The Wandering Jew — Complete
"Married to him--oh, God!--the dream is mad as ineffable. Are not such
thoughts of celestial sweetness--which include all sentiments from
sisterly to maternal love--forbidden to me, on pain of ridicule as
distressing as if I wore dresses and ornaments, that my ugliness and
deformity would render absurd? I wonder, if I were now plunged into the
most cruel distress, whether I should suffer as much as I do, on hearing
of Agricola's intended marriage? Would hunger, cold, or misery diminish
this dreadful dolor?--or is it the dread pain that would make me forget
hunger, cold, and misery?
"No, no; this irony is bitter. It is not well in me to speak thus. Why
such deep grief? In what way have the affection, the esteem, the respect
of Agricola, changed towards me? I complain--but how would it be, kind
heaven! if, as, alas! too often happens, I were beautiful, loving,
devoted, and he had chosen another, less beautiful, less loving, less
devoted?--Should I not be a thousand times more unhappy? for then I
might, I would have to blame him--whilst now I can find no fault with
him, for never having thought of a union which was impossible, because
ridiculous. And had he wished it, could I ever have had the selfishness
to consent to it? I began to write the first pages of this diary as I
began these last, with my heart steeped in bitterness--and as I went on,
committing to paper what I could have intrusted to no one, my soul grew
calm, till resignation came--Resignation, my chosen saint, who, smiling
through her tears, suffers and loves, but hopes--never!"
These word's were the last in the journal. It was clear, from the blots
of abundant tears, that the unfortunate creature had often paused to
weep.
In truth, worn out by so many emotions, Mother Bunch late in the night,
had replaced the book behind the cardboard box, not that she thought it
safer there than elsewhere (she had no suspicion of the slightest need
for such precaution), but because it was more out of the way there than
in any of the drawers, which she frequently opened in presence of other
people. Determined to perform her courageous promise, and worthily
accomplish her task to the end, she waited the next day for Agricola,
and firm in her heroic resolution, went with the smith to M. Hardy's
factory. Florine, informed of her departure, but detained a portion
of the day in attendance on Mdlle. de Cardoville preferred waiting for
night to perform the new orders she had asked and received, since she
had communicated by letter the contents of Mother Bunch's journal.
Certain not to be surprised, she entered the workgirls' chamber, as soon
as the night was come.
Knowing the place where she should find the manuscript, she went
straight to the desk, took out the box, and then, drawing from her
pocket a sealed letter, prepared to leave it in the place of the
manuscript, which she was to carry away with her. So doing, she trembled
so much, that she was obliged to support herself an instant by the
table. Every good sentiment was not extinct in Florine's heart; she
obeyed passively the orders she received, but she felt painfully
how horrible and infamous was her conduct. If only herself had been
concerned, she would no doubt have had the courage to risk all, rather
than submit to this odious despotism; but unfortunately, it was not so,
and her ruin would have caused the mortal despair of another person whom
she loved better than life itself. She resigned herself, therefore, not
without cruel anguish, to abominable treachery.
Though she hardly ever knew for what end she acted, and this was
particularly the case with regard to the abstraction of the journal,
she foresaw vaguely, that the substitution of this sealed letter for
the manuscript would have fatal consequences for Mother Bunch, for she
remembered Rodin's declaration, that "it was time to finish with the
young sempstress."
What did he mean by those words? How would the letter that she was
charged to put in the place of the diary, contribute to bring about
this result? she did not know--but she understood that the clear-sighted
devotion of the hunchback justly alarmed the enemies of Mdlle. de
Cardoville, and that she (Florine) herself daily risked having her
perfidy detected by the young needlewoman. This last fear put an end to
the hesitations of Florine; she placed the letter behind the box, and,
hiding the manuscript under her apron, cautiously withdrew from the
chamber.
CHAPTER XLVII. THE DIARY CONTINUED.
Returned into her own room, some hours after she had concealed there the
manuscript abstracted from Mother Bunch's apartment, Florine yielded
to her curiosity, and determined to look through it. She soon felt a
growing interest, an involuntary emotion, as she read more of these
private thoughts of the young sempstress. Among many pieces of verse,
which all breathed a passionate love for Agricola--a love so deep,
simple, and sincere, that Florine was touched by it, and forgot the
author's deformity--among many pieces of verse, we say, were divers
other fragments, thoughts, and narratives, relating to a variety of
facts. We shall quote some of them, in order to explain the profound
impression that their perusal made upon Florine.
Fragments from the Diary.
"This is my birthday. Until this evening, I had cherished a foolish
hope. Yesterday, I went down to Mrs. Baudoin's, to dress a little wound
she had on her leg. When I entered the room, Agricola was there. No
doubt he was talking of me to his mother, for they stopped when I came
in, and exchanged a meaning smile. In passing by the drawers, I saw a
pasteboard box, with a pincushion-lid, and I felt myself blushing
with joy, as I thought this little present was destined for me, but
I pretended not to see it. While I was on my knees before his mother,
Agricola went out. I remarked that he took the little box with him.
Never has Mrs. Baudoin been more tender and motherly than she was that
morning. It appeared to me that she went to bed earlier than usual.
'It is to send me away sooner,' said I to myself, 'that I may enjoy
the surprise Agricola has prepared for me.' How my heart beat, as I ran
fast, very fast, up to my closet! I stopped a moment before opening the
door, that my happiness might last the longer. At last I entered the
room, my eyes swimming with tears of joy. I looked upon my table, my
chair, my bed--there was nothing. The little box was not to be found. My
heart sank within me. Then I said to myself: 'It will be to-morrow--this
is only the eve of my birthday.' The day is gone. Evening is come.
Nothing. The pretty box was not for me. It had a pincushion-cover. It
was only suited for a woman. To whom has Agricola given it?
"I suffer a good deal just now. It was a childish idea that I connected
with Agricola's wishing me many happy returns of the day. I am ashamed
to confess it; but it might have proved to me, that he has not forgotten
I have another name besides that of Mother Bunch, which they always
apply to me. My susceptibility on this head is unfortunately so
stubborn, that I cannot help feeling a momentary pang of mingled shame
and sorrow, every time that I am called by that fairy-tale name, and
yet I have had no other from infancy. It is for that very reason that I
should have been so happy if Agricola had taken this opportunity to call
me for once by my own humble name--Magdalen. Happily, he will never know
these wishes and regrets!"
Deeper and deeper touched by this page of simple grief, Florine turned
over several leaves, and continued:
"I have just been to the funeral of poor little Victorine Herbin, our
neighbor. Her father, a journeyman upholsterer, is gone to work by the
month, far from Paris. She died at nineteen, without a relation near
her. Her agony was not long. The good woman who attended her to the
last, told us that she only pronounced these words: 'At last, oh at
last!' and that with an air of satisfaction, added the nurse. Dear
child! she had become so pitiful. At fifteen, she was a rosebud--so
pretty, so fresh-looking, with her light hair as soft as silk; but she
wasted away by degrees--her trade of renovating mattresses killed her.
She was slowly poisoned by the emanations from the wool.(26) They were
all the worse, that she worked almost entirely for the poor, who have
cheap stuff to lie upon.
"She had the courage of a lion, and an angel's resignation, She always
said to me, in her low, faint voice, broken by a dry and frequent cough:
'I have not long to live, breathing, as I do, lime and vitriol all day
long. I spit blood, and have spasms that make me faint.'
"'Why not change your trade?' have I said to her.
"'Where will I find the time to make another apprenticeship?' she would
answer; 'and it is now too late. I feel that I am done for. It is not my
fault,' added the good creature, 'for I did not choose my employment.
My father would have it so; luckily he can do without me. And then, you
see, when one is dead, one cares for nothing, and has no fear of "slop
wages."'
"Victorine uttered that sad, common phrase very sincerely, and with a
sort of satisfaction. Therefore she died repeating: 'At last!'
"It is painful to think that the labor by which the poor man earns his
daily bread, often becomes a long suicide! I said this the other day to
Agricola; he answered me that there were many other fatal employments;
those who prepare aquafortis, white lead, or minium, for instance, are
sure to take incurable maladies of which they die.
"'Do you know,' added Agricola, 'what they say when they start for those
fatal works?'--Why, 'We are going to the slaughter-house.'
"That made me tremble with its terrible truth.
"'And all this takes place in our day,' said I to him, with an aching
heart; 'and it is well-known. And, out of so many of the rich and
powerful, no one thinks of the mortality which decimates his brothers,
thus forced to eat homicidal bread!'
"'What can you expect, my poor sister,' answered Agricola. 'When men are
to be incorporated, that they may get killed in war, all pains are taken
with them. But when they are to be organized, so as to live in peace,
no one cares about it, except M. Hardy, my master. People say, 'Pooh!
hunger, misery, and suffering of the laboring classes--what is that to
us? that is not politics.' 'They are wrong,' added Agricola; 'IT IS MORE
THAN POLITICS.'
"As Victorine had not left anything to pay for the church service, there
was only the presentation of the body under the porch; for there is not
even a plain mass for the poor. Besides, as they could not give eighteen
francs to the curate, no priest accompanied the pauper's coffin to the
common grave. If funerals, thus abridged and cut short, are sufficient
in a religious point of view, why invent other and longer forms? Is it
from cupidity?--If, on the other hand, they are not sufficient, why
make the poor man the only victim of this insufficiency? But why trouble
ourselves about the pomp, the incense, the chants, of which they are
either too sparing or too liberal? Of what use? and for what purpose?
They are vain, terrestrial things, for which the soul recks nothing,
when, radiant, it ascends towards its Creator. Yesterday, Agricola made
me read an article in a newspaper, in which violent blame and bitter
irony are by turns employed, to attack what they call the baneful
tendencies of some of the lower orders, to improve themselves, to write,
to read the poets, and sometimes to make verses. Material enjoyments
are forbidden us by poverty. Is it humane to reproach us for seeking the
enjoyments of the mind? What harm can it do any one if every evening,
after a day's toil, remote from all pleasure, I amuse myself, unknown to