by Eugène Sue
“My son,” said my grandfather to me, “I feel it, my spark of life is going out. Before dying I wish to fulfil a sacred duty. Although still very young, you are old enough to know the value of a promise. Promise me that after you shall have read these accounts of our family you will carry out the, supreme wish of our ancestor Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, a wish that you will find expressed in these parchments. Also promise me, my son, that you will zealously keep our family relics — this little gold sickle, this little brass bell, and this fragment of a slave’s collar that I wore during the most cruel days of my slavery. Until now, at least, my poor child, you have known of slavery only the arduous toil and shame that accompany it — aye, the shame also. I know not why, but your nature is humble, timid and even fearful. I do not notice in you that ‘Gallic fury’ that the Romans spoke of when they described our race. This may come from your being weak and frail. Oh! my son! Races degenerate in slavery, both in the strength of character and in the strength of the body. My grandfather Joel and my father Guilhern were both over six feet high; few men could have overcome them hand to hand. My size did not reach theirs; nevertheless, before I was bent by labor and years, I. was tall and robust. Already your poor father, my son, smitten by slavery in the womb of his mother, both through her condition in the factory and our subsequent errant and fugitive life, had degenerated from the one-time vigor of our race; and you, my poor child, you are still smaller and feebler than your father. The sedentary habit of your trade as a weaver and the insufficiency of the nourishment doled out to slaves debilitate you still more. May your character suffer no further decline! May you recover the energy of our race, when the hour of justice and deliverance shall sound, if at all it sound in your lifetime! You will at least learn from these writings the sufferings that your grandparents have undergone. The knowledge and consciousness thereof may, perhaps, rekindle in you the ardor of the old Gallic blood, and may impart to you the necessary courage to break the odious yoke that, to-day, you bear — you, the descendant of a free race — and wreak vengeance upon the Romans, our hereditary oppressors, for the wrong done to you and to your grandfathers. I had joined to the narratives that you will read one of my flight with my wife Loyse, a flight of which I spoke to you more than once. In that narrative I retraced the sweet enjoyments of the only days of freedom that I ever tasted during my long bondage. I also described my meeting with one of our valiant and venerable druids, a slave like myself and my companions, when We labored on the aqueduct of Marseilles. These two narratives are lost. But the most important of the three I still preserve. It is the one that I hand over to you together with those of my own father and grandfather. Swear to me, my child, zealously to preserve the deposit. If you do not believe that you can safely hide it somewhere, carry it about you in this belt under your clothes, as I have often done, myself. Adieu, my child. Be faithful to your gods, and keep but one hope alive in your breast, one aim — the deliverance of our beloved Gaul! Only one remembrance — that of the wrongs that our race has suffered!”
I made to my grandfather the promise he demanded of me, and following his advice I put the belt around my waist under my clothes. I embraced my grandfather once more and left him.
I was never to see him again. I was then fifteen years old. Genevieve, my foster-sister, became my wife a few years later.
As to my own life, it was like that of all the artisan slaves, neither better nor worse. For the rest I must admit it, my grandfather judged me right. I have not inherited, great is the pity, the ‘fury’ and daring of our old Gallic race, nor its savage impatience towards slavery. Servitude has weighed upon me as it has upon all others, but I could never think of breaking the shackles by a resort to violence. My character has remained as meek as my body, and when I occasionally read over the frightful battles delivered by the warriors of my race and the dreadful perils that my grandfather escaped, I shudder with horror, the perspiration stands out on my brow, and I make the pledge to myself never to expose myself, at least not voluntarily, to such dangers and to fulfil my tasks as best I can in order to please my masters. Through my resignation I have at least gained some better treatment than is accorded to my companions, although I have, like them, made the acquaintance of the whip and the switch, despite all my mildness and good behavior. But masters have their whims and their moments of anger. Insolence can only be followed by worse treatment. Accordingly, I have patiently borne my yoke, and limited myself to rubbing my shoulder when the yoke galled me. Despite my grandfather’s example and the solicitations of some of my companions, who imagined I was endowed with great energy, being of the stock of Joel of the tribe of Karnak, I have never desired to join the secret meetings of the Sons of the Mistletoe, although the meetings continue to be held. The tortures of the slaves who were crucified for rebelling inspired me with dread, and I, weakling as I am, shuddered at the bare thought of an armed revolt against my masters.
Moreover those ventures seemed insane to me. And, indeed, towards the beginning of the reign of Augustus, the secret societies of the Sons of the Mistletoe, and other Gallic conspiracies, after having long waited for an opportune moment to revolt, decided, upon the advice of the druids, to undertake a general uprising. They were crushed.
Sacrovir, a Nivernais Gaul, was the soul of that insurrection. He visited all the secret gatherings and by means of emissaries whom he sent around in concert with the druids, tried to show that Italy herself bore but impatiently the yoke of Tiberius. He believed the hour had come. It was then or never with the recovery of the freedom of the Gauls. An extensive conspiracy was organized. Sacrovir was its chief and directed its operations with consummate circumspection. He was of the opinion that no hasty step should be taken, and that no move should be made until all the cities in the conspiracy were ready to act. Unfortunately, the slaves of Anjou and of Touraine rose prematurely. Their attempt not being seconded, it was speedily smothered in its own blood. The rich Gauls, who rallied with the Romans, joined these in punishing, as they put it, the ingratitude of the rebels who had the audacity of revolting against the august Emperor Tiberius, the protector of Gaul. Sacrovir always fought in the front ranks, his casque open and chest unprotected. But his partisans, being crushed by superior numbers, speedily disbanded. Dragged along by the fleeing mass of the slaves whom he had summoned to revolt, he took refuge in Autun and sought to induce the city to rise against the Romans. The people and the magistrates being discouraged by previous failures, and fearing the vengeance of Tiberius, threatened to deliver Sacrovir to the Romans. Sacrovir thereupon repaired with several of his friends to his country home that lay not far from the city. They set fire to its foundations, and mounting to the terrace above, sat down to table, emptied a last cup to the deliverance of Gaul, of which they did not yet despair; and when the conflagration began to invade the terrace where they were assembled and drinking with Sacrovir, all stabbed themselves and dropped into the flames, offering, as our forefathers did, their own blood as a holocaust to Hesus.
As a Gaul myself, I deplored the death of those brave men. The prospects of our country’s freedom were consumed in the flames together with them. Beginning with the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, who once was the guest of my ancestor Joel, all those heroes, too numerous to mention, spilt their blood in vain.
Beside me, my wife Genevieve is a veritable warrior. She is worthy, by reason of her courage and virtue, to be enrolled a member of our family that numbers among its ancestresses Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen; Meroë, the wife of the mariner; and Margarid, the Gallic matron. I had Genevieve read the parchments that my grandfather transmitted to me. Their narratives have exalted her. How often has she not tenderly reproached me for my lukewarmness and despondency, saying:
“Ah! If I were a man! If I were a descendant of the brenn of the tribe of Karnak! That stock so fruitful of brave men and women! At the first insurrection of the Gauls I would rush into the fray, even if I were killed—”
“I prefer to liv
e peacefully, near you, Genevieve,” I would answer her; “patiently endure the ills that I can not prevent, and ply my weavers’ shuttle as well as I may in my master’s interest.”
THE END
The Silver Cross
OR, THE CARPENTER OF NAZARETH
Translated by Daniel de Leon
The Silver Cross covers the years 10-130 CE. Described by the translator as the ‘page from history that holds the mirror up to the Capitalist Class’, this tale opens with the first person narrative of Genevieve, the slave of Aurelia, a Roman woman living in Marseilles. Aurelia is beautiful and of a cheerful disposition and when she departs for Judea with her husband, Gremion, of course, her slave goes with her. Attending an exclusive social gathering at the home of Pontius Pilate, Genevieve hears talk of the Nazarine (Jesus Christ). A guest named Baruch condemns ‘the deplorable disorders which that vagabond of Nazareth everywhere draws after him and which increase every day’ by whipping up dissent amongst ‘beggars in rags, workmen, camel-drivers, men who let out asses, disreputable women, tattered children and other individuals of the most dangerous sort’. However, Pilate declares that the Nazarene is no threat at all and it is best to let him have his say and have done with the matter; he offends the leaders of the Judaic community with his flippancy over what they see as a grave threat. Aurelia and her new friend, Jane, see Jesus as much less threatening and make plans to see this charismatic Nazarene for themselves. Disguised as young men, Aurelia, Jane and Genevieve meet at a rough tavern full of prostitutes, the poor and the sick, all waiting for Jesus to arrive. When Jesus does reach them, the three young women are caught up in a great movement that culminates in them hearing Jesus speak some of his most powerful words…
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
PREFACE.
EUGÈNE SUE WROTE in French a monumental work: “The Mysteries of the People,” or “History of a Proletarian Family.” It is a “work of fiction;” yet it is the best universal history extant: better than any work, avowedly on history, it graphically traces the special features of the several systems of class-rule as they have succeeded each other from epoch to epoch, together with the nature of the struggle between the contending classes. The “Law,” “Order,” “Patriotism,” “Religion,” etc., etc., that each successive tyrant class, despite its change of form, hysterically sought refuge in to justify its criminal existence whenever threatened; the varying economic causes of the oppression of the toilers; the mistakes incurred by these in their struggles for redress; the varying fortunes of the conflict; — all these social dramas are therein reproduced in a majestic series of “historic novels,” covering leading and successive episodes in the history of the race.
The work here published in English garb is one of these historic novels. It is chosen because of its singular fitness to modern times in one important respect: — the unity of action of the oppressors, despite hostile politico-material interests and clashing religious views; the hypocrisy that typifies them all; the oneness of fundamental purpose that animates pulpit, professorial chair or public office in possession of a plundering class; and, last not least, the identity of the methods pursued and the pretences seized by the plundering and ruling class, at that long ago critical period in the history of the human race, when the pre-feudal colossus of the Roman Empire was, by force of its own power, beginning to strangle itself, and, at the present or third critical period, when the grand-child of that Roman System and child of Feudalism, — Capitalism — , is now in turn, likewise by virtue of its own ripened colossal power, throttling itself to death, and, with its death throes, heralding the advent of a new civilization — the Socialist Social System.
“The Silver Cross,” or “The Carpenter of Nazareth,” is a pathetic page from history that holds the mirror up to the Capitalist Class — its orators, pulpiteers, politicians, lawyers, together with all its other menials of high and low degree — , and, by the reflexion cast, enlightens and warns.
D. D. L.
New York, Oct. 5, 1898.
CHAPTER I.
IT WAS ABOUT the fifteenth year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius that I, Genevieve, a slave of Aurelia, the wife of a Roman named Gremion and located in Marseilles, departed from Marseilles with my mistress and her husband for Judea.
The dominion of the Romans, at that period, extended from one end of the world to the other. Judea had submitted to them, as a dependence of the province of Syria, governed by a magistrate from Rome. Several vessels departed from Marseilles for the country of the Israelites. My master, Gremion, a relative of the Roman Procurator in Judea named Pontius Pilate, was chosen to replace in that country the treasury-tribune, appointed to collect the taxes; for wherever the Roman dominion established itself, the exaction of taxes was established at the same time.
One evening there was, at Jerusalem, a grand supper at Pontius Pilate’s, Procurator in the country of the Israelites, for the Emperor Tiberius.
Towards the decline of the day, the most brilliant society of the city repaired to the house of the Roman seigneur. His mansion, like that of all the rich persons of the country, was built of hewn stone, plastered over with chalk, and painted a red color.
This sumptuous residence was entered by a square court, surrounded by marble columns, forming a gallery. In the middle of this court there was a fountain, which spread a delicious freshness beneath the scorching sun of Arabia. An immense palm tree, planted near the fountain, covered it with its shade during the heat of day. Next came a vestibule filled with servants, and thence followed the dining hall, wainscotted with sandal wood, inlaid with ivory.
Around the table were ranged beds of cedar-wood, hung with rich draperies, on which the guests seated themselves during the repast. In accordance with the custom of the country, the women who partook of the dinner had each brought one of their slaves, who stood behind them during the feast. It was thus that I, Genevieve, witnessed the scenes I am about to narrate, having accompanied my mistress, Aurelia, to the house of Pontius Pilate.
The society was select. Amongst the most distinguished guests were remarked the Seigneur Baruch, a senator and doctor of law; the Seigneur Chusa, steward of the household of Herod, tetrarch or prince of Judea, under the protection of Rome; the Seigneur Gremion, newly arrived from Roman Gaul, as clerk of the treasury in Judea; the Seigneur Jonas, one of the richest bankers in Jerusalem; and lastly, the Seigneur Caiphus, one of the princes of the Hebrew church.
Amongst the number of women who were present at the feast were Lucretia, the wife of Pontius Pilate; Aurelia, the wife of Gremion; and Jane, the wife of Chusa. The two prettiest women of the assembly, who on this night supped with Pontius Pilate, were Jane and Aurelia. Jane had that beauty peculiar to the orientals; large black eyes, soft and piercing, and teeth of a snowy whiteness, which her dark complexion rendered still more dazzling. Her turban, of rich Tyrian cloth, and of a purple color, encircled by a heavy gold chain, the two ends fell one on each shoulder, encased her countenance half concealed by large tresses of black hair. She was dressed in a long white robe, leaving bare her arms loaded with gold bracelets. Over this robe, confined round her waist by a scarf of purple cloth, similar to the turban, she wore a sort of spencer of orange silk, without sleeves. The handsome features of Jane had an expression full of gentleness, and her smile expressed an engaging sweetness.
Aurelia, Gremion’s wife, born of Roman parents, in southern Gaul, was also beautiful, and wore, according to the fashion of her country, two tunics, one a long one and red, the other short and clear blue; a gold band confined her chestnut hair; her complexion was as fair as that of Jane was dark; her large blue eyes beamed with delight, and her cheerful smile announced an unalterable good humor.
The senator Baruch, one of the most learned doctors of the law, occupied at this supper the place of honor. He appeared to be a perfe
ct gourmand, for his green turban was almost constantly close to his plate; two or three times even he was obliged to loosen the belt that confined his flowing violet robe, adorned with long silver fringe. The gluttony of this fat seigneur made Jane and Aurelia often smile and whisper, new friends as they were, and seated next each other, and behind whom stood I, Genevieve, not losing one of their words, and equally attentive to all that was said by the guests.
The Seigneur Jonas, one of the richest bankers of Jerusalem, wearing a little yellow turban, and brown robe, and having a pointed grey beard, resembled a bird of prey; he conversed from time to time, in a suppressed tone, with doctor Baruch, who replied to him but rarely, and without interrupting himself in his eating, whilst the high priest Caiphus, Gremion, Pontius Pilate, and the other guests, also pursued their conversation.
Towards the conclusion of the supper, the doctor of law, beginning to be satisfied, wiped his greasy beard with the back of his hand, and said to the treasury-receiver, newly arrived in Judea:
‘Seigneur Gremion, are you getting accustomed to our poor country? Ah! ’tis a great change for you, who arrive from Roman Gaul. What a long voyage you had!’
‘I like to visit new countries,’ replied Gremion, ‘and I shall frequently have occasion to travel through this in order to overlook the bill-collectors.’
‘Unfortunately for the Seigneur Gremion,’ said the banker Jonas, ‘he arrives in Judea at a most unhappy time.’
‘Why so, seigneur?’ inquired Gremion.
‘Are not civil troubles always bad times?’ replied the banker.
‘No doubt, seigneur Jonas; but what troubles do you refer to?’
‘My friend Jonas,’ observed Baruch, the learned doctor, ‘alludes to the deplorable disorders which that vagabond of Nazareth everywhere draws after him, and which increase every day.’
