The Wandering Jew — Complete
appears an inestimable benefit to be plunged into that kind of torpor,
which at least prevents one from dwelling upon the past.
Hardy resigned himself entirely to this profound apathy, and at length
came to regard it as the supreme good. Thus do unfortunate wretches,
tortured by cruel diseases, accept with gratitude the opiate which kills
them slowly, but which at least deadens the sense of pain.
In sketching the portrait of M. Hardy, we tried to give some idea of
the exquisite delicacy of his tender soul, of his painful susceptibility
with regard to anything base or wicked, and of his extreme goodness,
uprightness, and generosity. We now allude to these admirable qualities,
because we must observe, that with him, as with almost all who possess
them, they were not, and could not be, united with an energetic and
resolute character. Admirably persevering in good deeds, the influence
of this excellent man, was insinuating rather than commanding; it was
not by the bold energy and somewhat overbearing will, peculiar to other
men of great and noble heart, that Hardy had realized the prodigy of his
Common Dwelling-house; it was by affectionate persuasion, for with him
mildness took the place of force. At sight of any baseness or injustice,
he did not rouse himself, furious and threatening; but he suffered
intense pain. He did not boldly attack the criminal, but he turned
away from him in pity and sorrow. And then his loving heart, so full of
feminine delicacy, had an irresistible longing for the blessed contact
of dear affections; they alone could keep it alive. Even as a poor,
frail bird dies with the cold, when it can no longer lie close to its
brethren, and receive and communicate the sweet warmth of the maternal
nest. And now this sensitive organization, this extremely susceptible
nature, receives blow after blow from sorrows and deceptions, one of
which would suffice to shake, if it did not conquer, the firmest and
most resolute character. Hardy's best friend has infamously betrayed
him. His adored mistress has abandoned him.
The house which he had founded for the benefit of his workmen, whom he
loved as brethren, is reduced to a heap of ashes. What then happens? All
the springs of his soul are at once broken. Too feeble to resist
such frightful attacks, too fatally deceived to seek refuge in other
affections, too much discouraged to think of laying the first stone
of any new edifice--this poor heart, isolated from every salutary
influence, finds oblivion of the world and of itself in a kind of gloomy
torpor. And if some remaining instincts of life and affection, at
long intervals, endeavored to rouse themselves within him, and if,
half-opening his mind's eye, which he had kept closed against the
present, the past, and the future, Hardy looks around him--what does he
see? Only these sentences, so full of terrible despair:
"Thou art nothing but dust and ashes. Grief and tears art thy portion.
Believe not in any son of man. There are no such things as friendship or
ties of kindred. All human affections are false. Die in the morning, and
thou wilt be forgotten before night. Be humble--despise thyself--and
let others despise thee. Think not, reason not, live not--but commit
thy fate to the hands of a superior, who will think and reason for thee.
Weep, suffer, think upon death. Yes, death! always death--that should
be thy thought when thou thinkest--but it is better not to think at all.
Let a feeling of ceaseless woe prepare thy way to heaven. It is only by
sorrow that we are welcome to the terrible God whom we adore!"
Such were the consolations offered to this unfortunate man. Affrighted,
he again closed his eyes, and fell back into his lethargy. As for
leaving this gloomy retreat, he could not, or rather he did not desire
to do so. He had lost the power of will; and then, it must be confessed,
he had finished by getting accustomed to this house, and liked it
well--they paid him such discreet attentions, and yet left him so
much alone with his grief--there reigned all around such a death-like
silence, which harmonized closely with the silence of his heart; and
that was now the tomb of his last love, last friendship, last hope.
All energy was dead within him! Then began that slow, but inevitable
transformation, so judiciously foreseen by Rodin, who directed the whole
of this machination, even in its smallest details. At first alarmed
by the dreadful maxims which surrounded him, M. Hardy had at length
accustomed himself to read them over almost mechanically, just as the
captive, in his mournful hours of leisure, counts the nails in the door
of his prison, or the bars of the grated window. This was already a
great point gained by the reverend fathers.
And soon his weakened mind was struck with the apparent correctness of
these false and melancholy aphorisms.
Thus he read: "Do not count upon the affection of any human
creature"--and he had himself been shamefully betrayed.
"Man is born to sorrow and despair"--and he was himself despairing.
"There is no rest save in the cessation of thought"--and the slumber of
his mind had brought some relief to his pain.
Peepholes, skillfully concealed by the hangings and in the wainscoting
of these apartments, enabled the reverend fathers at all times to see
and hear the boarders, and above all to observe their countenance and
manner, when they believed themselves to be alone. Every exclamation of
grief which escaped Hardy in his gloomy solitude, was repeated to Father
d'Aigrigny by a mysterious listener. The reverend father, following
scrupulously Rodin's instructions, had at first visited his boarder very
rarely. We have said, that when Father d'Aigrigny wished it, he could
display an almost irresistible power of charming, and accordingly he
threw all his tact and skill into the interviews he had with Hardy,
when he came from time to time to inquire after his health. Informed of
everything by his spies, and aided by his natural sagacity, he soon saw
all the use that might be made of the physical and moral prostration of
the boarder. Certain beforehand that Hardy would not take the hint,
he spoke to him frequently of the gloom of the house, advising him
affectionately to leave it, if he felt oppressed by its monotony, or at
all events to seek beyond its walls for some pleasure and amusement.
To speak of pleasure and amusement to this unfortunate man, was in his
present state to insure a refusal, and so it of course happened. Father
d'Aigrigny did not at first try to gain the recluse's confidence, nor
did he speak to him of sorrow; but every time he came, he appeared to
take such a tender interest in him, and showed it by a few simple and
well timed words. By degrees, these interviews, at first so rare, became
more frequent and longer. Endowed with a flow of honeyed, insinuating,
and persuasive eloquence, Father d'Aigrigny naturally took for his
theme those gloomy maxims, to which Hardy's attention was now so often
directed.
Supple, prudent, skillful, knowing that the hermit had hitherto
professed that generous natural religion which teaches the grateful
adoration of God, the love of humanity, the worship of what is just and
good, and which, disdaining dogmas, professes the same veneration for
Marcus Aurelius as for Confucius, for Plato as for Christ, for Moses as
for Lycurgus--Father d'Aigrigny did not at first attempt to convert
him, but began by incessantly reminding him of the abominable deceptions
practised upon him; and, instead of describing such treachery as an
exception in life--instead of trying to calm, encourage, and revive
his drooping soul--instead of exhorting Hardy to seek oblivion and
consolation in the discharge of his duties toward humanity, towards his
brethren, whom he had previously loved and succored--Father d'Aigrigny
strove to inflame the bleeding wounds of the unfortunate man, painted
the human race in the most atrocious blackness, and, by declaring all
men treacherous, ungrateful, wicked, succeeded in rendering his despair
incurable. Having attained this object, the Jesuit took another step.
Knowing Hardy's admirable goodness of heart, and profiting by the
weakened state of his mind, he spoke to him of the consolation to be
derived by a man overwhelmed with sorrow, from the belief that every one
of his tears, instead of being unfruitful, was in fact agreeable to God,
and might aid in the salvation of souls--the belief, as the reverend
father adroitly added, that by faith alone can sorrow be made useful to
humanity, and acceptable to Divinity.
Whatever impiety, whatever atrocious Machiavelism there was in these
detestable maxims, which make of a loving-kind Deity a being delighted
with the tears of his creatures, was thus skillfully concealed from
Hardy's eyes, whose generous instincts were still alive. Soon did this
loving and tender soul, whom unworthy priests were driving to a sort of
moral suicide, find a mournful charm in the fiction, that his sorrows
would at least be profitable to other men. It was at first only a
fiction; but the enfeebled mind which takes pleasure in such a fable,
finishes by receiving it as a reality, and by degrees will submit to the
consequences. Such was Hardy's moral and physical state, when, by means
of a servant who had been bought over, he received from Agricola Baudoin
a letter requesting an interview. Alone, the workman could not have
broken the band of the Jesuit's pleadings, but he was accompanied by
Gabriel, whose eloquence and reasonings were of a most convincing nature
to a spirit like Hardy's.
It is unnecessary to point out to the reader, with what dignified
reserve Gabriel had confined himself to the most generous means of
rescuing Hardy from the deadly influence of the reverend fathers. It
was repugnant to the great soul of the young missionary, to stoop to
a revelation of the odious plots of these priests. He would only have
taken this extreme course, had his powerful and sympathetic words have
failed to have any effect on Hardy's blindness. About a quarter of an
hour had elapsed since Gabriel's departure, when the servant appointed
to wait on this boarder of the reverend fathers entered and delivered to
him a letter.
"From whom is this?" asked Hardy.
"From a boarder in the house, sir," answered the servant bowing.
This man had a crafty hypocritical face; he wore his hair combed over
his forehead, spoke in a low voice, and always cast clown his eyes.
Waiting the answer, he joined his hands, and began to twiddle his
thumbs. Hardy opened the letter, and read as follows:
"SIR,--I have only just heard, by mere chance, that you also inhabit
this respectable house: a long illness, and the retirement in which I
live, will explain my ignorance of your being so near. Though we have
only met once, sir, the circumstance which led to that meeting was of so
serious a nature, that I cannot think you have forgotten it."
Hardy stopped, and tasked his memory for an explanation, and not finding
anything to put him on the right track, he continued to read:
"This circumstance excited in me a feeling of such deep and respectful
sympathy for you, sir, that I cannot resist my anxious desire to wait
upon you, particularly as I learn, that you intend leaving this house to
day--a piece of information I have just derived from the excellent and
worthy Abbe Gabriel, one of the men I most love, esteem, and reverence.
May I venture to hope, sir, that just at the moment of quitting our
common retreat to return to the world, you will deign to receive
favorably the request, however intrusive, of a poor old man, whose life
will henceforth be passed in solitude, and who cannot therefore have
any prospect of meeting you, in that vortex of society which he has