by Eugène Sue
INTERVAL.
THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.
The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with hugeboulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, theirfoliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from thebackground of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resemblingthe reflection of a great fire.
From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady,fertile, and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The richmeadows, the tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe cornhas been gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint,which contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of graystone or slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midstof this valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering ahigh-road which leads from the north to the west.
It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, everycottage window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth,and shines afar through shade and foliage, whilst clouds of smoke issuefrom the chimneys, and curl up slowly towards the sky. But now, strangeto say, every hearth in the country seems cold and deserted. Strangerand more fatal still, every steeple rings out a funeral knell. Whateverthere is of activity, movement, or life, appears concentrated in thatlugubrious and far-sounding vibration.
Lights begin to show themselves in the dark villages, but they rise notfrom the cheerful and pleasant rustic hearth. They are as red as thefires of the herdsmen, seen at night through the midst of the fog. Andthen these lights do not remain motionless. They creep slowly towardsthe churchyard of every village. Louder sounds the death-knell, the airtrembles beneath the strokes of so many bells, and, at rare intervals,the funeral chant rises faintly to the summit of the hill.
Why so many interments? What valley of desolation is this, where thepeaceful songs which follow the hard labors of the day are replaced bythe death dirge? where the repose of evening is exchanged for the reposeof eternity? What is this valley of the shadow, where every villagemourns for its many dead, and buries them at the same hour of the samenight?
Alas! the deaths are so sudden and numerous and frightful that there ishardly time to bury the dead. During day the survivors are chained tothe earth by hard but necessary toil; and only in the evening, when theyreturn from the fields, are they able, though sinking with fatigue, todig those other furrows, in which their brethren are to lie heaped likegrains of corn.
And this valley is not the only one that has seen the desolation. Duringa series of fatal years, many villages, many towns, many cities, manygreat countries, have seen, like this valley, their hearths deserted andcold--have seen, like this valley, mourning take the place of joy, andthe death-knell substituted for the noise of festival--have wept inthe same day for their many dead, and buried them at night by the luridglare of torches.
For, during those fatal years, an awful wayfarer had slowly journeyedover the earth, from one pole to the other--from the depths of India andAsia to the ice of Siberia--from the ice of Siberia to the borders ofthe seas of France.
This traveller, mysterious as death, slow as eternity, implacable asfate, terrible as the hand of heaven, was the CHOLERA!
The tolling of bells and the funeral chants still rose from the depthsof the valley to the summit of the hill, like the complaining of amighty voice; the glare of the funeral torches was still seen afarthrough the mist of evening; it was the hour of twilight--that strangehour, which gives to the most solid forms a vague, indefinite fantasticappearance--when the sound of firm and regular footsteps was heard onthe stony soil of the rising ground, and, between the black trunks ofthe trees, a man passed slowly onward.
His figure was tall, his head was bowed upon his breast; his countenancewas noble, gentle, and sad; his eyebrows, uniting in the midst, extendedfrom one temple to the other, like a fatal mark on his forehead.
This man did not seem to hear the distant tolling of so many funeralbells--and yet, a few days before, repose and happiness, health and joy,had reigned in those villages through which he had slowly passed, andwhich he now left behind him, mourning and desolate. But the travellercontinued on his way, absorbed in his own reflections.
"The 13th of February approaches," thought he; "the day approaches, inwhich the descendants of my beloved sister, the last scions of our race,should meet in Paris. Alas! it is now a hundred and fifty years since,for the third time, persecution scattered this family over all theearth--this family, that I have watched over with tenderness foreighteen centuries, through all its migrations and exiles, its changesof religion, fortune, and name!
"Oh! for this family, descended from the sister of the poorshoemaker,(2) what grandeur and what abasement, what obscurity and whatsplendor, what misery and what glory! By how many crimes has it beensullied, by how many virtues honored! The history of this single familyis the history of the human race!
"Passing, in the course of so many generations, through the veins of thepoor and the rich, of the sovereign and the bandit, of the wise man andthe fool, of the coward and the brave, of the saint and the atheist, theblood of my sister has transmitted itself to this hour.
"What scions of this family are now remaining? Seven only.
"Two orphans, the daughters of proscribed parents--a dethroned prince--apoor missionary priest--a man of the middle class--a young girl of agreat name and large fortune--a mechanic.
"Together, they comprise in themselves the virtues, the courage, thedegradation, the splendor, the miseries of our species!
"Siberia--India--America--France--behold the divers places where fatehas thrown them!
"My instinct teaches me when one of them is in peril. Then, from theNorth to the South, from the East to the West, I go to seek them.Yesterday amid the polar frosts--to-day in the temperate zone--to-morrowbeneath the fires of the tropics--but often, alas! at the moment whenmy presence might save them, the invisible hand impels me, the whirlwindcarries me away, and the voice speaks in my ear: 'GO ON! GO ON!'
"Oh, that I might only finish my task!--'GO ON!'--A single hour--onlya single hour of repose!--'GO ON!'--Alas! I leave those I love on thebrink of the abyss!--'GO ON! GO ON!'
"Such is my punishment. If it is great, my crime was greater still! Anartisan, devoted to privations and misery, my misfortunes had made mecruel.
"Oh, cursed, cursed be the day, when, as I bent over my work, sullenwith hate and despair, because, in spite of my incessant labor, I andmine wanted for everything, the Saviour passed before my door.
"Reviled, insulted, covered with blows, hardly able to sustain theweight of his heavy cross, He asked me to let Him rest a moment on mystone bench. The sweat poured from His forehead, His feet were bleeding,He was well-nigh sinking with fatigue, and He said to me, in a mild,heart piercing voice: 'I suffer!' 'And I too suffer,' I replied, as withharsh anger I pushed Him from the place; 'I suffer, and no one comes tohelp me! I find no pity, and will give none. Go on! go on!' Then, witha deep sigh of pain, He answered, and spake this sentence: 'Verily,thou shalt go on till the day of thy redemption, for so wills the Fatherwhich art in heaven!'
"And so my punishment began. Too late I opened these eyes to the light,too late I learned repentance and charity, too late I understood thosedivine words of Him I had outraged, words which should be the law of thewhole human race. 'LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER.'
"In vain through successive ages, gathering strength and eloquence fromthose celestial words, have I labored to earn my pardon, by fillingwith commiseration and love hearts that were overflowing with envy andbitterness, by inspiring many a soul with a sacred horror of oppressionand injustice. For me the day of mercy has not yet dawned!
"And even as the first man, by his fall, devoted his posterity tomisfortune, it would seem as if I, the workman, had consigned the wholerace of artisans to endless sorrows, and as if they were expiating mycrime: for they alone, during these eighteen centuries, have not yetbeen delivered.
"For eighteen centuries, the powerful an
d the happy of this world havesaid to the toiling people what I said to the imploring and sufferingSaviour: 'Go on! go on!' And the people, sinking with fatigue, bearingtheir heavy cross, have answered in the bitterness of their grief:'Oh, for pity's sake! a few moments of repose; we are worn out withtoil.'--Go on!'--'And if we perish in our pain, what will become ofour little children and our aged mothers?'--'Go on! go on!' And, foreighteen centuries, they and I have continued to struggle forward and tosuffer, and no charitable voice has yet pronounced the word 'Enough!'
"Alas! such is my punishment. It is immense, it is two-fold. I sufferin the name of humanity, when I see these wretched multitudes consignedwithout respite to profitless and oppressive toil. I suffer in the nameof my family, when, poor and wandering, I am unable to bring aid tothe descendants of my dear sister. But, when the sorrow is above mystrength, when I foresee some danger from which I cannot preserve myown, then my thoughts, travelling over the world, go in search of thatwoman like me accursed, that daughter of a queen, who, like me, theson of a laborer, wanders, and will wander on, till the day of herredemption.(3)
"Once in a century, as two planets draw nigh to each other in theirrevolutions, I am permitted to meet this woman during the dread week ofthe Passion. And after this interview, filled with terrible remembrancesand boundless griefs, wandering stars of eternity, we pursue ourinfinite course.
"And this woman, the only one upon earth who, like me, sees the end ofevery century, and exclaims: 'What another?' this woman responds to mythought, from the furthest extremity of the world. She, who alone sharesmy terrible destiny, has chosen to share also the only interest that hasconsoled me for so many ages. Those descendants of my dear sister, shetoo loves, she too protects them. For them she journeys likewise fromEast to West and from North to South.
"But alas! the invisible hand impels her, the whirlwind carries heraway, and the voice speaks in her ear: 'Go on!'--'Oh that I might finishmy sentence!' repeats she also,--'Go on!'--'A single hour--only a singlehour of repose!'--Go on!'--'I leave those I love on the brink of theabyss.'--'Go on! Go on!--'"
Whilst this man thus went over the hill absorbed in his thoughts, thelight evening breeze increased almost to a gale, a vivid flash streamedacross the sky, and long, deep whistlings announced the coming of atempest.
On a sudden this doomed man, who could no longer weep or smile, startedwith a shudder. No physical pain could reach him, and yet he pressed hishand hastily to his heart, as though he had experienced a cruel pang."Oh!" cried he; "I feel it. This hour, many of those whom I love--thedescendants of my dear sister--suffer, and are in great peril. Some inthe centre of India--some in America--some here in Germany. The strugglerecommences, the detestable passions are again awake. Oh, thou thathearest me--thou, like myself wandering and accursed--Herodias! helpme to protect them! May my invocation reach thee, in those Americansolitudes where thou now lingerest--and may we arrive in time!"
Thereon an extraordinary event happened. Night was come. The man madea movement; precipitately, to retrace his steps--but an invisible forceprevented him, and carried him forward in the opposite direction.
At this moment, the storm burst forth in its murky majesty. One of thosewhirlwinds, which tear up trees by the roots and shake the foundationsof the rocks, rushed over the hill rapid and loud as thunder.
In the midst of the roaring of the hurricane, by the glare of the fieryflashes, the man with the black mark on his brow was seen descending thehill, stalking with huge strides among the rocks, and between trees bentbeneath the efforts of the storm.
The tread of this man was no longer slow, firm, and steady--butpainfully irregular, like that of one impelled by an irresistible power,or carried along by the whirl of a frightful wind. In vain he extendedhis supplicating hands to heaven. Soon he disappeared in the shades ofnight, and amid the roar of the tempest.
(2) It is known that, according to the legend, the Wandering Jew was ashoemaker at Jerusalem. The Saviour, carrying his cross, passed beforethe house of the artisan, and asked him to be allowed to rest an instanton the stone bench at his door. "Go on! go on!" said the Jew harshly,pushing him away. "Thou shalt go on till the end of time," answered theSaviour, in a stern though sorrowful tone. For further details, seethe eloquent and learned notice by Charles Magnin, appended to themagnificent poem "Ahasuerus," by Ed. Quinet.--E. S.
(3) According to a legend very little known, for we are indebted tothe kindness of M. Maury, the learned sub-librarian of the Institute,Herodias was condemned to wander till the day of judgement, for havingasked for the death of John the Baptist--E. S.
