cried.</p>
<p>Just at that moment a man appeared a few paces from the jetty,
to the<br>
surprise of the skipper, who had heard no sound of footsteps.
The<br>
traveler seemed to have sprung up from the earth, like a peasant
who<br>
had laid himself down on the ground to wait till the boat
should<br>
start, and had slept till the sound of the horn awakened him.
Was he a<br>
thief? or some one belonging to the custom-house or the
police?</p>
<p>As soon as the man appeared on the jetty to which the boat was
moored,<br>
seven persons who were standing in the stern of the shallop
hastened<br>
to sit down on the benches, so as to leave no room for the
newcomer.<br>
It was the swift and instinctive working of the aristocratic
spirit,<br>
an impulse of exclusiveness that comes from the rich man's
heart. Four<br>
of the seven personages belonged to the most aristocratic
families in<br>
Flanders. First among them was a young knight with two
beautiful<br>
greyhounds; his long hair flowed from beneath a jeweled cap;
he<br>
clanked his gilded spurs, curled the ends of his moustache from
time<br>
to time with a swaggering grace, and looked round disdainfully
on the<br>
rest of the crew. A high-born damsel, with a falcon on her
wrist, only<br>
spoke with her mother or with a churchman of high rank, who
was<br>
evidently a relation. All these persons made a great deal of
noise,<br>
and talked among themselves as though there were no one else in
the<br>
boat; yet close beside them sat a man of great importance in
the<br>
district, a stout burgher of Bruges, wrapped about with a vast
cloak.<br>
His servant, armed to the teeth, had set down a couple of bags
filled<br>
with gold at his side. Next to the burgher came a man of
learning, a<br>
doctor of the University of Louvain, who was traveling with his
clerk.<br>
This little group of folk, who looked contemptuously at each
other,<br>
was separated from the passengers in the forward part of the
boat by<br>
the bench of rowers.</p>
<p>The belated traveler glanced about him as he stepped on board,
saw<br>
that there was no room for him in the stern, and went to the
bows in<br>
quest of a seat. They were all poor people there. At first sight
of<br>
the bareheaded man in the brown camlet coat and trunk-hose, and
plain<br>
stiff linen collar, they noticed that he wore no ornaments,
carried no<br>
cap nor bonnet in his hand, and had neither sword nor purse at
his<br>
girdle, and one and all took him for a burgomaster sure of
his<br>
authority, a worthy and kindly burgomaster like so many a
Fleming of<br>
old times, whose homely features and characters have been
immortalized<br>
by Flemish painters. The poorer passengers, therefore, received
him<br>
with demonstrations of respect that provoked scornful tittering
at the<br>
other end of the boat. An old soldier, inured to toil and
hardship,<br>
gave up his place on the bench to the newcomer, and seated
himself on<br>
the edge of the vessel, keeping his balance by planting his
feet<br>
against one of those traverse beams, like the backbone of a
fish, that<br>
hold the planks of a boat together. A young mother, who bore her
baby<br>
in her arms, and seemed to belong to the working class in
Ostend,<br>
moved aside to make room for the stranger. There was neither
servility<br>
nor scorn in her manner of doing this; it was a simple sign of
the<br>
goodwill by which the poor, who know by long experience the
value of a<br>
service and the warmth that fellowship brings, give expression
to the<br>
open-heartedness and the natural impulses of their souls; so
artlessly<br>
do they reveal their good qualities and their defects. The
stranger<br>
thanked her by a gesture full of gracious dignity, and took his
place<br>
between the young mother and the old soldier. Immediately behind
him<br>
sat a peasant and his son, a boy ten years of age. A beggar
woman,<br>
old, wrinkled, and clad in rags, was crouching, with her almost
empty<br>
wallet, on a great coil of rope that lay in the prow. One of
the<br>
rowers, an old sailor, who had known her in the days of her
beauty and<br>
prosperity, had let her come in "for the love of God," in
the<br>
beautiful phrase that the common people use.</p>
<p>"Thank you kindly, Thomas," the old woman had said. "I will
say two<br>
<i>Paters</i> and two <i>Aves</i> for you in my prayers
to-night."</p>
<p>The skipper blew his horn for the last time, looked along the
silent<br>
shore, flung off the chain, ran along the side of the boat, and
took<br>
up his position at the helm. He looked at the sky, and as soon
as they<br>
were out in the open sea, he shouted to the men: "Pull away,
pull with<br>
all your might! The sea is smiling at a squall, the witch! I can
feel<br>
the swell by the way the rudder works, and the storm in my
wounds."</p>
<p>The nautical phrases, unintelligible to ears unused to the
sound of<br>
the sea, seemed to put fresh energy into the oars; they kept
time<br>
together, the rhythm of the movement was still even and steady,
but<br>
quite unlike the previous manner of rowing; it was as if a
cantering<br>
horse had broken into a gallop. The gay company seated in the
stern<br>
amused themselves by watching the brawny arms, the tanned faces,
and<br>
sparkling eyes of the rowers, the play of the tense muscles,
the<br>
physical and mental forces that were being exerted to bring them
for a<br>
trifling toll across the channel. So far from pitying the
rowers'<br>
distress, they pointed out the men's faces to each other, and
laughed<br>
at the grotesque expressions on the faces of the crew who
were<br>
straining every muscle; but in the fore part of the boat the
soldier,<br>
the peasant, and the old beggar woman watched the sailors with
the<br>
sympathy naturally felt by toilers who live by the sweat of
their brow<br>
and know the rough struggle, the strenuous excitement of effort.
These<br>
folk, moreover, whose lives were spent in the open air, had all
seen<br>
the warnings of danger in the sky, and their faces were grave.
The<br>
young mother rocked her child, singing an old hymn of the Church
for a<br>
lullaby.</p>
<p>"If we ever get there at all," the soldier remarked to the
peasant,<br>
"it will be because the Almighty is bent on keeping us
alive."</p>
<p>"Ah! He is the Master," said the old woman, "but I think it
will be<br>
His good pleasure to take us to Himself. Just look at that light
down<br>
there . . ." and she nodded her head as she spoke towards the
sunset.</p>
<p>Streaks of fiery red glared from behind the masses of
crimson-flushed<br>
brown cloud that seemed about to unloose a furious gale. There
was a<br>
smothered murmur of the sea, a moaning sound that seemed to come
from<br>
the depths, a low warning growl, such as a dog gives when he
only<br>
means mischief as yet. After all, Ostend was not far away.
Perhaps<br>
painting, like poetry, could not prolong the existence of the
picture<br>
presented by sea and sky at that moment beyond the time of its
actual<br>
duration. Art demands vehement contrasts, wherefore artists
usually<br>
seek out Nature's most striking effects, doubtless because
they<br>
despair of rendering the great and glorious charm of her daily
moods;<br>
yet the human soul is often stirred as deeply by her calm as by
her<br>
emotion, and by silence as by storm.</p>
<p>For a moment no one spoke on board the boat. Every one watched
that<br>
sea and sky, either with some presentiment of danger, or because
they<br>
felt the influence of the religious melancholy that takes
possession<br>
of nearly all of us at the close of the day, the hour of prayer,
when<br>
all nature is hushed save for the voices of the bells. The sea
gleamed<br>
pale and wan, but its hues changed, and the surface took all
the<br>
colors of steel. The sky was almost overspread with livid gray,
but<br>
down in the west there were long narrow bars like streaks of
blood;<br>
while lines of bright light in the eastern sky, sharp and clean
as if<br>
drawn by the tip of a brush, were separated by folds of cloud,
like<br>
the wrinkles on an old man's brow. The whole scene made a
background<br>
of ashen grays and half-tints, in strong contrast to the
bale-fires of<br>
the sunset. If written language might borrow of spoken language
some<br>
of the bold figures of speech invented by the people, it might
be said<br>
with the soldier that "the weather has been routed," or, as
the<br>
peasant would say, "the sky glowered like an executioner."
Suddenly a<br>
wind arose from the quarter of the sunset, and the skipper, who
never<br>
took his eyes off the sea, saw the swell on the horizon line,
and<br>
cried:</p>
<p>"Stop rowing!"</p>
<p>The sailors stopped immediately, and let their oars lie on the
water.</p>
<p>"The skipper is right," said Thomas coolly. A great wave
caught up the<br>
boat, carried it high on its crest, only to plunge it, as it
were,<br>
into the trough of the sea that seemed to yawn for them. At
this<br>
mighty upheaval, this sudden outbreak of the wrath of the sea,
the<br>
company in the stern turned pale, and sent up a terrible
cry.</p>
<p>"We are lost!"</p>
<p>"Oh, not yet!" said the skipper calmly.</p>
<p>As he spoke, the clouds immediately above their heads were
torn<br>
asunder by the vehemence of the wind. The gray mass was rent
and<br>
scattered east and west with ominous speed, a dim uncertain
light from<br>
the rift in the sky fell full upon the boat, and the travelers
beheld<br>
each other's faces. All of them, the noble and the wealthy,
the<br>
sailors and the poor passengers alike, were amazed for a moment
by the<br>
appearance of the last comer. His golden hair, parted upon his
calm,<br>
serene forehead, fell in thick curls about his shoulders; and
his<br>
face, sublime in its sweetness and radiant with divine love,
stood out<br>
against the surrounding gloom. He had no contempt for death; he
knew<br>
that he should not die. But if at the first the company in the
stern<br>
forgot for a moment the implacable fury of the storm that
threatened<br>
their lives, selfishness and their habits of life soon
prevailed<br>
again.</p>
<p><br>
"How lucky that stupid burgomaster is, not to see the risks we
are all<br>
running! He is just like a dog, he will die without a struggle,"
said<br>
the doctor.</p>
<p>He had scarcely pronounced this highly judicious dictum when
the storm<br>
unloosed all its legions. The wind blew from every quarter of
the<br>
heavens, the boat span round like a top, and the sea broke
in.</p>
<p>"Oh! my poor child! my poor child! . . . Who will save my
baby?" the<br>
mother cried in a heart-rending voice.</p>
<p>"You yourself will save it," the stranger said.</p>
<p>The thrilling tones of that voice went to the young mother's
heart and<br>
brought hope with them; she heard the gracious words through all
the<br>
whistling of the wind and the shrieks of the passengers.</p>
<p>"Holy Virgin of Good Help, who art at Antwerp, I promise thee
a<br>
thousand pounds of wax and a statue, if thou wilt rescue me
from<br>
this!" cried the burgher, kneeling upon his bags of gold.</p>
<p>"The Virgin is no more at Antwerp than she is here," was the
doctor's<br>
comment on this appeal.</p>
<p>"She is in heaven," said a voice that seemed to come from the
sea.</p>
<p>"Who said that?"</p>
<p>"'Tis the devil!" exclaimed the servant. "He is scoffing at
the Virgin<br>
of Antwerp."</p>
<p>"Let us have no more of your Holy Virgin at present," the
skipper<br>
cried to the passengers. "Put your hands to the scoops and bail
the<br>
water out of the boat.--And the rest of you," he went on,
addressing<br>
the sailors, "pull with all your might! Now is the time; in the
name<br>
of the devil who is leaving you in this world, be your own
Providence!<br>
Every one knows that the channel is fearfully dangerous; I have
been<br>
to and fro across it these thirty years. Am I facing a storm for
the<br>
first time to-night?"</p>
<p>He stood at the helm, and looked, as before, at his boat and
at the<br>
sea and sky in turn.</p>
<p>"The skipper always laughs at everything," muttered
Thomas.</p>
<p>"Will God leave us to perish along with those wretched
creatures?"<br>
asked the haughty damsel of the handsome cavalier.</p>
<p>"No, no, noble maiden. . . . Listen!" and he caught her by the
waist<br>
and said in her ear, "I can swim, say nothing about it! I will
hold<br>
you by your fair hair and bring you safely to the shore; but I
can<br>
only save you."</p>
<p>The girl looked at her aged mother. The lady was on her
knees<br>
entreating absolution of the Bishop, who did not heed her. In
the<br>
beautiful eyes the knight read a vague feeling of filial piety,
and<br>
spoke in a smothered voice.</p>
<p>"Submit yourself to the will of God. If it is His pleasure to
take<br>
your mother to Himself, it will doubtless be for her
happiness--in<br>
another world," he added, and his voice dropped still lower.
"And for<br>
ours in this," he thought within himself.</p>
<p>The Dame of Rupelmonde was lady of seven fiefs beside the
barony of<br>
Gavres.</p>
<p>The girl felt the longing for life in her heart, and for love
that<br>
spoke through the handsome adventurer, a young miscreant who
haunted<br>
churches in search of a prize, an heiress to marry, or ready
money.<br>
The Bishop bestowed his benison on the waves, and bade them be
calm;<br>
it was all that he could do. He thought of his concubine, and of
the<br>
delicate feast with which she would welcome him; perhaps at that
very<br>
moment she was bathing, perfuming herself, robing herself in
velvet,<br>
fastening her necklace and her jeweled clasps; and the
perverse<br>
Bishop, so far from thinking of the power of Holy Church, of his
duty<br>
to comfort Christians and exhort them to trust in God, mingled
worldly<br>
regrets and lover's sighs with the holy words of the breviary.
By the<br>
dim light that shone on the pale faces of the company, it was
possible<br>
to see their differing expressions as the boat was lifted high
in air<br>
by a wave, to be cast back into the dark depths; the shallop
quivered<br>
like a fragile leaf, the plaything of the north wind in the
autumn;<br>
the hull creaked, it seemed ready to go to pieces. Fearful
shrieks<br>
went up, followed by an awful silence.</p>
<p>There was a strange difference between the behavior of the
folk in the<br>
bows and that of the rich or great people at the other end of
the<br>
boat. The young mother clasped her infant tightly to her breast
every<br>
time that a great wave threatened to engulf the fragile vessel;
but<br>
she clung to the hope that the stranger's words had set in her
heart.<br>
Each time that the eyes turned to his face she drew fresh faith
at the<br>
sight, the strong faith of a helpless woman, a mother's faith.
She<br>
lived by that divine promise, the loving words from his lips;
the<br>
simple creature waited trustingly for them to be fulfilled,
and<br>
scarcely feared the danger any longer.</p>
<p>The soldier, holding fast to the vessel's side, never took his
eyes<br>
off the strange visitor. He copied on his own rough and
swarthy<br>
features the imperturbability of the other's face, applying to
this<br>
task the whole strength of a will and intelligence but
little<br>
corrupted in the course of a life of mechanical and passive
obedience.<br>
So emulous was he of a calm and tranquil courage greater than
his own,<br>
that at last, perhaps unconsciously, something of that
mysterious<br>
nature passed into his own soul. His admiration became an
instinctive<br>
zeal for this man, a boundless love for and belief in him, such
a love<br>
as soldiers feel for their leader when he has the power of
swaying<br>
other men, when the halo of victories surrounds him, and the
magical<br>
fascination of genius is felt in all that he does. The poor
outcast<br>
was murmuring to herself:</p>
<p>"Ah! miserable wretch that I am! Have I not suffered enough to
expiate<br>
the sins of my youth? Ah! wretched woman, why did you leave the
gay<br>
life of a frivolous Frenchwoman? why did you devour the goods of
God<br>
with churchmen, the substance of the poor with extortioners
and<br>
fleecers of the poor? Oh! I have sinned indeed!--Oh my God! my
God!<br>
let me finish my time in hell here in this world of misery."</p>
<p>And again she cried, "Holy Virgin, Mother of God, have pity
upon me!"</p>
<p>"Be comforted, mother. God is not a Lombard usurer. I may have
killed<br>
people good and bad at random in my time, but I am not afraid of
the<br>
resurrection."</p>
<p>"Ah! master Lancepesade, how happy those fair ladies are, to
be so<br>
near to a bishop, a holy man! They will get absolution for
their<br>
sins," said the old woman. "Oh! if I could only hear a priest
say to<br>
me, 'Thy sins are forgiven!' I should believe it then."</p>
<p>The stranger turned towards her, and the goodness in his face
made her<br>
tremble.</p>
<p>"Have faith," he said, "and you will be saved."</p>
<p>"May God reward you, good sir," she answered. "If what you say
is<br>
true, I will go on pilgrimage barefooted to Our Lady of Loretto
to<br>
pray to her for you and for me."</p>
<p>The two peasants, father and son, were silent, patient, and
submissive<br>
to the will of God, like folk whose wont it is to fall in<br>
instinctively with the ways of Nature like cattle. At the one
end of<br>
the boat stood riches, pride, learning, debauchery, and
crime--human<br>
society, such as art and thought and education and worldly
interests<br>
and laws have made it; and at this end there was terror and
wailing,<br>
innumerable different impulses all repressed by hideous
doubts--at<br>
this end, and at this only, the agony of fear.</p>
<p>Above all these human lives stood a strong man, the skipper;
no doubts<br>
assailed him, the chief, the king, the fatalist among them. He
was<br>
trusting in himself rather than in Providence, crying, "Bail
away!"<br>
instead of "Holy Virgin," defying the storm, in fact, and
struggling<br>
with the sea like a wrestler.</p>
<p>But the helpless poor at the other end of the wherry! The
mother<br>
rocking on her bosom the little one who smiled at the storm; the
woman<br>
once so frivolous and gay, and now tormented with bitter
remorse; the<br>
old soldier covered with scars, a mutilated life the sole reward
of<br>
his unflagging loyalty and faithfulness. This veteran could
scarcely<br>
count on the morsel of bread soaked in tears to keep the life in
him,<br>
yet he was always ready to laugh, and went his way merrily,
happy when<br>
he could drown his glory in the depths of a pot of beer, or
could tell<br>
tales of the wars to the children who admired him, leaving his
future<br>
with a light heart in the hands of God. Lastly, there were the
two<br>
peasants, used to hardships and toil, labor incarnate, the labor
by<br>
which the world lives. These simple folk were indifferent to
thought<br>
and its treasures, ready to sink them all in a belief; and their
faith<br>
was but so much the more vigorous because they had never
disputed<br>
about it nor analyzed it. Such a nature is a virgin soil,
conscience<br>
has not been tampered with, feeling is deep and strong;
repentance,<br>
trouble, love, and work have developed, purified, concentrated,
and<br>
increased their force of will a hundred times, the will--the one
thing<br>
in man that resembles what learned doctors call the Soul.</p>
<p>The boat, guided by the well-nigh miraculous skill of the
steersman,<br>
came almost within sight of Ostend, when, not fifty paces from
the<br>
shore, she was suddenly struck by a heavy sea and capsized.
The<br>
stranger with the light about his head spoke to this little
world of<br>
drowning creatures:</p>
<p>"Those who have faith shall be saved; let them follow me!"</p>
<p>He stood upright, and walked with a firm step upon the waves.
The<br>
young mother at once took her child in her arms, and followed at
his<br>
side across the sea. The soldier too sprang up, saying in his
homely<br>
fashion, "Ah! <i>nom d'un pipe</i>! I would follow <i>you</i> to
the devil;" and<br>
without seeming astonished by it, he walked on the water. The
worn-out<br>
sinner, believing in the omnipotence of God, also followed
the<br>
stranger.</p>
<p>The two peasants said to each other, "If they are walking on
the sea,<br>
why should we not do as they do?" and they also arose and
hastened<br>
after the others. Thomas tried to follow, but his faith
tottered; he<br>
sank in the sea more than once, and rose again, but the third
time he<br>
also walked on the sea. The bold steersman clung like a remora
to the<br>
wreck of his boat. The miser had had faith, and had risen to go,
but<br>
he tried to take his gold with him, and it was his gold that
dragged<br>
him down to the bottom. The learned man had scoffed at the
charlatan<br>
and at the fools who listened to him; and when he heard the
mysterious<br>
stranger propose to the passengers that they should walk on the
waves,<br>
he began to laugh, and the ocean swallowed him. The girl was
dragged<br>
down into the depths by her lover. The Bishop and the older lady
went<br>
to the bottom, heavily laden with sins, it may be, but still
more<br>
heavily laden with incredulity and confidence in idols, weighted
down<br>
by devotion, into which alms-deeds and true religion entered
but<br>
little.</p>
<p><br>
The faithful flock, who walked with a firm step high and dry
above the<br>
surge, heard all about them the dreadful whistling of the blast;
great<br>
billows broke across their path, but an irresistible force cleft
a way<br>
for them through the sea. These believing ones saw through the
spray a<br>
dim speck of light flickering in the window of a fisherman's hut
on<br>
the shore, and each one, as he pushed on bravely towards the
light,<br>
seemed to hear the voice of his fellow crying, "Courage!"
through all<br>
the roaring of the surf; yet no one had spoken a word--so
absorbed was<br>
each by his own peril. In this way they reached the shore.</p>
<p>When they were all seated near the fisherman's fire, they
looked round<br>
in vain for their guide with the light about him. The sea washed
up<br>
the steersman at the base of the cliff on which the cottage
stood; he<br>
was clinging with might and main to the plank as a sailor can
cling<br>
when death stares him in the face; the MAN went down and rescued
the<br>
almost exhausted seaman; then he said, as he held out a
succoring hand<br>
above the man's head:</p>
<p>"Good, for this once; but do not try it again; the example
would be<br>
too bad."</p>
<p>He took the skipper on his shoulders, and carried him to
the<br>
fisherman's door; knocked for admittance for the exhausted man;
then,<br>
when the door of the humble refuge opened, the Saviour
disappeared.</p>
<p>The Convent of Mercy was built for sailors on this spot, where
for<br>
long afterwards (so it was said) the footprints of Jesus Christ
could<br>
be seen in the sand; but in 1793, at the time of the French
invasion,<br>
the monks carried away this precious relic, that bore witness to
the<br>
Saviour's last visit to earth.</p>
<p>There at the convent I found myself shortly after the
Revolution of<br>
1830. I was weary of life. If you had asked me the reason of
my<br>
despair, I should have found it almost impossible to give it,
so<br>
languid had grown the soul that was melted within me. The west
wind<br>
had slackened the springs of my intelligence. A cold gray light
poured<br>
down from the heavens, and the murky clouds that passed overhead
gave<br>
a boding look to the land; all these things, together with
the<br>
immensity of the sea, said to me, "Die to-day or die to-morrow,
still<br>
must we not die?" And then--I wandered on, musing on the
doubtful<br>
future, on my blighted hopes. Gnawed by these gloomy thoughts,
I<br>
turned mechanically into the convent church, with the gray
towers that<br>
loomed like ghosts though the sea mists. I looked round with
no<br>
kindling of the imagination at the forest of columns, at the
slender<br>
arches set aloft upon the leafy capitals, a delicate labyrinth
of<br>
sculpture. I walked with careless eyes along the side aisles
that<br>
opened out before me like vast portals, ever turning upon
their<br>
hinges. It was scarcely possible to see, by the dim light of
the<br>
autumn day, the sculptured groinings of the roof, the delicate
and<br>
clean-cut lines of the mouldings of the graceful pointed arches.
The<br>
organ pipes were mute. There was no sound save the noise of my
own<br>
footsteps to awaken the mournful echoes lurking in the dark
chapels. I<br>
sat down at the base of one of the four pillars that supported
the<br>
tower, near the choir. Thence I could see the whole of the
building. I<br>
gazed, and no ideas connected with it arose in my mind. I saw
without<br>
seeing the mighty maze of pillars, the great rose windows that
hung<br>
like a network suspended as by a miracle in air above the
vast<br>
doorways. I saw the doors at the end of the side aisles, the
aerial<br>
galleries, the stained glass windows framed in archways, divided
by<br>
slender columns, fretted into flower forms and trefoil by
fine<br>
filigree work of carved stone. A dome of glass at the end of the
choir<br>
sparkled as if it had been built of precious stones set
cunningly. In<br>
contrast to the roof with its alternating spaces of whiteness
and<br>
color, the two aisles lay to right and left in shadow so deep
that the<br>
faint gray outlines of their hundred shafts were scarcely
visible in<br>
the gloom. I gazed at the marvelous arcades, the scroll-work,
the<br>
garlands, the curving lines, and arabesques interwoven and
interlaced,<br>
and strangely lighted, until by sheer dint of gazing my
perceptions<br>
became confused, and I stood upon the borderland between
illusion and<br>
reality, taken in the snare set for the eyes, and almost
light-headed<br>
by reason of the multitudinous changes of the shapes about
me.</p>
<p>Imperceptibly a mist gathered about the carven stonework, and
I only<br>
beheld it through a haze of fine golden dust, like the motes
that<br>
hover in the bars of sunlight slanting through the air of a
chamber.<br>
Suddenly the stone lacework of the rose windows gleamed through
this<br>
vapor that had made all forms so shadowy. Every moulding, the
edges of<br>
every carving, the least detail of the sculpture was dipped in
silver.<br>
The sunlight kindled fires in the stained windows, their rich
colors<br>
sent out glowing sparks of light. The shafts began to tremble,
the<br>
capitals were gently shaken. A light shudder as of delight ran
through<br>
the building, the stones were loosened in their setting, the
wall-<br>
spaces swayed with graceful caution. Here and there a ponderous
pier<br>
moved as solemnly as a dowager when she condescends to complete
a<br>
quadrille at the close of a ball. A few slender and graceful
columns,<br>
their heads adorned with wreaths of trefoil, began to laugh and
dance<br>
here and there. Some of the pointed arches dashed at the tall
lancet<br>
windows, who, like ladies of the Middle Ages, wore the
armorial<br>
bearings of their houses emblazoned on their golden robes. The
dance<br>
of the mitred arcades with the slender windows became like a
fray at a<br>
tourney.</p>
<p>In another moment every stone in the church vibrated, without
leaving<br>
its place; for the organ-pipes spoke, and I heard divine
music<br>
mingling with the songs of angels, and unearthly harmony,
accompanied<br>
by the deep notes of the bells, that boomed as the giant towers
rocked<br>
and swayed on their square bases. This strange Sabbath seemed to
me<br>
the most natural thing in the world; and I, who had seen Charles
X.<br>
hurled from his throne, was no longer amazed by anything. Nay,
I<br>
myself was gently swaying with a see-saw movement that
influenced my<br>
nerves pleasurably in a manner of which it is impossible to give
any<br>
idea. Yet in the midst of this heated riot, the cathedral choir
felt<br>
cold as if it were a winter day, and I became aware of a
multitude of<br>
women, robed in white, silent, and impassive, sitting there. The
sweet<br>
incense smoke that arose from the censers was grateful to my
soul. The<br>
tall wax candles flickered. The lectern, gay as a chanter undone
by<br>
the treachery of wine, was skipping about like a peal of
Chinese<br>
bells.</p>
<p><br>
Then I knew that the whole cathedral was whirling round so fast
that<br>
everything appeared to be undisturbed. The colossal Figure on
the<br>
crucifix above the altar smiled upon me with a mingled malice
and<br>
benevolence that frightened me; I turned my eyes away, and
marveled at<br>
the bluish vapor that slid across the pillars, lending to them
an<br>
indescribable charm. Then some graceful women's forms began to
stir on<br>
the friezes. The cherubs who upheld the heavy columns shook out
their<br>
wings. I felt myself uplifted by some divine power that steeped
me in<br>
infinite joy, in a sweet and languid rapture. I would have given
my<br>
life, I think, to have prolonged these phantasmagoria for a
little,<br>
but suddenly a shrill voice clamored in my ears:</p>
<p>"Awake and follow me!"</p>
<p>A withered woman took my hand in hers; its icy coldness crept
through<br>
every nerve. The bones of her face showed plainly through the
sallow,<br>
almost olive-tinted wrinkles of the skin. The shrunken, ice-cold
old<br>
woman wore a black robe, which she trailed in the dust, and at
her<br>
throat there was something white, which I dared not examine. I
could<br>
scarcely see her wan and colorless eyes, for they were fixed in
a<br>
stare upon the heavens. She drew me after her along the
aisles,<br>
leaving a trace of her presence in the ashes that she shook from
her<br>
dress. Her bones rattled as she walked, like the bones of a
skeleton;<br>
and as we went I heard behind me the tinkling of a little bell,
a<br>
thin, sharp sound that rang through my head like the notes of
a<br>
harmonica.</p>
<p>"Suffer!" she cried, "suffer! So it must be!"</p>
<p>We came out of the church; we went through the dirtiest
streets of the<br>
town, till we came at last to a dingy dwelling, and she bade me
enter<br>
in. She dragged me with her, calling to me in a harsh, tuneless
voice<br>
like a cracked bell:</p>
<p>"Defend me! defend me!"</p>
<p>Together we went up a winding staircase. She knocked at a door
in the<br>
darkness, and a mute, like some familiar of the Inquisition,
opened to<br>
her. In another moment we stood in a room hung with ancient,
ragged<br>
tapestry, amid piles of old linen, crumpled muslin, and gilded
brass.</p>
<p>"Behold the wealth that shall endure for ever!" said she.</p>
<p>I shuddered with horror; for just then, by the light of a tall
torch<br>
and two altar candles, I saw distinctly that this woman was
fresh from<br>
the graveyard. She had no hair. I turned to fly. She raised
her<br>
fleshless arm and encircled me with a band of iron set with
spikes,<br>
and as she raised it a cry went up all about us, the cry of
millions<br>
of voices--the shouting of the dead!</p>
<p>"It is my purpose to make thee happy for ever," she said.
"Thou art my<br>
son."</p>
<p>We were sitting before the hearth, the ashes lay cold upon it;
the old<br>
shrunken woman grasped my hand so tightly in hers that I could
not<br>
choose but stay. I looked fixedly at her, striving to read the
story<br>
of her life from the things among which she was crouching. Had
she<br>
indeed any life in her? It was a mystery. Yet I saw plainly that
once<br>
she must have been young and beautiful; fair, with all the charm
of<br>
simplicity, perfect as some Greek statue, with the brow of a
vestal.</p>
<p>"Ah! ah!" I cried, "now I know thee! Miserable woman, why hast
thou<br>
prostituted thyself? In the age of thy passions, in the time of
thy<br>
prosperity, the grace and purity of thy youth were
forgotten.<br>
Forgetful of thy heroic devotion, thy pure life, thy abundant
faith,<br>
thou didst resign thy primitive power and thy spiritual
supremacy for<br>
fleshly power. Thy linen vestments, thy couch of moss, the cell
in the<br>
rock, bright with rays of the Light Divine, was forsaken; thou
hast<br>
sparkled with diamonds, and shone with the glitter of luxury
and<br>
pride. Then, grown bold and insolent, seizing and overturning
all<br>
things in thy course like a courtesan eager for pleasure in her
days<br>
of splendor, thou hast steeped thyself in blood like some
queen<br>
stupefied by empery. Dost thou not remember to have been dull
and<br>
heavy at times, and the sudden marvelous lucidity of other
moments; as<br>
when Art emerges from an orgy? Oh! poet, painter, and singer,
lover of<br>
splendid ceremonies and protector of the arts, was thy
friendship for<br>
art perchance a caprice, that so thou shouldst sleep beneath<br>
magnificent canopies? Was there not a day when, in thy
fantastic<br>
pride, though chastity and humility were prescribed to thee,
thou<br>
hadst brought all things beneath thy feet, and set thy foot on
the<br>
necks of princes; when earthly dominion, and wealth, and the
mind of<br>
man bore thy yoke? Exulting in the abasement of humanity, joying
to<br>
witness the uttermost lengths to which man's folly would go,
thou hast<br>
bidden thy lovers walk on all fours, and required of them their
lands<br>
and wealth, nay, even their wives if they were worth aught to
thee.<br>
Thou hast devoured millions of men without a cause; thou hast
flung<br>
away lives like sand blown by the wind from West to East. Thou
hast<br>
come down from the heights of thought to sit among the kings of
men.<br>
Woman! instead of comforting men, thou hast tormented and
afflicted<br>
them! Knowing that thou couldst ask and have, thou hast
demanded--<br>
blood! A little flour surely should have contented thee,
accustomed as<br>
thou hast been to live on bread and to mingle water with thy
wine.<br>
Unlike all others in all things, formerly thou wouldst bid thy
lovers<br>
fast, and they obeyed. Why should thy fancies have led thee to
require<br>
things impossible? Why, like a courtesan spoiled by her lovers,
hast<br>
thou doted on follies, and left those undeceived who sought to
explain<br>
and justify all thy errors? Then came the days of thy later
passions,<br>
terrible like the love of a woman of forty years, with a fierce
cry<br>
thou hast sought to clasp the whole universe in one last
embrace--and<br>
thy universe recoiled from thee!</p>
<p><br>
"Then old men succeeded to thy young lovers; decrepitude came to
thy<br>
feet and made thee hideous. Yet, even then, men with the eagle
power<br>
of vision said to thee in a glance, 'Thou shalt perish
ingloriously,<br>
because thou hast fallen away, because thou hast broken the vows
of<br>
thy maidenhood. The angel with peace written on her forehead,
who<br>
should have shed light and joy along her path, has been a
Messalina,<br>
delighting in the circus, in debauchery, and abuse of power. The
days<br>
of thy virginity cannot return; henceforward thou shalt be
subject to<br>
a master. Thy hour has come; the hand of death is upon thee. Thy
heirs<br>
believe that thou art rich; they will kill thee and find
nothing. Yet<br>
try at least to fling away this raiment no longer in fashion; be
once<br>
more as in the days of old!--Nay, thou art dead, and by thy own
deed!'</p>
<p>"Is not this thy story?" so I ended. "Decrepit, toothless,
shivering<br>
crone, now forgotten, going thy ways without so much as a glance
from<br>
passers-by! Why art thou still alive? What doest thou in that
beggar's<br>
garb, uncomely and desired of none? Where are thy riches?--for
what<br>
were they spent? Where are thy treasures?--what great deeds hast
thou<br>
done?"</p>
<p>At this demand, the shriveled woman raised her bony form,
flung off<br>
her rags, and grew tall and radiant, smiling as she broke forth
from<br>
the dark chrysalid sheath. Then like a butterfly, this
diaphanous<br>
creature emerged, fair and youthful, clothed in white linen, an
Indian<br>
from creation issuing her palms. Her golden hair rippled over
her<br>
shoulders, her eyes glowed, a bright mist clung about her, a
ring of<br>
gold hovered above her head, she shook the flaming blade of a
sword<br>
towards the spaces of heaven.</p>
<p>"See and believe!" she cried.</p>
<p>And suddenly I saw, afar off, many thousands of cathedrals
like the<br>
one that I had just quitted; but these were covered with
pictures and<br>
with frescoes, and I heard them echo with entrancing music.
Myriads of<br>
human creatures flocked to these great buildings, swarming about
them<br>
like ants on an ant-heap. Some were eager to rescue books
from<br>
oblivion or to copy manuscripts, others were helping the poor,
but<br>
nearly all were studying. Up above this countless multitude rose
giant<br>
statues that they had erected in their midst, and by the gleams
of a<br>
strange light from some luminary as powerful as the sun, I read
the<br>
inscriptions on the bases of the statues--Science, History,<br>
Literature.</p>
<p>The light died out. Again I faced the young girl. Gradually
she<br>
slipped into the dreary sheath, into the ragged cere-cloths,
and<br>
became an aged woman again. Her familiar brought her a little
dust,<br>
and she stirred it into the ashes of her chafing-dish, for the
weather<br>
was cold and stormy; and then he lighted for her, whose palaces
had<br>
been lit with thousands of wax-tapers, a little cresset, that
she<br>
might see to read her prayers through the hours of night.</p>
<p>"There is no faith left in the earth! . . ." she said.</p>
<p>In such a perilous plight did I behold the fairest and the
greatest,<br>
the truest and most life-giving of all Powers.</p>
<p>"Wake up, sir, the doors are just about to be shut," said a
hoarse<br>
voice. I turned and beheld the beadle's ugly countenance; the
man was<br>
shaking me by the arm, and the cathedral lay wrapped in shadows
as a<br>
man is wrapped in his cloak.</p>
<p>"Belief," I said to myself, "is Life! I have just witnessed
the<br>
funeral of a monarchy, now we must defend the church."</p>
<p>PARIS, February 183l.</p>
<pre>
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