The Wandering Jew — Complete
emotion; "since I am here, I have thought only of one thing--what is to
become of you?"
"Never mind me!"
"Not mind you?--art mad? What will you do? The furniture of our two
rooms is not worth two hundred francs. We have squandered our money so
foolishly, that we have not even paid our rent. We owe three quarters,
and we must not therefore count upon the furniture. I leave you without
a coin. At least I shall be fed in prison--but how will you manage to
live?
"What is the use of grieving beforehand?"
"I ask you how you will live to-morrow?" cried Jacques.
"I will sell my costume, and some other clothes. I will send you half
the money, and keep the rest. That will last some days."
"And afterwards?--afterwards?"
"Afterwards?--why, then--I don't know--how can I tell you!
Afterwards--I'll look about me."
"Hear me, Cephyse," resumed Jacques, with bitter agony. "It is now that
I first know how mach I love you. My heart is pressed as in a vise at
the thought of leaving you and I shudder to thinly what is to become of
you." Then--drawing his hand across his forehead, Jacques added: "You
see we have been ruined by saying--'To-morrow will never come!'--for to
morrow has come. When I am no longer with you, and you have spent the
last penny of the money gained by the sale of your clothes--unfit for
work as you have become--what will you do next? Must I tell you what you
will do!--you will forget me and--" Then, as if he recoiled from his own
thoughts, Jacques exclaimed, with a burst of rage and despair--"Great
Heaven! if that were to happen, I should dash my brains out against the
stones!"
Cephyse guessed the half-told meaning of Jacques, and throwing her arms
around his neck, she said to him: "I take another lover?--never! I am
like you, for I now first know how much I love you."
"But, my poor Cephyse--how will you live?"
"Well, I shall take courage. I will go back and dwell, with my sister,
as in old times; we will work together, and so earn our bread. I'll
never go out, except to visit you. In a few days your creditor will
reflect, that, as you can't pay him ten thousand francs, he may as well
set you free. By that time I shall have once more acquired the habit of
working. You shall see, you shall see!--and you also will again acquire
this habit. We shall live poor, but content. After all, we have had
plenty of amusement for six month, while so many others have never known
pleasure all their lives. And believe me, my dear Jacques, when I say
to you--I shall profit by this lesson. If you love me, do not feel the
least uneasiness; I tell you, that I would rather die a hundred times,
than have another lover."
"Kiss me," said Jacques, with eyes full of tears. "I believe you--yes,
I believe you--and you give me back my courage, both for now and
hereafter. You are right; we must try and get to work again, or else
nothing remains but Father Arsene's bushel of charcoal; for, my girl,"
added Jacques, in a low and trembling voice, "I have been like a drunken
man these six months, and now I am getting sober, and see whither we are
going. Our means once exhausted, I might perhaps have become a robber,
and you--"
"Oh, Jacques! don't talk so--it is frightful," interrupted Cephyse; "I
swear to you that I will return to my sister--that I will work--that I
will have courage!"
Thus saying, the Bacchanal Queen was very sincere; she fully intended
to keep her word, for her heart was not yet completely corrupted. Misery
and want had been with her, as with so many others, the cause and the
excuse of her worst errors. Until now, she had at least followed the
instincts of her heart, without regard to any base or venal motive. The
cruel position in which she beheld Jacques had so far exalted her love,
that she believed herself capable of resuming, along with Mother Bunch,
that life of sterile and incessant toil, full of painful sacrifices and
privations, which once had been impossible for her to bear, and which
the habits of a life of leisure and dissipation would now render still
more difficult.
Still, the assurances which she had just given Jacques calmed his grief
and anxiety a little; he had sense and feeling enough to perceive that
the fatal track which he had hitherto so blindly followed was leading
both him and Cephyse directly to infamy.
One of the bailiffs, having knocked at the coach-door, said to Jacques:
"My lad, you have only five minutes left--so make haste."
"So, courage, my girl--courage!" said Jacques.
"I will; you may rely upon me."
"Are you going upstairs again?"
"No--oh no!" said Cephyse. "I have now a horror of this festivity."
"Everything is paid for, and the waiter will tell them not to expect us
back. They will be much astonished," continued Jacques, "but it's all
the same now."
"If you could only go with me to our lodging," said Cephyse, "this
man would perhaps permit it, so as not to enter Sainte-Pelagie in that
dress."
"Oh! he will not forbid you to accompany me; but, as he will be with
us in the coach, we shall not be able to talk freely in his presence.
Therefore, let me speak reason to you for the first time in my life.
Remember what I say, my dear Cephyse--and the counsel will apply to
me as well as to yourself," continued Jacques, in a grave and feeling
tone--"resume from to-day the habit of labor. It may be painful,
unprofitable--never mind--do not hesitate, for too soon will the
influence of this lesson be forgotten. By-and-bye it will be too late,
and then you will end like so many unfortunate creatures--"
"I understand," said Cephyse, blushing; "but I will rather die than lead
such a life."
"And there you will do well--for in that case," added Jacques, in a deep
and hollow voice, "I will myself show you how to die."
"I count upon you, Jacques," answered Cephyse, embracing her lover
with excited feeling; then she added, sorrowfully: "It was a kind of
presentiment, when just now I felt so sad, without knowing why, in the
midst of all our gayety--and drank to the Cholera, so that we might die
together."
"Well! perhaps the Cholera will come," resumed Jacques, with a gloomy
air; "that would save us the charcoal, which we may not even be able to
buy."
"I can only tell you one thing, Jacques, that to live and die together,
you will always find me ready."
"Come, dry your eyes," said he, with profound emotion. "Do not let us
play the children before these men."
Some minutes after, the coach took the direction to Jacques's lodging,
where he was to change his clothes, before proceeding to the debtors'
prison.
Let us repeat, with regard to the hunchback's sister--for there are
things which cannot be too often repeated--that one of the most fatal
consequences of the Inorganization of Labor is the Insufficiency of
Wages.
The insufficiency of wages forces inevitably the greater number of
young girls, thus badly paid, to seek their means of subsistence in
connections which deprave them.
Sometimes they receive a small allowance from their lovers, which,
joined to the produce of their labor, enables them to live. Sometimes
like the sempstress's sister, they throw aside their work altogether,
and take up their abode with the man of their choice, should he be
able to support the expense. It is during this season of pleasure and
idleness that the incurable leprosy of sloth takes lasting possession of
these unfortunate creatures.
This is the first phase of degradation that the guilty carelessness of
Society imposes on an immense number of workwomen, born with instincts
of modesty, and honesty, and uprightness.
After a certain time they are deserted by their seducers--perhaps when
they are mothers. Or, it may be, that foolish extravagance consigns
the imprudent lover to prison, and the young girl finds herself alone,
abandoned, without the means of subsistence.
Those who have still preserved courage and energy go back to their
work--but the examples are very rare. The others, impelled by misery,
and by habits of indolence, fall into the lowest depths.
And yet we must pity, rather than blame them, for the first and virtual
cause of their fall has been the insufficient remuneration of labor and
sudden reduction of pay.
Another deplorable consequence of this inorganization is the
disgust which workmen feel for their employment, in addition to the
insufficiency of their wages. And this is quite conceivable, for
nothing is done to render their labor attractive, either by variety
of occupations, or by honorary rewards, or by proper care, or by
remuneration proportionate to the benefits which their toil provides, or
by the hope of rest after long years of industry. No--the country thinks
not, cares not, either for their wants or their rights.
And yet, to take only one example, machinists and workers in foundries,
exposed to boiler explosions, and the contact of formidable engines,
run every day greater dangers than soldiers in time of war, display rare
practical sagacity, and render to industry--and, consequently, to their
country--the most incontestable service, during a long and honorable
career, if they do not perish by the bursting of a boiler, or have not
their limbs crushed by the iron teeth of a machine.
In this last case, does the workman receive a recompense equal to that
which awaits the soldier's praiseworthy, but sterile courage--a place in
an asylum for invalids? No.
What does the country care about it? And if the master should happen to
be ungrateful, the mutilated workman, incapable of further service, may
die of want in some corner.
Finally, in our pompous festivals of commerce, do we ever assemble any
of the skillful workmen who alone have woven those admirable stuffs,
forged and damascened those shining weapons, chiselled those goblets of
gold and silver, carved the wood and ivory of that costly furniture, and
set those dazzling jewels with such exquisite art? No.
In the obscurity of their garrets, in the midst of a miserable and
starving family, hardly able to subsist on their scanty wages, these
workmen have contributed, at least, one half to bestow those wonders
upon their country, which make its wealth, its glory, and its pride.
A minister of commerce, who had the least intelligence of his high
functions and duties, would require of every factory that exhibits
on these occasions, the selection by vote of a certain number of
candidates, amongst whom the manufacturer would point out the one that
appeared most worthy to represent the working classes in these great
industrial solemnities.
Would it not be a noble and encouraging example to see the master
propose for public recompense and distinction the workman, deputed by
his peers, as amongst the most honest, laborious, and intelligent of his
profession? Then one most grievous injustice would disappear, and the
virtues of the workman would be stimulated by a generous and noble
ambition--he would have an interest in doing well.
Doubtless, the manufacturer himself, because of the intelligence he
displays, the capital he risks, the establishment he founds, and the
good he sometimes does, has a legitimate right to the prizes bestowed
upon him. But why is the workman to be rigorously excluded from these
rewards, which have so powerful an influence upon the people? Are
generals and officers the only ones that receive rewards in the army?
And when we have remunerated the captains of this great and powerful
army of industry, why should we neglect the privates?
Why for them is there no sign of public gratitude? no kind or consoling
word from august lips? Why do we not see in France, a single workman
wearing a medal as a reward for his courageous industry, his long and
laborious career? The token and the little pension attached to it, would