Part 6

“Alas! it was in vain that he tried to procure a remedy for Atala’s sufferings. Fatigue, grief, poison, and a passion more mortal than all the poisons together, had united to snatch the flower from the desert. Towards evening terrible symptoms began to show themselves. A general numbness took possession of Atala’s limbs, and the extremities of her body became cold. ‘Touch my fingers,’ she said to me; ‘do they not feel quite icy?’ I could not reply. I was overcome with horror. Afterwards she added, ‘Even yesterday, my well-beloved, your contact made me quiver: and now I can no longer feel your hand; I scarcely hear your voice, and the objects in the grotto are disappearing from my sight one after the other. Are not the birds singing? The sun must be nearly setting? Chactas, its rays will be very beautiful in the desert, over my tomb!’

“Atala perceiving that her language had melted us into tears, said softly, ‘Pardon me, my kind friends; I am very weak, but perhaps I shall get stronger. And yet to die so young, all at once, when my heart was so full of life! Chief of prayer, take pity on me; support me. Do you think my mother will be satisfied, and that God will forgive what I have done?’

“‘My daughter,’ replied the holy man, shedding tears, and wiping them away with his trembling, mutilated fingers, ‘all your misfortunes are the result of your ignorance. Your savage education and the want of instruction have been your ruin. You did not know that a Christian cannot dispose of his life. Console yourself, therefore, my dear lamb; God will pardon you, on account of the simplicity of your heart. Your mother, and the imprudent missionary who guided her, are more to be blamed than you; they exceeded their power in imposing an indiscreet vow upon you: but may the Lord be with them! You all three offer a terrible example of the dangers of enthusiasm, and of the want of enlightenment on religious matters. Be of good cheer, my child; He who fathoms our thoughts and our hearts will judge you according to your intentions, which were pure, and not from your action, which was condemnable.

“‘As for life, if the moment has come for you to sleep in the Lord, ah! my child, you lose but little by losing this world! In spite of the solitude in which you have lived, you have known sorrow; what would you have felt, then, if you had witnessed the evils of society?--if, on visiting the shores of Europe, your ear had been stricken by the long cry of suffering heard throughout that old land? The dweller in the cabin, the inhabitant of a palace, both suffer and groan here below: queens have been seen to cry like simple women, and people have been astonished at the quantity of tears shed by kings!

“‘Is it your love that you regret? My daughter, you might as well weep over a dream. Do you know the heart of man, and could you reckon upon the inconstancies of his affection? Sacrifices and kindnesses, Atala, are not eternal ties. One day, perhaps, disgust would have come with satiety, the past would have been considered as nothing, and naught would have remained but the inconveniences of a poor and despised union. Doubtless, my dear daughter, the most beautiful loves were those of the man and woman who issued from the hand of the Creator. A paradise had been prepared for them. They were innocent and immortal. Perfect in soul and body, they suited each other in every respect. Eve had been created for Adam, l and Adam for Eve. If they, nevertheless, could not remain in that state of happiness, what couple after them could do so? I will not speak to you of the marriages of the first-born of men, of those ineffable unions between sister and brother, in which love and friendship were confounded in the same heart, and the purity of the one increased the delights of the other. All those unions were troubled; jealousy crept over the altar of turf upon which the goat was sacrificed, it existed beneath the tent of Abraham, and even in the abodes of the patriarchs, where they experienced so much joy that they forgot the death of their mothers.

“‘Do you suppose, then, my child, that you are more innocent and more fortunate in your ties than those holy families from which Jesus Christ deigned to descend? Again, woman renews her sufferings each time she becomes a mother, and she weeps on her marriage-day. What grief there is for her in the mere loss of her new-born babe, to whom she gave nourishment, and who dies upon her bosom! The mountain was full of groans: nothing could console Rachel for the loss of her sons. The bitterness attendant upon human affections is so powerful that I have in my country seen grand ladies, the beloved of kings, quit the life of a court to bury themselves in a cloister, and mutilate that rebellious flesh, the pleasures of which are only the precursors of sorrow.

“‘But perhaps you would say that these last examples do not affect you; that all your ambition was limited to the desire of living in an obscure cabin with the man of your choice; that you sought less after the sweets of marriage than after the charms of that folly which youth calls love? Delusion, chimera, vanity--the dream of a diseased imagination! I also, my daughter, have known the troubles of the heart. This head has not been always bald, nor this breast always so calm as it appears to you to-day. Believe in my experience: if man, constant in his affections, could unceasingly respond to a sentiment constantly renewed, solitude and love would doubtless render him the equal of God Himself; for those are the two eternal pleasures of the Great Being. But the soul of man becomes weary, and never loves the same object long and fully. There are always some points upon which two hearts do not agree, and in the end those points suffice to render life insupportable.

“‘Finally, my dear child, the great error of men, in their dream of happiness, is that they forget the infirmity of death inseparable from their nature; the end must come. Sooner or later, whatever might have been your felicity, your beautiful visage would have been changed into that uniform face which the sepulchre gives to the family of Adam. Even the eye of Chactas would not have been able to distinguish you from amongst your sisters of the tomb. Love does not extend its empire so far as the worms in the coffin. What have I to say (O vanity of vanities!), what can I say concerning the durability of earthly friendships? Would you, my dear daughter, know its extent? If a man were to return to light some years after his death, I do not believe he would be received with joy even by those who had shed the most tears to his memory; so quickly are new ties contracted, so easily fresh habits are indulged in, so entirely is inconstancy natural to man, and so little is our life even in the hearts of our friends!

“‘Thank, therefore, the Divine goodness, my dear daughter, for taking you away thus early from this valley of misery. Already the white robe and the brilliant crown of virgins are being prepared for you in the skies; already I hear the Queen of the Angels crying out to you, “Come, my worthy servant; come, my dove; come and sit down upon the throne of candor, amidst all those maidens who have sacrificed their beauty and their youth in the service of humanity, in the education of children, and in works of penitence.”’

“As the last ray of daylight stills the winds and spreads tranquillity through the sky, so the old man’s calm language appeased the passions in the bosom of my lover. She no longer thought of anything but my grief, and of the means for enabling me to support her loss. At first she said that she should die happy if I would promise her to dry my tears; then she spoke to me of my mother and of my country, and endeavored to distract me from present grief by referring to past sufferings. She exhorted me to patience and virtue. ‘You will not always be unhappy,’ she said; ‘if Heaven tries you to-day, it is merely to render you more compassionate for the ills of others. The heart, Chactas, is like those trees that only yield their balm for healing men’s wounds after having been themselves seared with iron.’

“When she had thus spoken, Atala turned towards the missionary, seeking from him the consolation she had been endeavoring to impart to me; and, by turns consoling and consoled, she gave and received the word of life; upon the couch of death.

“Nevertheless, the hermit redoubled his zeal. With the torch of religion in his hand, he appeared to be guiding Atala to the tomb, to show her its secret wonders. The humble grotto was full of the grandeur of this Christian agony, and the heavenly spirits were no doubt attentive to the scene, in which Religion had to struggle alone against Love, Youth and Death.

“Divine Religion triumphed, and her victory was perceptible from the holy sadness that followed our hearts’ previous passionate transports. Towards the middle of the night, Atala seemed to revive, and repeated the prayers pronounced by the monk at the side of her couch. Shortly afterwards, she offered me her hand, and, in a voice scarcely audible, said, ‘Son of Outalissi, do you remember the night when you took me for the Virgin of the Last Loves? What a singular omen of our destiny! She stopped, then continued: ‘When I think that I am leaving you for ever, my heart makes such an effort to live, that I feel almost strong enough to render myself immortal by the power of my love. But, O God! Thy will be done!’ Atala became silent during a few instants; then she added: ‘It only remains for me to ask your pardon for all the ills I have caused you. Chactas, a little earth thrown upon my body will place a world between you and me, and will deliver you forever from the weight of my calamities!’

“‘Pardon you!’ I exclaimed, drowned in tears; ‘Is it not I who have caused all your misfortunes?’ ‘My friend,’ she replied, interrupting me, ‘you have rendered me very happy, and if I had to begin my life over again, I should still prefer the happiness of having loved you for a few short moments in an exile of adversity to an entire life of repose in my own country.’

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“Here Atala’s voice languished: the shadows of death spread themselves about her eyes and her mouth; her wandering fingers endeavored to catch at something and she spoke lowly with the invisible spirits. Soon, however, making an effort, she attempted, but in vain, to take the little crucifix from her neck; she asked me to untie it myself, and then said to me:--

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“‘When I spoke to you for the first time, by the light of the fire you saw this cross shining upon my bosom; it is the only treasure that Atala possesses. Lopez, your father and mine, sent it to my mother a few days after my birth. Accept the inheritance, then, from me, my brother, and keep it in remembrance of my misfortunes. Chactas, I have a last request to make of you. Our union on earth, my friend, would have been short; but after this life there is a longer life. I only go before you to-day, and I will wait for you in the celestial empire. If you have loved me, get yourself instructed in the Christian religion, which will prepare our re-union. That religion has worked a great miracle under your own eyes, since it enables me to quit you without the anguish of despair. Still, Chactas, I only desire you to make me a simple promise. I know too well what it costs to ask an oath from you. Perhaps such a vow might separate you from some woman happier than I. O my mother, pardon thy daughter! I am again succumbing to my weaknesses, and am turning aside from Thee, O my God, thoughts that should be thine, and thine only!’

“Overwhelmed with grief, I promised Atala that I would one day embrace the Christian religion. At this moment the hermit, rising with an inspired air, and stretching his arms towards the roof of the grotto, exclaimed, ‘It is time--it is time to call God hither!’

“Scarcely had he uttered those words, when a supernatural force constrained me to fall upon my knees and to turn my head towards the foot of Atala’s couch. The priest opened a secret place that contained a golden urn covered with a silk veil; he then knelt down and prayed fervently. Suddenly the grotto appeared to be illuminated: songs of angels and the vibrations of celestial harps were heard in the air; and when the hermit drew the sacred vessel from the tabernacle, I thought I saw God Himself issue forth from the side of the mountain.

“The priest opened the cup, took between his fingers a wafer white as snow, and approached Atala as he pronounced some mysterious words. That saint’s eyes were upturned in ecstacy. All her sufferings appeared to be suspended; her entire being concentrated itself upon her mouth; her lips parted, and advanced with respect to seek the God concealed beneath the mystic bread. The saintly old man afterwards soaked a piece of cotton in the consecrated oil, and looked for a moment at the dying maiden; when all of a sudden he uttered these imposing words, ‘Go, Christian soul, go; return to your Creator!’ Raising then my downcast head, I cried, looking at the vessel that contained the holy oil, ‘My father, will that remedy restore Atala to life?’ ‘Yes, my son,’ said the old man, falling into my arms, ‘to life eternal!’ Atala had just expired.

At this point Chactas was obliged, for the second time, to interrupt the recital of his story. His tears flowed copiously, and the tremor of his voice only permitted him to utter broken words. The blind sachem opened his breast and drew forth Atala’s crucifix. “Here it is!” he cried; “dear token of adversity! O René, O my son! You see it; but I can see it no longer.

Tell me whether, after so many years, the gold of it is tarnished? Do you see any traces of my tears upon it? Could you recognize the part which had been touched by the lips of a saint? How is it that Chactas is not yet a Christian? What trivial motives of policy or nationality have kept him in the errors of his fathers? No; I will no longer delay. The earth is crying out to me, ‘When, then, wilt thou go down into the tomb, and for what art thou waiting to embrace a Divine religion?’.... Earth! thou shalt not wait long, for as soon as a priest shall have regenerated by baptism this head whitened with grief, I hope to be re-united to Atala.... But let me finish what remains to be told of my story.”

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I V. THE FUNERAL

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“I will not undertake, René, to picture the despair that took possession of my soul when Atala had heaved her last sigh. It would require more warmth than I have left, and that my closed eyes might re-open to the sun, to ask it to tell of the tears they shed in its light. Yes, the moon now shining above our heads will become weary of lighting the solitudes of Kentucky--the river that is now bearing our pirogues will suspend the course of its waters--before my tears cease to flow for Atala! During two days I was insensible to the hermit’s conversation. In trying to calm my grief, the excellent man did not employ the commonplace reasonings of earthly minds. All he said was, ‘My son, it is the will of God;’ and then he pressed me in his arms. I should never have thought there was so much consolation in those few words of a resigned Christian, if I had not myself experienced it.

“The mild tenderness and the unvarying patience of the old servant of God at length conquered the obstinacy of my grief; I became ashamed of the tears I caused him to shed. ‘My father,’ I said, ‘this is too much: let the passions of a young man disturb the peace of your days no longer. Permit me to carry away the remains of my spouse; I will inter them in some corner of the desert; and if I am condemned to live on for a time, I will endeavor to render myself worthy of the eternal nuptials that were promised me by Atala.’

“At this unexpected return of courage, the good father trembled with joy, saying, ‘O blood of Jesus Christ, blood of my Divine Master, I acknowledge herein Thy merits! Thou wilt no doubt save this young man. My God, finish Thy work; restore peace to this troubled soul, and leave it but the humble and useful remembrances of its misfortunes!’

“The righteous man refused to give up to me the body of Lopez’s daughter; but he proposed to call together his neophytes, and to inter it with all the pomp of the Christian ceremonial. In my turn, I refused. ‘Atala’s misfortunes and virtues,’ I said, ‘were unknown to men; let her grave, dug secretly by our hands, share that obscurity.’ We agreed to set off the next morning at sunrise, and to bury Atala beneath the arch of the natural bridge at the entrance to the Groves of Death. It was also decided that we should pass the night in prayer near the corpse of the saint.

“Towards evening we transported the precious remains to an opening of the grotto looking to the north. The hermit had enveloped them in a piece of European lawn, woven by his mother. It was the only thing still remaining to him of his country, and he had long preserved it for his own tomb. We laid Atala upon a turf of mountain-sensitives; her feet, her head, her shoulders, and a part of her bosom were uncovered. There was a faded magnolia in her hair, the same flower I had placed upon the virgin’s couch to render her fruitful. Her lips, like a rose-bud gathered two mornings before, seemed to languish and smile. Her cheeks, of sparkling whiteness, showed a number of blue veins. Her beautiful eyes were closed, her modest feet joined together, and her hands of alabaster pressed against her heart an ebony crucifix; the scapulary of her vows was fastened about her neck. She appeared as though enchanted by the angel of melancholy, and by the double sleep of innocence and of the tomb.

I never saw anything so heavenly. By a person unconscious that this young girl had enjoyed the light, she might have been taken for a statue of Sleeping Virginity.

“The monk did not cease praying all night. I sat in silence at the end of my Atala’s funeral couch. How often, during her sleep, I had held that charming head upon my knees! How many times I had leaned over her to hear her breathe, and to inhale her breath! But at present no sound issued from that motionless breast, and it was in vain that I looked for the awakening of my love!

“The moon lent her pale light to this funereal watching; she rose in the middle of the night, like a white vestal come to weep over the coffin of a companion. From time to time the monk dipped a flowering branch into the holy water, and shaking its moistened leaves, perfumed the night air with heavenly balms. Occasionally also he repeated, to an ancient tune, these verses by an old poet named Job:

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“‘I have passed away like a flower; I have withered like the grass of the fields.

“‘Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?’

“Thus sang the old man. His deep and irregular voice went rolling through the silence of the desert. The name of God and of the tomb issued from all the echoes, from all the torrents, and from all the forests, and the Groves of Death seemed to be murmuring a distant chorus of the departed in reply to the hermit’s sacred chant.

“Nevertheless, a bar of gold was forming in the east. The sparrow-hawks were crying upon the rocks, and the martins creeping back into the hollows of the elm-trees: these were so many signs that the time had come for Atala’s interment. I took the body on my shoulders; the hermit walked in front of me, carrying a spade in his hand. We commenced the descent from rock to rock; old age and death combined equally to slacken our pace. At the sight of the dog which had found us in the forest, and which now, jumping with joy, led us by another route, I melted into tears. Atala’s long hair, the plaything of the morning breezes, frequently threw its golden veil over my eyes, and, bending beneath the burden, I was obliged to lay it down often upon the moss, and sit awhile, to recover my strength. At length we arrived at the spot selected by my grief, and we entered beneath the arch of the bridge. O my son, you should have seen the youthful savage and the old hermit, on their knees in front of each other, in the desert, digging with their hands a grave for the poor girl whose body lay stretched out close at hand, in the dried-up bed of a torrent!

“When our work was terminated, we transported the loved one into her bed of clay. Taking then a little dust in my hand, and observing a fearful silence, I looked upon Atala’s face for the last time. I afterwards spread the earth over that forehead of eighteen springs; gradually I saw the features of my sister disappear, and her graces become hidden beneath the curtain of eternity. ‘Lopez!’ I exclaimed, ‘behold your son burying your daughter!’ And I finished by covering Atala entirely with the earth of sleep.

“We returned to the grotto, where I made the missionary acquainted with the project I had formed of remaining with him. The saint, who wonderfully understood the heart of man, penetrated my thought and the artfulness of my grief. He said: ‘Chactas, son of Outalissi, so long as Atala was alive, I myself desired that you should live with me; but at present your lot is changed; you owe yourself to your country. Believe me, my son, such griefs are not eternal. Sooner or later they wear themselves out, because the heart of man is finite. That is one of our great miseries; we are not even capable of being unhappy for a long time. Return to the Mississippi; go and console your mother, who weeps for you day by day, and who stands in need of your support. Get yourself instructed in Atala’s religion, whenever an opportunity presents itself; and remember that you promised her to be virtuous and Christian. I will watch over her tomb. Go, my son; God, your sister’s soul, and the heart of your old friend, will follow you!’