The Wandering Jew — Complete
the desert, purples the summits of the mountains of ice, and imparts a
dark red hue to the black rocks of both continents.
After attaining this magnificent brilliancy, the Northern Lights fade
away gradually, and their vivid glow is lost in a luminous fog.
Just then, by a wondrous mirage an effect very common in high latitudes,
the American Coast, though separated from Siberia by a broad arm of the
sea, loomed so close that a bridge might seemingly be thrown from one
world to other.
Then human forms appeared in the transparent azure haze overspreading
both forelands.
On the Siberian Cape, a man on his knees, stretched his arms towards
America, with an expression of inconceivable despair.
On the American promontory, a young and handsome woman replied to the
man's despairing gesture by pointing to heaven.
For some seconds, these two tall figures stood out, pale and shadowy, in
the farewell gleams of the Aurora.
But the fog thickens, and all is lost in the darkness.
Whence came the two beings, who met thus amidst polar glaciers, at the
extremities of the Old and New worlds?
Who were the two creatures, brought near for a moment by a deceitful
mirage, but who seemed eternally separated?
CHAPTER I. MOROK.
The month of October, 1831, draws to its close.
Though it is still day, a brass lamp, with four burners, illumines the
cracked walls of a large loft, whose solitary window is closed against
outer light. A ladder, with its top rungs coming up through an open trap
leads to it.
Here and there at random on the floor lie iron chains, spiked collars,
saw-toothed snaffles, muzzles bristling with nails, and long iron rods
set in wooden handles. In one corner stands a portable furnace, such as
tinkers use to melt their spelter; charcoal and dry chips fill it, so
that a spark would suffice to kindle this furnace in a minute.
Not far from this collection of ugly instruments, putting one in mind
of a torturer's kit of tools, there are some articles of defence and
offence of a bygone age. A coat of mail, with links so flexible, close,
and light, that it resembles steel tissue, hangs from a box beside iron
cuishes and arm-pieces, in good condition, even to being properly fitted
with straps. A mace, and two long three-cornered-headed pikes, with ash
handles, strong, and light at the same time; spotted with lately-shed
blood, complete the armory, modernized somewhat by the presence of two
Tyrolese rifles, loaded and primed.
Along with this arsenal of murderous weapons and out-of-date
instruments, is strangely mingled a collection of very different
objects, being small glass-lidded boxes, full of rosaries, chaplets,
medals, AGNUS DEI, holy water bottles, framed pictures of saints, etc.,
not to forget a goodly number of those chapbooks, struck off in Friburg
on coarse bluish paper, in which you can hear about miracles of our own
time, or "Jesus Christ's Letter to a true believer," containing awful
predictions, as for the years 1831 and '32, about impious revolutionary
France.
One of those canvas daubs, with which strolling showmen adorn their
booths, hangs from a rafter, no doubt to prevent its being spoilt by too
long rolling up. It bore the following legend:
"THE DOWNRIGHT TRUE AND MOST MEMORABLE CONVERSION OF IGNATIUS MOROK,
KNOWN AS THE PROPHET, HAPPENING IN FRIBURG, 1828TH YEAR OF GRACE."
This picture, of a size larger than natural, of gaudy color, and in bad
taste, is divided into three parts, each presenting an important phase
in the life of the convert, surnamed "The Prophet." In the first, behold
a long-bearded man, the hair almost white, with uncouth face, and clad
in reindeer skin, like the Siberian savage. His black foreskin cap is
topped with a raven's head; his features express terror. Bent forward in
his sledge, which half-a-dozen huge tawny dogs draw over the snow, he
is fleeing from the pursuit of a pack of foxes, wolves, and big bears,
whose gaping jaws, and formidable teeth, seem quite capable of devouring
man, sledge, and dogs, a hundred times over. Beneath this section,
reads:
"IN 1810, MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS."
In the second picture, Morok, decently clad in a catechumen's white gown
kneels, with clasped hands, to a man who wears a white neckcloth, and
flowing black robe. In a corner, a tall angel, of repulsive aspect,
holds a trumpet in one hand, and flourishes a flaming sword with the
other, while the words which follow flow out of his mouth, in red
letters on a black ground:
"MOROK, THE IDOLATER, FLED FROM WILD BEASTS; BUT WILD BEASTS WILL FLEE
FROM IGNATIUS MOROK, CONVERTED AND BAPTIZED IN FRIBURG."
Thus, in the last compartment, the new convert proudly, boastfully, and
triumphantly parades himself in a flowing robe of blue; head up, left
arm akimbo, right hand outstretched, he seems to scare the wits out of a
multitude of lions, tigers, hyenas, and bears, who, with sheathed claws,
and masked teeth, crouch at his feet, awestricken, and submissive.
Under this, is the concluding moral:
"IGNATIUS MOROK BEING CONVERTED, WILD BEASTS CROUCH BEFORE HIM."
Not far from this canvas are several parcels of halfpenny books,
likewise from the Friburg press, which relate by what an astounding
miracle Morok, the Idolater, acquired a supernatural power almost
divine, the moment he was converted--a power which the wildest animal
could not resist, and which was testified to every day by the lion
tamer's performances, "given less to display his courage than to show
his praise unto the Lord."
Through the trap-door which opens into the loft, reek up puffs of a
rank, sour, penetrating odor. From time to time are heard sonorous
growls and deep breathings, followed by a dull sound, as of great bodies
stretching themselves heavily along the floor.
A man is alone in this loft. It is Morok, the tamer of wild beasts,
surnamed the Prophet.
He is forty years old, of middle height, with lank limbs, and an
exceedingly spare frame; he is wrapped in a long, blood-red pelisse,
lined with black fur; his complexion, fair by nature is bronzed by the
wandering life he has led from childhood; his hair, of that dead yellow
peculiar to certain races of the Polar countries, falls straight
and stiff down his shoulders; and his thin, sharp, hooked nose, and
prominent cheek-bones, surmount a long beard, bleached almost to
whiteness. Peculiarly marking the physiognomy of this man is the wide
open eye, with its tawny pupil ever encircled by a rim of white.
This fixed, extraordinary look, exercises a real fascination over
animals--which, however, does not prevent the Prophet from also
employing, to tame them, the terrible arsenal around him.
Seated at a table, he has just opened the false bottom of a box, filled
with chaplets and other toys, for the use of the devout. Beneath this
false bottom, secured by a secret lock, are several sealed envelopes,
with no other address than a number, combined with a letter of the
alphabet. The Prophet takes one of these packets, conceals it in the
pocket of his pelisse, and, closing the secret fastening of the false
bottom, replaces the box upon a shelf.
This scene occurs about four o'clock in the afternoon, in the White
Falcon, the only hostelry in the little village of Mockern, situated
near Leipsic, as you come from the north towards France.
After a few moments, the loft is shaken by a hoarse roaring from below.
"Judas! be quiet!" exclaims the Prophet, in a menacing tone, as he turns
his head towards the trap door.
Another deep growl is heard, formidable as distant thunder.
"Lie down, Cain!" cries Morok, starting from his seat.
A third roar, of inexpressible ferocity, bursts suddenly on the ear.
"Death! Will you have done," cries the Prophet, rushing towards the trap
door, and addressing a third invisible animal, which bears this ghastly
name.
Notwithstanding the habitual authority of his voice--notwithstanding
his reiterated threats--the brute-tamer cannot obtain silence: on the
contrary, the barking of several dogs is soon added to the roaring of
the wild beasts. Morok seizes a pike, and approaches the ladder; he is
about to descend, when he sees some one issuing from the aperture.
The new-comer has a brown, sun-burnt face; he wears a gray hat, bell
crowned and broad-brimmed, with a short jacket, and wide trousers of
green cloth; his dusty leathern gaiters show that he has walked some
distance; a game-bag is fastened by straps to his back.
"The devil take the brutes!" cried he, as he set foot on the floor;
"one would think they'd forgotten me in three days. Judas thrust his paw
through the bars of his cage, and Death danced like a fury. They don't
know me any more, it seems?"
This was said in German. Morok answered in the same language, but with a
slightly foreign accent.
"Good or bad news, Karl?" he inquired, with some uneasiness.
"Good news."
"You've met them!"
"Yesterday; two leagues from Wittenberg."
"Heaven be praised!" cried Morok, clasping his hands with intense
satisfaction.
"Oh, of course, 'tis the direct road from Russia to France, 'twas a
thousand to one that we should find them somewhere between Wittenberg
and Leipsic."
"And the description?"
"Very close: two young girls in mourning; horse, white; the old man has
long moustache, blue forage-cap; gray topcoat and a Siberian dog at his
heels."
"And where did you leave them?"
"A league hence. They will be here within the hour."
"And in this inn--since it is the only one in the village," said Morok,
with a pensive air.
"And night drawing on," added Karl.
"Did you get the old man to talk?"
"Him!--you don't suppose it!"
"Why not?"
"Go, and try yourself."
"And for what reason?"
"Impossible."
"Impossible--why?"
"You shall know all about it. Yesterday, as if I had fallen in with
them by chance, I followed them to the place where they stopped for the
night. I spoke in German to the tall old man, accosting him, as is usual
with wayfarers, 'Good-day, and a pleasant journey, comrade!' But, for an
answer, he looked askant at me, and pointed with, the end of his stick
to the other side of the road."
"He is a Frenchman, and, perhaps, does not understand German."
"He speaks it, at least as well as you; for at the inn I heard him ask
the host for whatever he and the young girls wanted."
"And did you not again attempt to engage him in conversation?"
"Once only; but I met with such a rough reception, that for fear of
making mischief, I did not try again. Besides, between ourselves, I can
tell you this man has a devilish ugly look; believe me, in spite of his
gray moustache, he looks so vigorous and resolute, though with no more
flesh on him than a carcass, that I don't know whether he or my mate
Giant Goliath, would have the best of it in a struggle. I know not your
plans: only take care, master--take care!"
"My black panther of Java was also very vigorous and very vicious," said
Morok, with a grim, disdainful, smile.
"What, Death? Yes; in truth; and she is vigorous and vicious as ever.
Only to you she is almost mild."
"And thus I will break this tall old man; notwithstanding his strength
and surliness."
"Humph! humph! be on your guard, master. You are clever, you are as
brave as any one; but, believe me, you will never make a lamb out of the
old wolf that will be here presently."
"Does not my lion, Cain--does not my tiger, Judas, crouch in terror
before me?"
"Yes, I believe you there--because you have means--"
"Because I have faith: that is all--and it is all," said Morok,
imperiously interrupting Karl, and accompanying these words with such a
look, that the other hung his head and was silent.
"Why should not he whom the Lord upholds in his struggle with wild