The Wandering Jew — Complete
"I should have much wished to pay my respects to Mdlle. de Cardoville,"
said Agricola; "but I feared to intrude."
"My lady is not quite well, sir," said Florine, "and receives no one to
day. I am sure, that as soon as she is better, she will be quite pleased
to see you."
Here Mother Bunch returned, and said to Agricola: "If you can come for
me to-morrow, about three o'clock, so as not to lose the whole day, we
will go to the factory, and you can bring me back in the evening."
"Then, at three o'clock to-morrow, my good sister."
"At three to-morrow, Agricola."
The evening of that same day, when all was quiet in the hotel, Mother
Bunch, who had remained till ten o'clock with Mdlle. de Cardoville, re
entered her bedchamber, locked the door after her, and finding herself
at length free and unrestrained, threw herself on her knees before a
chair, and burst into tears. She wept long--very long. When her tears at
length ceased to flow, she dried her eyes, approached the writing-desk,
drew out one of the boxes from the pigeonhole, and, taking from this
hiding-place the manuscript which Florine had so rapidly glanced over
the evening before, she wrote in it during a portion of the night.
CHAPTER XLVI. MOTHER BUNCH'S DIARY.
We have said that the hunchback wrote during a portion of the night,
in the book discovered the previous evening by Florine, who had not
ventured to take it away, until she had informed the persons who
employed her of its contents, and until she had received their final
orders on the subject. Let us explain the existence of this manuscript,
before opening it to the reader. The day on which Mother Bunch first
became aware of her love for Agricola, the first word of this manuscript
had been written. Endowed with an essentially trusting character, yet
always feeling herself restrained by the dread of ridicule--a dread
which, in its painful exaggeration, was the workgirl's only weakness--to
whom could the unfortunate creature have confided the secret of that
fatal passion, if not to paper--that mute confidant of timid and
suffering souls, that patient friend, silent and cold, who, if it makes
no reply to heart rending complaints, at least always listens, and never
forgets?
When her heart was overflowing with emotion, sometimes mild and sad,
sometimes harsh and bitter, the poor workgirl, finding a melancholy
charm in these dumb and solitary outpourings of the soul, now clothed in
the form of simple and touching poetry, and now in unaffected prose,
had accustomed herself by degrees not to confine her confidences to what
immediately related to Agricola, for though he might be mixed up with
all her thoughts, for reflections, which the sight of beauty, of happy
love, of maternity, of wealth, of misfortune, called up within her, were
so impressed with the influence of her unfortunate personal position,
that she would not even have dared to communicate them to him. Such,
then, was this journal of a poor daughter of the people, weak, deformed,
and miserable, but endowed with an angelic soul, and a fine intellect,
improved by reading, meditation, and solitude; pages quite unknown,
which yet contained many deep and striking views, both as regard men and
things, taken from the peculiar standpoint in which fate had placed
this unfortunate creature. The following lines, here and there abruptly
interrupted or stained with tears, according to the current of her
various emotions, on hearing of Agricola's deep love for Angela, formed
the last pages of this journal:
"Friday, March 3d, 1832.
"I spent the night without any painful dreams. This morning, I rose with
no sorrowful presentiment. I was calm and tranquil when Agricola came.
He did not appear to me agitated. He was simple and affectionate as
he always is. He spoke to me of events relating to M. Hardy, and then,
without transition, without hesitation, he said to me: 'The last four
days I have been desperately in love. The sentiment is so serious, that
I think of marriage. I have come to consult you about it.' That was how
this overwhelming revelation was made to me--naturally and cordially--I
on one side of the hearth, and Agricola an the other, as if we had
talked of indifferent things. And yet no more is needed to break
one's heart. Some one enters, embraces you like a brother, sits down,
talks--and then--Oh! Merciful heaven! my head wanders.
"I feel calmer now. Courage, my poor heart, courage!--Should a day of
misfortune again overwhelm me, I will read these lines written under the
impression of the most cruel grief I can ever feel, and I will say to
myself: 'What is the present woe compared to that past?' My grief is
indeed cruel! it is illegitimate, ridiculous, shameful: I should not
dare to confess it, even to the most indulgent of mothers. Alas!
there are some fearful sorrows, which yet rightly make men shrug their
shoulders in pity or contempt. Alas! these are forbidden misfortunes.
Agricola has asked me to go to-morrow, to see this young girl to whom he
is so passionately attached, and whom he will marry, if the instinct of
my heart should approve the marriage. This thought is the most painful
of all those which have tortured me since he so pitilessly announced
this love. Pitilessly? No, Agricola--no, my brother--forgive me this
unjust cry of pain! Is it that you know, can even suspect, that I love
you better than you love, better than you can ever love, this charming
creature?
"'Dark-haired--the figure of a nymph--fair as a lily--with blue eyes--as
large as that--and almost as mild as your own.'
"That is the portrait he drew of her. Poor Agricola! how would he have
suffered, had he known that every one of his words was tearing my heart.
Never did I so strongly feel the deep commiseration and tender pity,
inspired by a good, affectionate being, who, in the sincerity of his
ignorance, gives you your death-wound with a smile. We do not blame
him--no--we pity him to the full extent of the grief that he would feel
on learning the pain he had caused me. It is strange! but never did
Agricola appear to me more handsome than this morning. His manly
countenance was slightly agitated, as he spoke of the uneasiness of that
pretty young lady. As I listened to him describing the agony of a woman
who runs the risk of ruin for the man she loves, I felt my heart
beat violently, my hands were burning, a soft languor floated over
me--Ridiculous folly! As if I had any right to feel thus!
"I remember that, while he spoke, I cast a rapid glance at the glass. I
felt proud that I was so well dressed; he had not even remarked it; but
no matter--it seemed to me that my cap became me, that my hair shone
finely, my gaze beamed mild--I found Agricola so handsome, that I almost
began to think myself less ugly--no doubt, to excuse myself in my own
eyes for daring to love him. After all, what happened to-day would have
happened one day or another! Yes, that is consoling--like the thoughts
that death is nothing, because it must come at last--to those who are
in love with life! I have been always preserved from suicide--the last
resource of the unfortunate, who prefer trusting in God to remaining
amongst his creatures--by the sense of duty. One must not only think
of self. And I reflected also'God is good--always good--since the most
wretched beings find opportunities for love and devotion.' How is it
that I, so weak and poor, have always found means to be helpful and
useful to some one?
"This very day I felt tempted to make an end with life--Agricola and
his mother had no longer need of me.--Yes, but the unfortunate creatures
whom Mdlle. de Cardoville has commissioned me to watch over?--but my
benefactress herself, though she has affectionately reproached me with
the tenacity of my suspicions in regard to that man? I am more than ever
alarmed for her--I feel that she is more than ever in danger--more than
ever--I have faith in the value of my presence near her. Hence, I must
live. Live--to go to-morrow to see this girl, whom Agricola passionately
loves? Good heaven! why have I always known grief, and never hate? There
must be a bitter pleasure in hating. So many people hate!--Perhaps I
may hate this girl--Angela, as he called her, when he said, with so much
simplicity: 'A charming name, is it not, Mother Bunch?' Compare this
name, which recalls an idea so full of grace, with the ironical symbol
of my witch's deformity! Poor Agricola! poor brother! goodness
is sometimes as blind as malice, I see. Should I hate this young
girl?--Why? Did she deprive me of the beauty which charms Agricola? Can
I find fault with her for being beautiful? When I was not yet accustomed
to the consequences of my ugliness, I asked myself, with bitter
curiosity, why the Creator had endowed his creatures so unequally. The
habit of pain has allowed me to reflect calmly, and I have finished by
persuading myself, that to beauty and ugliness are attached the two most
noble emotions of the soul--admiration and compassion. Those who are
like me admire beautiful persons--such as Angela, such as Agricola--and
these in their turn feel a couching pity for such as I am. Sometimes, in
spite of one's self, one has very foolish hopes. Because Agricola, from
a feeling of propriety had never spoken to me of his love affairs, I
sometimes persuaded myself that he had none--that he loved me, and that
the fear of ridicule alone was with him, as with me, an obstacle in the
way of confessing it. Yes, I have even made verses on that subject--and
those, I think, not the worst I have written.
"Mine is a singular position! If I love, I am ridiculous; if any love
me, he is still more ridiculous. How did I come so to forget that, as to
have suffered and to suffer what I do?--But blessed be that suffering,
since it has not engendered hate--no; for I will not hate this girl--I
will Perform a sister's part to the last; I will follow the guidance of
my heart; I have the instinct of preserving others--my heart will lead
and enlighten me. My only fear is, that I shall burst into tears when
I see her, and not be able to conquer my emotion. Oh, then! what
a revelation to Agricola--a discovery of the mad love he has
inspired!--Oh, never! the day in which he knew that would be the last of
my life. There would then be within me something stronger than duty--the
longing to escape from shame--that incurable shame, that burns me like a
hot iron. No, no; I will be calm. Besides, did I not just now, when
with him bear courageously a terrible trial? I will be calm. My personal
feelings must not darken the second sight, so clear for those I love.
Oh! painful--painful task! for the fear of yielding involuntarily to
evil sentiments must not render me too indulgent toward this girl. I
might compromise Agricola's happiness, since my decision is to guide his
choice. Poor creature that I am. How I deceive myself! Agricola asks my
advice, because he thinks that I shall have not the melancholy courage
to oppose his passion; or else he would say to me: 'No matter--I love;
and I brave the future!'
"But then, if my advice, if the instincts of my heart, are not to guide
him--if his resolution is taken beforehand--of what use will be
to morrow's painful mission? Of what use? To obey him. Did he not
say--'Come!' In thinking of my devotion for him, how many times, in the
secret depths of my heart, I have asked myself if the thought had ever
occurred to him to love me otherwise than as a sister; if it had ever
struck him, what a devoted wife he would have in me! And why should
it have occurred to him? As long as he wished, as long as he may still
wish, I have been, and I shall be, as devoted to him, as if I were his
wife, sister, or mother. Why should he desire what he already possesses?