The Wandering Jew — Complete
suffused with a deep blush; his heart throbbed violently; he remembered
that he too had once known the ardent intoxication of a guilty and
hidden love. Though the day was closing rapidly, Rodin cast a sidelong
glance at Hardy, and perceived the impression he had made. "Some
times," he continued, "thinking of the dangers to which his mistress
was exposed, if their connection should be discovered, Rancey wished to
sever these delicious ties; but the girl, beside herself with passion,
threw herself on the neck of her lover, and threatened him, in the
language of intense excitement, to reveal and to brave all, if he
thought of leaving her. Too weak and loving to resist the prayers of his
mistress, Rancey again and again yielded, and they both gave themselves
up to a torrent of delight, which carried them along, forgetful of earth
and heaven!"
M. Hardy listened to Rodin with feverish and devouring avidity. The
Jesuit, in painting, with these almost sensual colors, an ardent and
secret love, revived in Hardy burning memories, which till now had been
drowned in tears. To the beneficent calm produced by the mild language
of Gabriel had succeeded a painful agitation, which, mingled with the
reaction of the shocks received that day, began to throw his mind into a
strange state of confusion.
Rodin, having so far succeeded in his object, continued as follows: "A
fatal day came at last. Rancey, obliged to go to the wars, quitted the
girl; but, after a short campaign, he returned, more in love than ever.
He had written privately, to say he would arrive almost immediately
after his letter. He came accordingly. It was night. He ascended, as
usual, the private staircase which led to the chamber of his mistress;
he entered the room, his heart beating with love and hope. His mistress
had died that morning!"
"Ah!" cried Hardy, covering his face with his hands, in terror.
"She was dead," resumed Rodin. "Two wax-candles were burning beside the
funeral couch. Rancey could not, would not believe that she was dead.
He threw himself on his knees by the corpse. In his delirium, he seized
that fair, beloved head, to cover it with kisses. The head parted from
the body, and remained in his hands! Yes," resumed Rodin as Hardy drew
back, pale and mute with terror, "yes, the girl had fallen a victim
to so swift and extraordinary a disease, that she had not been able to
receive the last sacraments. After her death, the doctors, in the hope
of discovering the cause of this unknown malady, had begun to dissect
that fair form--"
As Rodin reached this part of his narrative, night was almost come.
A sort of hazy twilight alone reigned in this silent chamber, in the
centre of which appeared the pale and ghastly form of Rodin, clad in his
long black gown, whilst his eyes seemed to sparkle with diabolic fire.
Overcome by the violent emotions occasioned by this story, in which
thoughts of death and voluptuousness, love and horror, were so strangely
mingled, Hardy remained fixed and motionless, waiting for the words of
Rodin, with a combination of curiosity, anguish and alarm.
"And Rancey?" said he, at last, in an agitated voice, whilst he wiped
the cold sweat from his brow.
"After two days of furious delirium," resumed Rodin, "he renounced the
world, and shut himself up in impenetrable solitude. The first period
of his retreat was frightful; in his despair, he uttered loud yells of
grief and rage, that were audible at some distance. Twice he attempted
suicide, to escape from the terrible visions."
"He had visions, then?" said Hardy, with an increased agony of
curiosity.
"Yes," replied Rodin, in a solemn tone, "he had fearful visions. He saw
the girl, who, for his sake, had died in mortal sin, plunged in the
heat of the everlasting flames of hell! On that fair face, disfigured by
infernal tortures, was stamped the despairing laugh of the damned! Her
teeth gnashed with pain; her arms writhed in anguish! She wept tears
of blood, and, with an agonized and avenging voice, she cried to her
seducer: 'Thou art the cause of my perdition--my curse, my curse be upon
thee!'"
As he pronounced these last words, Rodin advanced three steps nearer to
Hardy, accompanying each step with a menacing gesture. If we remember
the state of weakness, trouble, and fear, in which M. Hardy was--if we
remember that the Jesuit had just roused in the soul of this unfortunate
man all the sensual and spiritual memories of a love, cooled, but not
extinguished, in tears--if we remember, too, that Hardy reproached
himself with the seduction of a beloved object, whom her departure from
her duties might (according to the Catholic faith) doom to
everlasting flames--we shall not wonder at the terrible effect of this
phantasmagoria, conjured up in silence and solitude, in the evening
dusk, by this fearful priest.
The effect on Hardy was indeed striking, and the more dangerous, that
the Jesuit, with diabolical craft, seemed only to be carrying out, from
another point of view, the ideas of Gabriel. Had not the young
priest convinced Hardy that nothing is sweeter, than to ask of heaven
forgiveness for those who have sinned, or whom we have led astray? But
forgiveness implies punishment; and it was to the punishment alone that
Rodin drew the attention of his victim, by painting it in these terrible
hues. With hands clasped together, and eye fixed and dilated, Hardy
trembled in all his limbs, and seemed still listening to Rodin, though
the latter had ceased to speak. Mechanically, he repeated: "My curse, my
curse be upon thee?"
Then suddenly he exclaimed, in a kind of frenzy: "The curse is on me
also! The woman, whom I taught to forget her sacred duties, and to
commit mortal sin--one day plunged in the everlasting flames--her arms
writhing in agony--weeping tears of blood--will cry to me from the
bottomless pit: 'My curse, my curse be upon thee!'--One day," he
added, with redoubled terror, "one day?--who knows? perhaps at
this moment!--for if the sea voyage had been fatal to her--if a
shipwreck--oh, God! she too would have died in mortal sin--lost, lost,
forever!--Oh, have mercy on her, my God! Crush me in Thy wrath--but have
mercy on her--for I alone am guilty!"
And the unfortunate man, almost delirious, sank with clasped hands upon
the ground.
"Sir," cried Rodin, in an affectionate voice, as he hastened to lift him
up, "my dear sir--my dear friend--be calm! Comfort yourself. I cannot
bear to see you despond. Alas! my intention was quite the contrary to
that."
"The curse! the curse! yes, she will curse me also--she, that I loved
so much--in the everlasting flames!" murmured Hardy, shuddering, and
apparently insensible to the other's words.
"But, my dear sir, listen to me, I entreat you," resumed the latter;
"let me finish my story, and then you will find it as consoling as it
now seems terrible. For heaven's sake, remember the adorable words of
our angelic Abbe Gabriel, with regard to the sweetness of prayer."
At the name of Gabriel, Hardy recovered himself a little, and exclaimed,
in a heart-rending tone: "Ay! his words were sweet and beneficent. Where
are they now? For mercy's sake, repeat to me those consoling words."
"Our angelic Abbe Gabriel," resumed Rodin, "spoke to you of the
sweetness of prayer--"
"Oh, yes! prayer!"
"Well, my dear sir, listen to me, and you shall see how prayer saved
Rancey, and made a saint of him. Yes, these frightful torments, that I
have just described, these threatening visions, were all conquered by
prayer, and changed into celestial delights."
"I beg of you," said Hardy, in a faint voice, "speak to me of Gabriel,
speak to me of heaven--but no more flames--no more hell--where sinful
women weep tears of blood--"
"No, no," replied Rodin; and even as, in describing hell, his tone had
been harsh and threatening, it now became warm and tender, as he uttered
the following words: "No; we will have no more images of despair--for,
as I have told you, after suffering infernal tortures, Rancey, thanks to
the power of prayer, enjoyed the delights of paradise."
"The delights of paradise?" repeated Hardy, listening with anxious
attention.
"One day, at the height of his grief, a priest, a good priest--another
Abbe Gabriel--came to Rancey. Oh, happiness! oh, providential change! In
a few days, he taught the sufferer the sacred mysteries of prayer--that
pious intercession of the creature, addressed to the Creator, in
favor of a soul exposed to the wrath of heaven. Then Rancey seemed
transformed. His grief was at once appeased. He prayed; and the more
he prayed, the greater was his hope. He felt that God listened to his
prayer. Instead of trying to forget his beloved, he now thought of her
constantly, and prayed for her salvation. Happy in his obscure cell,
alone with that adored remembrance, he passed days and nights in praying
for her--plunged in an ineffable, burning, I had almost said amorous
ecstasy."
It is impossible to give an idea of the tone of almost sensual energy
with which Rodin pronounced the word "amorous." Hardy started, changing
from hot to cold. For the first time, his weakened mind caught a glimpse
of the fatal pleasures of asceticism, and of that deplorable catalepsy,
described in the lives of St. Theresa, St. Aubierge and others.
Rodin perceived the other's thoughts, and continued "Oh, Rancey was not
now the man to content himself with a vague, passing prayer, uttered in
the whirl of the world's business, which swallows it up, and prevents
it from reaching the ear of heaven. No, no; in the depth of solitude, he
endeavored to make his prayers even more efficacious, so ardently did he
desire the eternal salvation of his mistress."
"What did he do then--oh! what did he do in his solitude?" cried Hardy,
who was now powerless in the hands of the Jesuit.
"First of all," said Rodin, with a slight emphasis, "he became a monk."
"A monk!" repeated Hardy, with a pensive air.
"Yes," resumed Rodin, "he became a monk, because his prayers were thus
more likely to be favorably accepted. And then, as in solitude our
thoughts are apt to wander, he fasted, and mortified his flesh, and
brought into subjection all that was carnal within him, so that,
becoming all spirit, his prayers might issue like a pure flame from his
bosom, and ascend like the perfume of incense to the throne of the Most
High!"
"Oh! what a delicious dream!" cried Hardy, more and more under the
influence of the spell; "to pray for the woman we have adored, and to
become spirit--perfume--light!"
"Yes; spirit, perfume, light!" said Rodin, with emphasis. "But it is no
dream. How many monks, how many hermits, like Rancey, have, by prayers,
and austerity, and macerations, attained a divine ecstasy! and if you
only knew the celestial pleasures of such ecstasies!--Thus, after he
became a monk, the terrible dreams were succeeded by enchanting visions.
Many times, after a day of fasting, and a night passed in prayers and
macerations, Rancey sank down exhausted on the floor of his cell! Then
the spirit freed itself from the vile clogs of matter. His senses were
absorbed in pleasure; the sound of heavenly harmony struck upon his
ravished car; a bright, mild light, which was not of this world,
dawned upon his half-closed eyes; and, at the height of the melodious
vibrations of the golden harps of the Seraphim, in the centre of a
glory, compared to which the sun is pale, the monk beheld the image of
that beloved woman--"
"Whom by his prayers he had at length rescued from the eternal flames?"
said Hardy, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, herself," replied Rodin, with eloquent enthusiasm, for this
monster was skilled in every style of speech. "Thanks to the prayers of
her lover, which the Lord had granted, this woman no longer shed tears