The Wandering Jew — Complete
Father d'Aigrigny resumed: "I do not conceal from you, my dear son,
that your resolution filled me with joy. I saw in you one of the future
lights of the Church, and I was anxious to see it shine in the midst
of our Company. You submitted courageously to our painful and difficult
tests; you were judged worthy of belonging to us, and, after taking in
my presence the irrevocable and sacred oath, which binds you for ever to
our Company for the greater glory of God, you answered the appeal of our
Holy Father(14) to willing souls, and offered yourself as a missionary,
to preach to savages the one Catholic faith. Though it was painful to us
to part with our dear son, we could not refuse to accede to such
pious wishes. You set out a humble missionary you return a glorious
martyr--and we are justly proud to reckon you amongst our number. This
rapid sketch of the past was necessary, my dear son to arrive at what
follows, for we wish now, if it be possible, to draw still closer the
bonds that unite us. Listen to me, my dear son; what I am about to say
is confidential and of the highest importance, not only for you, but the
whole Company."
"Then, father," cried Gabriel hastily, interrupting the Abbe d'Aigrigny,
"I cannot--I ought not to hear you."
The young priest became deadly pale; one saw, by the alteration of
his features, that a violent struggle was taking place within him, but
recovering his first resolution, he raised his head, and casting an
assured look on Father d'Aigrigny and Rodin, who glanced at each other
in mute surprise, he resumed: "I repeat to you, father, that if it
concerns confidential matters of the Company, I must not hear you."
"Really, my dear son, you occasion me the greatest astonishment. What
is the matter?--Your countenance changes, your emotion is visible. Speak
without fear; why can you not hear me?"
"I cannot tell you, father, until I also have, in my turn, rapidly
sketched the past--such as I have learned to judge it of late. You
will then understand, father, that I am no longer entitled to your
confidence, for an abyss will doubtlessly soon separate us."
At these words, it is impossible to paint the look rapidly exchanged
between Rodin and Father d'Aigrigny. The socius began to bite his nails,
fixing his reptile eye angrily upon Gabriel; Father d'Aigrigny grew
livid, and his brow was bathed in cold sweat. He asked himself with
terror, if, at the moment of reaching the goal, the obstacle was going
to come from Gabriel, in favor of whom all other obstacles had been
removed. This thought filled him with despair. Yet the reverend
father contained himself admirably, remained calm, and answered with
affectionate unction: "It is impossible to believe, my dear son, that
you and I can ever be separated by an abyss--unless by the abyss of
grief, which would be caused by any serious danger to your salvation.
But speak; I listen to you."
"It is true, that, twelve years ago, father," proceeded Gabriel, in a
firm voice, growing more animated as he proceeded, "I entered, through
your intervention, a college of the Company of Jesus. I entered it
loving, truthful, confiding. How did they encourage those precious
instincts of childhood? I will tell you. The day of my entrance, the
Superior said to me, as he pointed out two children a little older than
myself: 'These are the companions that you will prefer. You will always
walk three together. The rules of the house forbid all intercourse
between two persons only. They also require, that you should listen
attentively to what your companions say, so that you may report it to
me; for these dear children may have, without knowing it, bad thoughts
or evil projects. Now, if you love your comrades, you must inform me of
these evil tendencies, that my paternal remonstrances may save them from
punishment; it is better to prevent evil than to punish it.'"
"Such are, indeed, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, "the rules
of our house, and the language we hold to all our pupils on their
entrance."
"I know it, father," answered Gabriel, bitterly; "three days after,
a poor, submissive, and credulous child, I was already a spy upon my
comrades, hearing and remembering their conversation, and reporting it
to the superior, who congratulated me on my zeal. What they thus made
me do was shameful, and yet, God knows! I thought I was accomplishing a
charitable duty. I was happy in obeying the commands of a superior whom
I respected, and to whose words I listened, in my childish faith, as I
should have listened to those of Heaven. One day, that I had broken some
rule of the house, the superior said to me: 'My child, you have deserved
a severe punishment; but you will be pardoned, if you succeed in
surprising one of your comrades in the same fault that you have
committed.' And for that, notwithstanding my faith and blind obedience,
this encouragement to turn informer, from the motive of personal
interest, might appear odious to me, the superior added. 'I speak to
you, my child, for the sake of your comrade's salvation. Were he
to escape punishment, his evil habits would become habitual. But by
detecting him in a fault, and exposing him to salutary correction, you
will have the double advantage of aiding in his salvation, and escaping
yourself a merited punishment, which will have been remitted because of
your zeal for your neighbor--"
"Doubtless," answered Father d'Aigrigny, more and more terrified by
Gabriel's language; "and in truth, my dear son, all this is conformable
to the rule followed in our colleges, and to the habits of the members
of our Company, 'who may denounce each other without prejudice to mutual
love and charity, and only for their greater spiritual advancement,
particularly when questioned by their superior, or commanded for the
greater glory of God,' as our Constitution has it."
"I know it," cried Gabriel; "I know it. 'Tis in the name of all that is
most sacred amongst men, that we are encouraged to do evil."
"My dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, trying to conceal his secret and
growing terror beneath an appearance of wounded dignity, "from you to me
these words are at least strange."
At this, Rodin quitted the mantelpiece, on which he had been leaning,
begin to walk up and down the room, with a meditative air, and without
ceasing to bite his nails.
"It is cruel to be obliged to remind you, my dear son, that your are
indebted to us for the education you have received," added Father
d'Aigrigny.
"Such were its fruits, father," replied Gabriel. "Until then I had been
a spy on the other children, from a sort of disinterestedness; but the
orders of the superior made me advance another step on that shameful
road. I had become an informer, to escape a merited punishment. And yet,
such was my faith, my humility, my confidence, that I performed with
innocence and candor this doubly odious part. Once, indeed, tormented by
vague scruples, the last remains of generous aspirations that they were
stifling within me, I asked myself if the charitable and religious end
could justify the means, and I communicated my doubts to the superior.
He replied, that I had not to judge, but to obey, and that to him alone
belonged the responsibility of my acts."
"Go on, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, gelding, in spite of
himself, to the deepest dejection. "Alas! I was right in opposing your
travel to America."
"And yet it was the will of Providence, in that new, productive, and
free country, that, enlightened by a singular chance, on past and
present, my eyes were at length opened. Yes!" cried Gabriel, "it was in
America that, released from the gloomy abode where I had spent so many
years of my youth, and finding myself for the first time face to face
with the divine majesty of Nature, in the heart of immense solitudes
through which I journeyed--it was there that, overcome by so much
magnificence and grandeur, I made a vow--" Here Gabriel interrupted
himself, to continue: "Presently, father, I will explain to you that
vow; but believe me," added the missionary, with an accent of deep
sorrow, "it was a fatal day to me when I first learned to fear and
condemn all that I had hitherto most revered and blessed. Oh! I assure
you father," added Gabriel, with moist eyes, "it was not for myself
alone, that I then wept."
"I know the goodness of your heart, my dear son," replied Father
d'Aigrigny, catching a glimpse of hope, on seeing Gabriel's emotion; "I
fear that you have been led astray. But trust yourself to us, as to
your spiritual fathers, and I doubt not we shall confirm your faith,
so unfortunately shaken, and disperse the darkness which at present
obscures your sight. Alas, my dear son, in your vain illusions, you have
mistaken some false glimmer for the pure light of day. But go on."
Whilst Father d'Aigrigny was thus speaking, Rodin stopped, took a pocket
book from his coat, and wrote down several notes. Gabriel was becoming
more and more pale and agitated. It required no small courage in him,
to speak as he was speaking, for, since his journey to America, he
had learned to estimate the formidable power of the Company. But this
revelation of the past, looked at from the vantage-ground of a more
enlightened present, was for the young priest the excuse, or rather the
cause of the determination he had just signified to his superior, and
he wished to explain all faithfully, notwithstanding the danger he
knowingly encountered. He continued therefore, in an agitated voice:
"You know, father, that the last days of my childhood, that happy age
of frankness and innocent joy, were spent in an atmosphere of terror,
suspicion, and restraint. Alas! how could I resign myself to the least
impulse of confiding trust, when I was recommended to shun the looks of
him who spoke with me, in order to hide the impression that his words
might cause--to conceal whatever I felt, and to observe and listen to
everything? Thus I reached the age of fifteen; by degrees, the rare
visits that I was allowed to pay, but always in presence of one of our
fathers, to my adopted mother and brother, were quite suppressed, so as
to shut my heart against all soft and tender emotions. Sad and fearful
in that large, old noiseless, gloomy house, I felt that I became more
and more isolated from the affections and the freedom of the world.
My time was divided between mutilated studies, without connection and
without object, and long hours of minute devotional exercises. I ask
you, father, did they ever seek to warm our young souls by words of
tenderness or evangelic love? Alas, no! For the words of the divine
Saviour--Love ye one another, they had substituted the command: Suspect
ye one another. Did they ever, father, speak to us of our country or of
liberty?--No! ah, no! for those words make the heart beat high; and with
them, the heart must not beat at all. To our long hours of study and
devotion, there only succeeded a few walks, three by three--never two
and two--because by threes, the spy-system is more practicable, and
because intimacies are more easily formed by two alone; and thus might
have arisen some of those generous friendships, which also make the
heart beat more than it should.15 And so, by the habitual repression of
every feeling, there came a time when I could not feel at all. For six
months, I had not seen my adopted mother and brother; they came to visit
me at the college; a few years before, I should have received them with
transports and tears; this time my eyes were dry, my heart was cold. My
mother and brother quitted me weeping. The sight of this grief struck me
and I became conscious of the icy insensibility which had been creeping
upon me since I inhabited this tomb. Frightened at myself, I wished to