Part 5
“On emerging from the wood, we perceived the village of the Mission, situated on the side of a lake, in the midst of a savannah planted with flowers. It was reached by an avenue of magnolias and oaks, which bordered one of ‘those ancient roads met with towards the mountains that separate Kentucky from the Floridas. As soon as the Indians saw their pastor in the plain, they abandoned their labors, and hastened to meet him. Some of them kissed his gown, others assisted him to walk; the mothers raised their little children in their arms to show them the man of Jesus Christ who had shed tears. Father Aubry inquired as he went along of what was going on in the village. He gave counsel to one, and a mild reprimand to another, He spoke of harvests to be gathered, of children to be instructed, of troubles to be consoled; and he alluded to God in every topic he touched upon.
“Thus escorted, we arrived at the foot of the large cross placed by the roadside. It was here that the servant of God was in the habit of celebrating the mysteries of his religion. ‘My dear neophytes,’ said he, turning himself towards the crowd, ‘a brother and a sister have come up to you, and, as an additional happiness, I see that Providence spared your harvests yesterday. Behold two great reasons for thankfulness. Let us therefore offer up the holy sacrifice, and may each of you bring to it deep attention, a lively faith, infinite gratitude, and a humble heart!’
* Father Aubry had done like the Jesuits in China, who allowed the Chinese to inter their relations in their gardens, according to an ancient custom.
“The holy priest forthwith put on a white tunic of mulberry-bark; the sacred cups were withdrawn from a tabernacle at the foot of the cross; the altar was set out on a portion of the rock, water was procured from the neighboring torrent, and a bunch of wild grapes furnished the wine for the sacrifice. We all went down upon our knees in the high grass, and the mystery began.
“Break of day, appearing from behind the mountains, inflamed the eastern sky. Everything in the solitude was golden or roseate. The sun, announced by so much splendor, at length issued from an abyss of light, and its first ray fell upon the consecrated host, which the priest was at that very moment raising in the air.
“After the sacrifice, during which nothing was wanting to me but the daughter of Lopez, we went to the village. The most touching mixture of social and natural life reigned there. By the side of a cypress-wood of the ancient desert was a nascent vegetation; ears of corn rolled like gold about the trunk of a fallen oak, and summer sheaves replaced the tree of three centuries. On all sides forests given up to the flames were sending up their smoke into the air, and the plough was being pushed slowly through the remains of their roots. Surveyors with long chains went to measure the ground; arbitrators marked out the first properties; the bird gave up its nest; the den of the wild beast was converted into a cabin; forges were heard to roar, and the blows of the axe caused the echoes to resound for the last time as they expired with the trees which had served them for a refuse.
“I wandered with delight in the midst of these scenes, rendered still more enchanting by the image of Atala and by the dreams of felicity with which I was feeding my heart. I admired the triumph of Christianity over savage life. I saw the Indian becoming civilized by the voice of religion; I assisted at the primitive union of man and the earth--man, by this great contract, abandoning to the earth the inheritance of his labors; and the earth undertaking in return to bear faithfully the harvests, the sons, and the ashes of man.
“During this time a child was presented to the missionary, who baptized it among the flowering jessamine on the border of a spring, whilst a coffin, in the midst of these joys and labors, was being carried to the Groves of Death. Two spouses received the nuptial benediction beneath an oak, and we afterwards went to install them in a corner of the desert. The pastor walked in front of us, blessing here and there a rock, a tree or a fountain, as of old, according to the book of the Christians, God blessed the untilled land when He gave it to Adam for an inheritance. This procession, which, with the flocks, was following its venerable chief from rock to rock, represented to my affected heart the migrations of the first families, when Shem, with his children, advanced into an unknown world, following the sun as his guide.
“I desired to know from the hermit how he governed his flock. With great patience he replied to me, ‘I have laid down no law for them; I have merely taught them to love one another, to pray to God, and to hope for a better life. All the laws in the world are comprised therein. Towards the middle of the village you may perceive a cabin somewhat larger than the rest. It serves as a chapel during the rainy season. My children assemble there morning and evening to praise the Lord, and when I am absent an old man offers up the prayers; for old age, like maternity, is a sort of priesthood. The people afterwards go to work in the fields; and although the properties are divided, in order that each may learn something of social economy, the harvests are deposited in the same storehouse, out of a spirit of brotherly charity. Four old men are charged with the equal distribution of the produce of the general labors. Add to all that our religious ceremonies, plenty of hymns, the cross where I celebrate the mysteries, the elm-tree beneath which I preach in fine weather, our tombs near our corn-fields, our rivers into which I plunge the little children, and the Saint Johns of this new Bethany, and you will have a complete idea of this kingdom of Jesus Christ.’
“The language of the hermit delighted me, and I felt the superiority of this stable and busy life over the wandering and idle existence of the savage.
“Ah, René! I do not repine against Providence, yet I confess I never think of that evangelical society without experiencing bitter regret. How a hut, with Atala, in that neighborhood, would have rendered my life happy! There all my wanderings would have ceased; there, with a spouse, ignored by men and concealing my happiness in the depths of the forest, my days would have flown by like those rivers which have not even a name in the desert. Instead of the peace I was then bold enough to promise myself, amidst what troubles have my years been cast! The constant plaything of fortune, wrecked upon every shore, long an exile from my country, and on my return thither finding only a ruined cabin and friends in the tomb--such was to be the destiny of Chactas.
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III. THE DRAMA.
“If my dream of happiness was bright, it was also of short duration, and I was to be awakened from it at the hermit’s grotto. On arriving there in the middle of the clay, I was surprised at not seeing Atala come forth to meet us. I cannot tell what sudden apprehension took possession of me. As we approached the grotto, I dared not call the daughter of Lopez; my imagination was equally frightened by the idea of the noise or of the silence that might follow my cries. Still more terrified by the dark appearance of the entrance to the rock, I said to the missionary, ‘O you, whom heaven accompanies and strengthens, penetrate into those shades!’
“How weak is the man who is governed by his passions! How strong is he who relies upon God! There was more courage in that religious heart, withered by seventy-six years, than in all the ardor of my youth. The man of peace entered the grotto, whilst I remained outside, full of terror. Soon a feeble murmur of complaint issued from the interior of the rock, and fell upon my ear. Uttering a cry as I recovered my strength, I rushed into the darkness of the cavern. Spirits of my fathers, you alone know the spectacle that met my view!
“The hermit had lighted a pine-torch, which he was holding with a trembling hand over Atala’s couch. With her hair in disorder, the young and beautiful woman, slightly raised upon her elbow, looked pale and suffering. Drops of painful sweat shone upon her forehead; her half-extinguished eyes still sought to express her love to me, and her mouth endeavored to smile. As though struck by lightning, with my eyes fixed, my arms outstretched, and my lips apart, I remained motionless. A profound silence reigned for a moment between the three personages of this scene of grief. The hermit was the first to break it. ‘This,’ he said, ‘can only be a fever occasioned by fatigue, and if we resign ourselves to God’s will, He will take pity on us.’
“At these words my heart revived, and, with the mobility of the savage, I passed suddenly from an excess of fear to an excess of confidence, from which, however, Atala soon aroused me. Shaking her head sadly, she made us a sign to approach her couch.
“‘My father,’ she said, in a weak voice, addressing herself to the hermit, ‘I am upon the point of death. O Chactas! listen without despair to the fatal secret I had concealed from you in order not to make you too miserable, and out of obedience to my mother. Try not to interrupt me by any marks of grief, which would shorten the few moments I have to live. I have many things to tell of, and from the beatings of my heart, which slacken--I do not know what icy burden presses within my bosom--I feel that I cannot make too much haste!’
“After a short silence, Atala continued thus:--
“‘My sad destiny began almost before I had seen the light. My mother had conceived me in misfortune. I wearied her bosom, and she brought me into the world with such painful difficulty that my life was despaired of. To save me, my mother made a vow. She promised the Queen of Angels that I should consecrate myself to an unwedded life if I escaped from death. That fatal vow is now hurrying me to the tomb!
“‘I was entering upon my sixteenth year when I lost my mother. Some hours before her death she called me to her bedside. “My daughter,” she said, in the presence of the missionary who was consoling her last moments, “you know the vow I made for you. Would you belie your mother? O my Atala, I am leaving you in a world that is not worthy of possessing a Christian--in the midst of idolators who persecute the God of your father and of your mother, the God who, after having given you life, has preserved it to you by a miracle. Ah, my dear child, by accepting the virgin’s veil, you only renounce the cares of the cabin and the fatal passions which have tormented your mother’s breast! Come, then, my well-beloved, come; swear upon this image of the Saviour’s Mother, held by the hands of this holy priest and of your dying parent, that you will not betray me in the face of heaven. Remember what I promised for you in order to save your life, and that, if you do not keep my promise, you will plunge your mother’s soul into eternal tortures.”
“‘O my mother, why spake you thus? O Religion, the cause of my ills and of my felicity, my ruin and my consolation at the same time! And you, dear and sad object of a passion that is consuming me even in the arms of death, you can now see, O Chactas, what has caused the hardship of our destiny! Melting into tears, and throwing myself upon my mother’s bosom, I promised all that I was asked to promise. The missionary pronounced over me the fearful language of my oath, and gave me the scapulary that bound me forever. My mother threatened me with her malediction if ever I broke my vow; and, after having advised me to keep the secret inviolably from the pagans, the persecutors of my religion, she expired, whilst holding me in a tender embrace.
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“‘I did not at first know the danger of my oath. Full of ardor and a veritable Christian, proud, too, of the Spanish blood that flowed in my veins, I saw myself surrounded by men unworthy of receiving my hand, and I congratulated myself upon having no other spouse than the God of my mother. I saw you, young and beautiful prisoner; I pitied your lot; I had the courage to speak to you at the funeral pile in the forest. Then it was that I felt the weight of my vows!’
“When Atala had finished littering these words, I cried out, with clenched fists, and looking at the missionary with a threatening air, ‘This, then, is the religion you have so much vaunted to me! Perish the oath that deprives me of Atala! Man-priest, why did you come into these forests?’
‘“To save you,’ said the old man, in a terrible voice; ‘to conquer your passions, and to prevent you, blasphemer, from drawing down upon yourself the wrath of Heaven! It is becoming, indeed, for so young a man, scarcely entered upon life, to complain of his griefs! Where are the marks of your sufferings? Where are the acts of injustice you have had to support? Where are your virtues, which alone could give you a certain right to murmur? What services have you rendered? What good have you done? What, miserable creature! you can only show me passions, and you dare to accuse Heaven! When, like Father Aubry, you shall have passed thirty years in exile upon the mountains, you will be less prompt to judge of the designs of Providence. You will then understand that you know nothing and are nothing, and that there is no chastisement so severe, no misfortune so terrible, that our corrupt flesh does not deserve to suffer.’
“The lightnings that flashed from the old man’s eyes, the beatings of his beard against his breast, and his fiery language, made him like to a god. Overcome by his majesty, I fell at the father’s knees, and asked pardon for my anger. ‘My son,’ he replied, in a tone so mild that a feeling of remorse entered my soul, ‘it was not for myself that I reprimanded you. Alas! you are right, my dear child: I have done but very little in these forests, and God has no servant more unworthy than myself. But, my son, it is Heaven--Heaven, I say--that should never be accused! Pardon me if I have offended you, and let us listen to your sister. There may still perhaps be some remedy; do not let us tire of hoping. Chactas, the religion which has made a virtue of hope is a Divine religion!’
“‘My young friend,’ resumed Atala, ‘you have been a witness of my struggles, and nevertheless you have seen but the smallest portion of them. I concealed the rest from you. No; the black slave who moistens the hot sands of the Floridas with his sweat is less miserable than Atala has been. Urging you to flight, and yet certain to die if you left me; fearful of flying with you to the desert, and still panting after the shade of the woods--ah! if it had only been required of me to abandon my relations, my friends, my country! if even (frightful thought!) I should only have incurred the loss of my soul! But thy shadow, O my mother! thy shadow was always there, reminding me of thy tortures! I heard thy complaints; I saw the flames of hell consuming thee. My nights were barren, and haunted by phantoms, my days were disconsolate; the evening dew dried as it fell upon my burning skin; I opened my lips to the breezes, and the breezes, far from refreshing me, became heated with the fire of my breath. What torture it was for me, Chactas, to see you constantly near me, far from all mankind, in the depths of the solitude, and to feel that there was an invincible barrier between you and myself! To have passed my life at your feet, to have waited upon you like a slave, to have prepared your repasts and your couch in some unknown corner of the universe, would have been for me supreme happiness. That happiness was within my reach, yet I could not enjoy it. What plans I have imagined! What dreams have passed through this sad heart of mine! Occasionally, when I fixed my eyes upon you, I went so far as to encourage desires that were as foolish as they were culpable: sometimes I wished I were the only creature living with you upon the earth: at other times, feeling a divinity that stopped me in my horrible transports, I seemed to desire that that divinity might be annihilated, provided that, pressed in your arms, I might roll from abyss to abyss with the ruins of God and of the world! Even now--shall I say it?--now that eternity is about to swallow me up, that I am going to appear before the inexorable Judge; at the moment when, from obedience to my mother, I see with joy my vow devouring my life; well, even now, by a frightful contradiction, I carry away with me the regret of not having been yours----’
“‘My daughter,’ interrupted the missionary, ‘your grief misleads you. The excess of passion to which you are abandoning yourself is rarely just; it is not even natural; and for that reason it is less culpable in the eyes of God, because it is rather an error of the mind than a vice of the heart. You must therefore put away such passionate feelings, which are unworthy of your innocence. At the same time, my dear child; your impetuous imagination has alarmed you too much concerning your vows. Religion requires no superhuman sacrifice. Its true sentiments, its moderated virtues, are far above the exalted sentiments and the forced virtues of a pretending heroism. If you had succumbed--well, poor lost sheep! the Good Shepherd would have sought for you, and would have brought you back to the flock. The treasures of repentance were open to you; torrents of blood are required to wipe out our faults in the eyes of men; a single tear suffices with God. Tranquilize yourself, therefore, my dear daughter; your situation needs calm. Let us address ourselves to God, who heals all the wounds of His servants. If it be His will, as I trust it may be, that you escape from this malady, I will write to the Bishop of Quebec; he has the power to release you from your vows, which are but simple vows; and you shall finish your days near me, with Chactas as your spouse.’
“As the old man finished speaking, Atala was seized with a violent convulsion, from which she emerged with all the signs of fearful suffering. ‘What!’ said she, joining her two hands with passion, ‘there was a remedy! I could have been released from my vows!’ ‘Yes, my daughter,’ replied the father; ‘and it is still time.’ ‘It is too late it is too late!’ she cried.
‘Must I die at the moment when I learn that I might have been happy? Why did I not know * this old man sooner? At present what happiness should I be enjoying with you, with my Chactas, a Christian--consoled, comforted by this august priest--in this desert--for ever--Oh! my felicity would have been too great!’ ‘Calm yourself,’ I said to her, taking hold of one of the unfortunate maiden’s hands; ‘calm yourself: that happiness is still in store for us.’ ‘Never! never!’ said Atala. ‘How?’ I asked. ‘You do not know all,’ cried the maiden. ‘Yesterday--during the storm--I was on the point of breaking my vows; I was going to plunge my mother into the flames of the abyss. Already her malediction was upon me, already I lied to the God who had saved my life. Whilst you were kissing my trembling lips, you were not aware that you were embracing death!’ ‘O heaven!’ cried the missionary; ‘dear child, what have you done?’ ‘A crime, my father,’ said Atala, with her eyes wandering; ‘but I only destroyed myself, and I saved my mother.’ ‘Finish then!’ I exclaimed, full of fear. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I had foreseen my weakness; and on quitting the cabins I took away with me----’
‘What?’ I interrupted with horror. ‘A poison?’ said the father. ‘It is now at my heart,’ cried Atala.
“The torch slipped from the hermit’s hand. I fell fainting near Lopez’s daughter. The old man took each of us in his arms, and during a short interval we all three mingled our sobs on the funeral couch.
“‘Let us be stirring; let us be stirring,’ said the courageous father, as he rose to light a lamp. ‘We are losing precious moments: like intrepid Christians, let us brave the assaults of adversity; with the cord about our necks, and with ashes upon our heads, let us throw ourselves at the feet of the Most High, to implore His clemency, and to submit ourselves to His decrees. Perhaps it may still be time. My daughter, you ought to have told me of this last night.’
“‘Alas! my father,’ said Atala, ‘I looked for you last night; but heaven, as a punishment for my faults, kept you away from me. Besides, all help would have been useless; for even the Indians themselves, who are so clever in what concerns poisons, know no remedy for that I have taken. O Chactas, judge of my astonishment when I found that the result was not so prompt as I had expected! My love redoubled my strength, and my soul was unwilling to separate thus quickly from you!’
“It was no longer by sobs that I now interrupted Atala’s recital, but by a torrent of passionate transports known only to savages. I rolled myself upon the ground, twisting my arms and biting my hands. The old priest, with wonderful tenderness, ran from brother to sister, endeavoring to relieve us in a thousand ways. Through the calmness of his heartland from the experience due to his weight of years, he knew how to act upon our youth, and his religion furnished him with accents even more tender and more ardent than our passions. Does not this priest, who had passed forty years of daily sacrifice in the service of God and man upon the mountain, remind you of the holocausts of Israel smoking perpetually on the high places before the Lord?