After having rectified and completed, so far as it has been given me to do, this painting, so original and vigorous, but at the same time so manifestly devoted to a preconceived and systematized idea, I arrive at a conclusion which is applicable not to the sixteenth century only, but to all the epochs of history.
It is that, after the likeness of man himself, each phase of the life of humanity bears in it two souls, and, as it were, two humanities. These are the twins that struggled together in the womb of Rebecca, and on the occasion of which the Lord responded to the troubled mother: "Two nations are in thy womb, and two peoples shall be divided out of thy womb, and one people shall overcome the other." (Gen. xxv. 23.)
Yes, as each one of us bears within him two men, whose unceasing struggle makes up the whole prize and the whole grandeur of the moral life, so in like manner each age of the world bears within it two ages: the one which is the docile instrument of God in the pursuit of truth and the accomplishment of justice; and the other, which paralyzes a part of the living forces of humanity by leading them astray into error, or by putting them to the service of selfishness and evil.
This grand principle of the philosophy of history, due to Christian psychology and the true knowledge by man of himself, has been admirably demonstrated by St. Augustine. One sees, from numerous passages in his writings, how that holy doctor was impressed by the perpetual antagonism and irreconcilable opposition between these two powers, or "cities," (as he terms them,) who always and everywhere are making war upon each other, and to whom each succeeding century serves but as a battle-field.
Quite as much and even more than others, does the sixteenth century present to the look of the observer the militant dualism of these two principles: the one, calling itself the Reformation of the church by disorder and violence; the other, wishing to be, and which has been, the fruitful and pacific renovation of Christian life by humble zeal and true charity. The Protestant Reformation claims the sixteenth century as exclusively its own. I believe I have sufficiently demonstrated that, by its most beautiful and most enduring parts and characteristics, the century belongs neither to Luther nor Calvin; but that the Catholic Church can exhibit it with just pride alike to her friends and her enemies.
From this study, made in the light of this principle, I would also deduce a second conclusion and apply it directly to the times in which we live.
Are we not ourselves witnesses of and actors in a struggle like or analogous to that which, before our day, divided our fathers? Yes, our century, soon to complete the third quarter of its term, itself also is engaged in this struggle between, so to term it, two opposing cities or communities. For some time past, this struggle seems to have entered upon a new phase and into a most sharp crisis.
With whom will victory rest, and which of the two principles shall carry captive the other in its triumph, so as to decide definitively the character of this epoch? That is a secret as yet only known to God, and it is not mine to attempt a reply to so hidden and mysterious a question. What I do know is, that we ought to oppose, with all our might, those who, wishing to bring about a violent retrograde movement in European society, threaten every day to carry us back to the age of Voltaire, and who present to us the saturnalia of '93 as the ideal of liberty, prosperity, and progress!
What I know, again, is, that but yesterday the antagonism between these two opposing powers (des deux cités) was personified in two men, upon whom, if I mistake not, the judgment of posterity has already begun to be made up: One of them, who represents, in all his serene majesty and with impressive authority even in his weakness, the force of right—the august and mild pontiff, whom twenty-two years of revolutions and ingratitude do not dishearten and dissuade from blessing the world, and calling down, by his prayers, upon sorely tried and troubled society, the spirit of wisdom, counsel, and peace; the other, that incorrigible leader of the antichristian army, the man of those bold deeds whose ephemeral triumph aspires to build up right upon force, but which one day, I hope, Italy will disavow in the name of her religious traditions, as well as in the name of her true and sound liberal traditions.
No; this nineteenth century, where by the side of so much that is evil there is so much that is good—so many generous sallies of self-devotion, so many hidden acts of self-sacrifice, so many solid virtues—the century which has given us a Curé of Ars and a Pius IX., an Affre and a Lamoricière, a Lacordaire and a Ravignan, an O'Connell and a Zamoyski, a Jane Jugan—founder of the Little Sisters of the Poor—and those students to whom not only France, but the Catholic world, are indebted for the institution of the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul; this century will never be dragged down to thegemoniae scalae[Footnote 17] of history with the ignominious stamp upon it of having been theEra of Garibaldi. It will triumph over all the obstacles heaped upon its pathway by scepticism, by false science, and by the violence of party-spirit. These adverse forces seem at this hour, it is true, to take up with renewed energy the struggle which for eighteen centuries nothing has interrupted; but by so doing they only serve to show us more clearly our duty, and to urge us on the more strenuously to fulfil it.
[Footnote 17: Thegemoniae scalaewere steps in ancient Rome, near the prison calledTullianum, down which the bodies of those who had been executed in prison were dragged and thrown into the Forum, to be there exposed to the gaze of the multitude. TRANS.]
Translated From The French.
"Legend or history, history or legend, there are truths to be culled from each, my friends," justly remarks that charming writer, Charles Nodier. A beautiful legend creates its own atmosphere of sweet and moral influences, as a flower exhales its perfume. Happy they who can discern and appropriate them! It is in these old and popular legends that oftentimes will be found infused whatever is most beautiful and pure of a nation's poetry and of its faith; they being, as it were, the expression of a people's thought. For a long time, indeed, those simple traditions of the past constituted, as we may say, the literature of the people's social gatherings, and served an important part in keeping firmly cemented the noble principles of family, of union, and of justice, which formed the triple corner-stone of all well-regulated society.When the trembling voice of the old man was heard, all were silent, and went forth after his narrative with souls deeply impressed, on the one hand, by the punishments which struck down the wicked, or, on the other, softly moved by the justly deserved reward that so often formed the gracefuldénouementof some touching ballad.
Some of these legends, coming to us, as they do, from afar, have even preserved the first freshness of the primitive ages. This is, indeed, their greatest charm. Witness this exquisite legend of hospitality, which for a long time delighted the simple hearts of the peasants of France.
In the days of Jesus, there lived on the banks of the Jordan an old man, who might well have been taken for a patriarch of an ancient tribe, whom Death seemed to have forgotten. His name was Philomen, and in his lowly cabin he subsisted solely on the fruit of his little garden, and the milk furnished him by his goat. Now, one quiet evening, some one tapped gently at his door, and an old man, though younger than he, entering, claimed his hospitality.
"Most willingly, my friend. My cottage is not large; my garden yields not much fruit; my goat gives but little milk; but, even so, I share it cheerfully with all who cross my threshold in the name of hospitality. Enter, then, good friend, and rest after the fatigue of the day."
"But," said the traveller hesitatingly, "I am not alone. I have twelve companions with me, overpowered by weariness and parched with thirst, for we have just crossed the desert."
"Let them all come; you are all welcome. All who come hungry to my door are welcome to all I possess."
Then the stranger made a sign to his companions, who were silently standing at the door; and he found that they were Jesus and his twelve apostles, whom St. Peter led on their journey, ever walking in advance, he who was one day to open the gates of Paradise.
They entered, partook of his simple fruit, drank the milk furnished by his goat, and rested for a time on his rough mat. When day dawned, St. Peter said to him, "Before going hence, hast thou no petition to make to us? Hast thou not some wish? Ask whatever thou wilt in return for thy hospitality. All that thou shalt ask shall be granted unto thee."
Then the old man made three wishes, and said: "My sweet Lord, I love life so well, grant me yet five hundred years to live; the days pass so quickly in this peaceful cabin."
"Granted," said a sweet and touching voice, which seemed to come, as it were, from the midst of the group. "What else wilt thou have?"
"My good Lord, I have a beautiful fig-tree in my garden, which bears such fine fruit that they are often stolen from me. Grant me, then, that whoever climbs into it may not be able to descend until I give him leave; thus I will ensnare the thief."
Jesus smiled as he heard this quaint wish, and, bowing his fair head, said: "It shall be done as thou wishest. Hast thou more still to ask? Speak freely, for thou seest that I grant thee all that thou hast wished for."
"My dearly loved Lord, I have a wooden chair, on which my friends sit when they come sometimes at night to talk with me. Grant me that whoever rests on it may not be able to rise, and must remain there as long as I shall please."
And Jesus approved again, because he loved this guileless old man, who was so simple of heart and made such modest wishes. St. Peter then thanked him, and went forth, followed by his twelve companions, among whom Jesus loved to conceal himself.
Years passed by one after the other. One century passed, then another, until finally the last day of the last year arrived, and the venerable Philomen saw the grim traveller Death enter his cabin, who said to him:
"Come along, old man! Thou hast eluded me this long time—thanks to an especial favor. Thou hast reached the years of Mathusale. If every one lived as thou hast, I would have no work on earth. Come along, quick. Regulate thy affairs, bid farewell to thy garden, because, with the setting sun, I lead thee forth with me."
"O my good dame! if you would but pity me! Ah! yes, if you would have some pity, you would let me live some few days more—onlyoneday, then. It is so good to live!"
"No, nothing; not one moment more," replied the sinister guest in a harsh and dry voice.
"At least, then, let me once more eat of the fruit of my fig-tree. I have loved them so well; it will be a last consolation to me. But I am too weak to shake the tree, and too old to reach those highest branches. Do you go up, and gather me that fig up there; it is so thoroughly ripened by our eastern sun."
"Most willingly. See, old man, I will show thee that Death is not as surly as 'tis said she is."
Then placing her hour-glass and scythe at the foot of the tree, the unlucky dame climbed up; but scarcely had she pressed her foot upon the branches, than, lo! they sprang up as if from her tread, closed around and so shut in the impudent wight that she could not even stir. She called; she cried aloud, then moaned and supplicated. Philomen renewed his humble petition, but she persistently refused.
"Very well! I only want five hundred years, five centuries more!" And raising his head menacingly, he took up the hour-glass and scythe, quietly returning to his cabin. Every morning he returned, imposed his conditions of release, which Death, becoming more and more irritated, as obstinately refused. Then he would go back patiently to his cabin. On the third night he saw a dark figure, with glittering eyes, prowling round the foot of his tree. He listened, and heard this conversation. Now, you must know that this was the Devil, who came to make his complaint: "What dost thou there, thou idler? Thou no longer sendest me work to do. I am ruined by thy delay."
But the terrible accomplice could do nothing; because he who binds on earth as he binds in heaven had bound her so firmly that Death herself could not undo it.
Next morning, after a fresh dispute with Philomen, she yielded, and consented to let him have five hundred years added to his life. But as Death is treacherous, he sought his tablet, and before she came down he made her sign the treaty. After that he set her free, restored her baggage, her hour-glass and scythe, and let her depart, threatening and raging as she went, vowing to cut off, at the very moment of the promised time, the life of one who had so pitilessly ridiculed her.
Years again passed by, one by one; the centuries were accomplished; and yet Philomen did not grow old. Ten times had he seen pass by that unhappy pilgrim condemned to wander for ever round the world. Each journey marked one century as this wandering Jew crossed the Jordan, near his little cabin, on the road to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha, he might sue for mercy on the very spot where the blood had been shed of him whom he had despised! The centuries had all now passed, and one evening, when Philomen sat quietly by his hearth, the dark traveller entered once more. Midnight was the fatal hour. She rudely accosted him: "Come along now, old man! Thou shouldst long since have been in thy grave. No mercy for thee this time! Thou wouldst but mock me again, could I show pity for thee. Oh! how tired I am; so tired, so worried! To-day I have killed nearly three thousand Christians, then a whole race of infidels, and decimated an entire kingdom, with my well-tempered weapon, pestilence. Rich and poor, prelates and priests, I have upturned everything—everything. But I am horribly tired, and while awaiting the expiration of thy time, I will rest me a little here." Saying these words, she threw herself on the wooden stool that Jesus had gifted with supernatural powers. Then she began to jeer at the old man, speaking to him of the joys of life, of youth, of love, etc. When midnight tolled, she attempted to rise from the chair and spring at Philomen, who had wisely placed himself beyond her reach; but, nailed down upon this wonderful seat, she could not move! In vain she shook her glass, made deadly thrusts with her scythe! Then the good man went to his hearth, and kindled such a fire as nearly roasted her even at that distance. Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces, the handle of her scythe was nearly reduced to ashes, when, after a most vigorous dispute, she granted Philomen a new lease of five centuries more of life!
Now, this was, as you know, the second time she had been caught in the same trap, and more enraged than ever, she went forth crying aloud that she should not be caught again; and good old Philomen lived on through the long years obtained by this trick. But everything of time must end; everything falls; everything dies; everything passes away. And these five centuries, too, were gathered with all that had gone before. But Death had learned prudence now, and did not venture near, sending a shaft from afar that pierced the good old man and sent him at once from life to death. But as he had lived so innocently and ever observed the laws of holy hospitality, God had a place prepared for him in his own beautiful Paradise.
Now, it happened that before going there our Philomen wished to see, just a little, what was going on in hell. Since the night that he overheard the dispute between Death and Satan, he had cherished a great desire to do so. He quietly entered the abode of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would have seized upon him, Philomen cried out: "Stop there! I am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of the elect, and come here only to see if all that is said of thee in the kingdom of the living be true. Lead me everywhere!" When, conducted by his dark guide, he had visited the bowels of the earth and witnessed all manners of torture, he proposed to him to stake his own soul against some of the most fearfully punished among the damned who were uttering most terrific shrieks. The dice were brought, and shaken by each in turn.Philomen gained twelve souls; then Satan became fearful he might lose all with this mysterious partner, and refused to play on. Philomen then took the road to Paradise, and, reaching the gate, tapped gently. Saint Peter came to open for him. He at once recognized him, and, smiling, said, "Pass on, we have expected you all this time." "Oh! very well," said the acute old man, "but, like you formerly, I am not travelling alone: I have with me twelve companions, who claim your hospitality." "This is but fair," said St. Peter, once more smiling, "so come in." And so Philomen and his twelve ransomed souls all went to join the throng of the blessed who will for ever sing the glory of God.
It is thus the good old man lived fifteen hundred years, and practised the holy rules of hospitality. And it is thus that our pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse entrance to those who knocked at their doors, imploring shelter; and thus we, too, see how religiously and beautifully hospitality was practised in the former ages, in the chateaux of the rich as well as in the more humble dwellings of the poor.
If he could stand against me now,With other eyes and an alien brow;If I could break the spell that stillMy will entangles with his will;If he could laugh the while I weep;If I could wake, and he asleep;Could I uncoil the mysteryWhere he is I, and I am he:Then might I hide me from his face;Or strike him down within his place;And so, at last, my life be freeFrom his tormenting company.But no; his blush my forehead burns,His the pallor my pale cheek turns,And when he sees the thing I do,'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through.When I would hate this tiresome mate,He teaches me the way to hate;When from his presence I would flee,He, taunting, flies along with me.But best I like his baser slips,His angry eyes and impious lips;For then, half-wrenched away from me,Almost it seems he leaves me free.'Tis then I raise aloft my cry:St. Michael, to the rescue fly!'Tis then almost my foot is prestUpon the monster's struggling breast;'Tis then I feel my shoulders glowWith hints of wings they yet may know,And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet,Whose chains are falling to their feet!'Tis then I nestle, safely boundBy wings of angels circling round,And feel the drawing of the cordThat holds my anchor in the Lord!And most I fear when cunninglyHe crouches, hidden from mine eye,And breathes into the pipes whose keysHold all my spirit's melodies.When I his hiding would betray,He holds the lamp, and leads the way;When I would break his hardihood,He wields the lash that draws my blood.So deep his guile, I scarce can knowFrom whose intent my actions grow;So brightly do his tear-drops shine,I oft mistake his grief for mine.When veiled emotions, swift and strong,Run all my trembling nerves along,If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swellUpheaves my breast, I cannot tell.When friendship frowns, I turn to seeMy foe's eyes beaming tenderly;When friendship harshly speaks, I hearHis dulcet tones wooing mine ear.When God is slow to hear my cry,Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh!When thirst has parched my vitals up,His hand presents the sparkling cup.If I would reason with my foe,He lets the high-piled logic grow,And lowly bends, in humble guise,With silent mouth and drooping eyes.But as, o'erflowing with content,I view my stately monument,Nor guess the thoughts lie side to sideIn subtle, weak cement of pride,With sudden flash of mocking witHe plays about and shatters it,Or some volcanic underthrustLevels my structure with the dust.And straight, ere I can speak for pain,He builds my chang'd thoughts up againIn airy stretches, bright or dim,With flower-woven cornice-rim;With domes that melt into the sky,Like piles of snowy cumuli;And pinnacles where fancy seesStars cling and swim, like golden bees;With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tipsThe sunset kisses with red lips;And cloudy-curtained windows bright,Whence pours a flood of rosy light.And with it come bewildering tunes,Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes;And, calling sweet and calling clear,The voice that most I long to hear.But if, lured by this temple fair,Dazzled, I seek to enter there,It clings, and burns with lurid light,Like Glauce's bridal-garment white.Then since my foe so potent is,And I so weak, lest I be his,Some friend I need, stronger than he,To stand and keep my heart for me.And since, though driven forth with pain,Ever he stealeth back again,More need have I of heavenly lightTo make his lurking-places bright.And since I stand unarmed, indeed,Before his wrath, great is the needI should invoke, with prayerful word,Saint Michael of the fiery sword!That night and day I still should clingBeneath my hovering angel's wing;And ne'er let slip the golden cordThat holds my anchor in the Lord!
If he could stand against me now,With other eyes and an alien brow;If I could break the spell that stillMy will entangles with his will;If he could laugh the while I weep;If I could wake, and he asleep;Could I uncoil the mysteryWhere he is I, and I am he:Then might I hide me from his face;Or strike him down within his place;And so, at last, my life be freeFrom his tormenting company.But no; his blush my forehead burns,His the pallor my pale cheek turns,And when he sees the thing I do,'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through.When I would hate this tiresome mate,He teaches me the way to hate;When from his presence I would flee,He, taunting, flies along with me.But best I like his baser slips,His angry eyes and impious lips;For then, half-wrenched away from me,Almost it seems he leaves me free.'Tis then I raise aloft my cry:St. Michael, to the rescue fly!'Tis then almost my foot is prestUpon the monster's struggling breast;'Tis then I feel my shoulders glowWith hints of wings they yet may know,And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet,Whose chains are falling to their feet!'Tis then I nestle, safely boundBy wings of angels circling round,And feel the drawing of the cordThat holds my anchor in the Lord!And most I fear when cunninglyHe crouches, hidden from mine eye,And breathes into the pipes whose keysHold all my spirit's melodies.When I his hiding would betray,He holds the lamp, and leads the way;When I would break his hardihood,He wields the lash that draws my blood.So deep his guile, I scarce can knowFrom whose intent my actions grow;So brightly do his tear-drops shine,I oft mistake his grief for mine.When veiled emotions, swift and strong,Run all my trembling nerves along,If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swellUpheaves my breast, I cannot tell.When friendship frowns, I turn to seeMy foe's eyes beaming tenderly;When friendship harshly speaks, I hearHis dulcet tones wooing mine ear.When God is slow to hear my cry,Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh!When thirst has parched my vitals up,His hand presents the sparkling cup.If I would reason with my foe,He lets the high-piled logic grow,And lowly bends, in humble guise,With silent mouth and drooping eyes.But as, o'erflowing with content,I view my stately monument,Nor guess the thoughts lie side to sideIn subtle, weak cement of pride,With sudden flash of mocking witHe plays about and shatters it,Or some volcanic underthrustLevels my structure with the dust.And straight, ere I can speak for pain,He builds my chang'd thoughts up againIn airy stretches, bright or dim,With flower-woven cornice-rim;With domes that melt into the sky,Like piles of snowy cumuli;And pinnacles where fancy seesStars cling and swim, like golden bees;With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tipsThe sunset kisses with red lips;And cloudy-curtained windows bright,Whence pours a flood of rosy light.And with it come bewildering tunes,Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes;And, calling sweet and calling clear,The voice that most I long to hear.But if, lured by this temple fair,Dazzled, I seek to enter there,It clings, and burns with lurid light,Like Glauce's bridal-garment white.Then since my foe so potent is,And I so weak, lest I be his,Some friend I need, stronger than he,To stand and keep my heart for me.And since, though driven forth with pain,Ever he stealeth back again,More need have I of heavenly lightTo make his lurking-places bright.And since I stand unarmed, indeed,Before his wrath, great is the needI should invoke, with prayerful word,Saint Michael of the fiery sword!That night and day I still should clingBeneath my hovering angel's wing;And ne'er let slip the golden cordThat holds my anchor in the Lord!
Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.
By Alexandre De Bar.Concluded.
"You will not be surprised to see that Flaminia was ignorant of the veritable nature of the affection that she felt for Albert; but you will be astonished to learn that he shared entirely her ignorance, although he had seen much of life. Yet think that it is to know nothing of the most impetuous passion of our soul if we have only learnt the theory; for as to know the world we must have lived in the world, so to know the heart one must have lived by the heart; if such has not been one's experience, all is obscurity and one takes a false route. Now, Albert had lived out of the world, and had not yet loved aught but a glorious renown. Besides all this, if you will look back upon that fair time of youth which has now fled from us, you will remember that the descent which allures us is often so gentle that we follow it without attention; until the day when an unforeseen event, and often even an unimportant circumstance, arouses us, and permits us by a glance to see the road that we have already glided down. Albert, too, descended that charming declivity, gathering the perfumed flowers which hung on the shrubs, and intoxicating himself with perfumes, with light and songs. His soul happy, his heart pure, dazzled by the celestial gleams which irradiated him, how could he see where all this was conducting him? This is how he first became aware of his position: There was at the bottom of the gardens of the palace Balbo a long alley, that was covered by the thick foliage of the vines, whose stems, black and distorted, clung to and spread up the stone pillars on each side. Here and there the jasmines displayed the silver stars of their flowers, which shone out of the deep shade of their leaves. From that alley the eye gazed upon a vast horizon, bounded by two large sheets of azure, the sea and sky, between which the mountains lifted their imposing masses, gilded by the rays of the setting sun. It was in this perfumed gallery that, each evening, Albert was conducted by his hosts, as soon as the refreshing breeze of evening blew across the sea.Often it was the arm of Flaminia that aided his yet feeble steps in this exercise. How many charming hours thus passed for them during the calm of those evenings, when the noises of the day ceased one by one, until the ear brought but the sound of the whispering breeze, pure and sweet as the breath of a sleeping child, to the touched and softened soul! One day, the fever seemed struggling to regain its power over the form of Albert; his wounds were scarcely closed, and the emotions that he experienced reacted most powerfully upon his health. Sir, man is born for suffering, and not for joy. His body can support an immense weight of sorrow and pain without giving way; but it is worn out by pleasure, and joy kills it. Giovanni, uneasy about his friend, strictly forbade his leaving his room, and that evening the family went alone to their walk. Albert returned sadly to the saloon, become more desert for him than the sands of Sahara, in company with Giovanni, who, in the hope of distracting his loneliness, talked to him of battles and of victories; although had he known how far the mind of his friend was from all such subjects, he might have given himself far less trouble with an equally good result. Little caring then for glory, Albert's heart was with Flaminia under the perfumed shade of the vines and jasmines. At their return, Flaminia held out to Albert a spray of jasmine covered with flowers, saying to him: 'You like these flowers, so I bring you them.' When Albert had retired to his own room, he took this bouquet and covered it with kisses: he listened with delight to the voice that issued from those flowers and that told him such sweet words. A flame seemed to mingle with their perfumes that carried a new life to his heart; but it carried there also the light. Another voice made itself heard and showed him the truth, and he fell from the regions of happiness where his dream had carried him, into the implacable reality; for he then discovered with what sort of an affection they were both animated. And he a knight of the Order of Malta! If absence could have given the repose of forgetfulness to Flaminia, Albert would not have hesitated to have left her at once. But if there exist attachments so slight that the simple absence of their object is sufficient to cure them, so there are others which may be likened to those long-lived plants that extend their roots in all directions and all depths; so that one cannot tear them from the soil in which they have once gained a hold. Such affections as these resist all human efforts, and absence but serves to render their wounds more poignant and more lively. Albert understood too well the character of Flaminia not to know that their destiny was irrevocably fixed. Divine Providence seemed to have drawn them together in this world but to make them merit, by a sacrifice of their affections, the happiness that was destined for them in the next. The ordinary remedy of absence would have been useless in their case. Albert understood this, and the idea of getting himself absolved from his vows of knighthood came to him. This thought he repelled. It was not that he believed the success of such a measure impossible, but that he saw in it a desertion of his duty; he felt that his conscience would not be in tranquillity, and that it would perpetually remind him that one cannot thus break his engagements with God. He knelt down piously, and that which passed in his soul during that cruel night, and that which he suffered during that struggle, ever rested a secret between him and God.For you, scholar of the eighteenth century, it is an unpardonable weakness that of placing one's self humbly on one's knees before the Divine Majesty. Yet, thanks only to this weakness, Albert, in all the force of youth, resisted without failing before the most impetuous, the most irresistible of all our passions, and came forth victorious out of the rudest combat that he had ever given. He loved, passionately, Flaminia: Flaminia, beautiful, rich in heart and soul, full of all the merits, of all the virtues, that can entrance at the same time the heart, the soul, and the senses; Flaminia, who loved him with an equal ardor, and who confided herself to him absolutely and without reserve. He had over her an absolute power, and, far from using it, he subdued his passion, and, directing by a determined will the tumultuous waves of his heart, he traversed without shipwreck those tempests that are more ungovernable than the rage of the ocean. The strength with which he aided himself was that same weakness which makes you smile. Had he trusted only in himself, he would have fallen, because he was but a man; he implored the aid of him who is strength itself, and he vanquished. Faith was for him what the fortifying oil was with which the athletes rubbed their bodies before the struggle; and, not content with aiding him to overcome himself, she knew also how to dry his tears by the blessed aid of hope. For, at the same time that she showed him in all their barrenness the painful paths of duty, she let him see at the end of the journey, and as the price of his victory, that eternal union of souls which time itself is powerless to break. I know you to be prejudiced, my dear Frederick, on all that which touches religious questions; but, at the same time, I know you to be of too good faith not to acknowledge that there is truly something superhuman in a doctrine which gives such victories; neither shall I insist on the detail of the events which occurred during the six months that Albert yet passed by the side of Flaminia, for they would have no value in my recital. It would not, perhaps, be without a certain interest to follow the developments of that affection, so completely purified from all earthly thoughts; but, as there are certain situations where a look, a smile, takes the proportions of a veritable event, it would be necessary for me to enter into the very slightest points of its psychology. On learning the gravity of the wounds of his brother, Adolph Shraun had come in all haste to the palace Balbo. Antonia failed not to produce in his heart an impression as profound, but more decisive, than that which Flaminia had already aroused in his brother. As he knew that the project of an alliance would be joyfully received in the two families, Antonia was not long without knowing the sentiments which she had enkindled. The frank, impetuous, and lively character of Adolph had already predisposed her in his favor, so that she quickly shared the same sentiments and hopes as himself. Joy renders us much more disposed to confidence than does sorrow, and Antonia did not fail to feel the need of confiding to some one both her secret and her love. This need caused her to seek in Flaminia for sympathy, and the reciprocal confidence which was due between these two young hearts, so well formed to love and sustain each other, was then established for ever. Thenaïveconfidences of her sister enlightened Flaminia on her own sentiments, and carried into her soul the light that she had but caught glimpses of before.She then understood the nature of her destiny, and, like Albert, she accepted it without a murmur. She took refuge in the consoling thought that their union would be accomplished in those celestial regions where only reign the eternal laws of love; and thus placing her hopes upon a sure basis, she resigned herself to her cross, prayed, and awaited God's will. I think that I have quite sufficiently instructed you upon the state of these noble hearts; so that I can arrive at that which is the object of my story—namely, to tell you how it was that my great-grandfather, Adolph, saw, one day, two souls." The Baron Frederick could not here repress a deep sigh of satisfaction, and the count, who noticed nothing, continued: "The hours, which their separation was soon to render so long, passed away with a cruel rapidity; the moment approached when Albert ought to leave Flaminia, that he might report himself to the Grand-Master Coroner, who was then preparing an expedition directed against Napoli of Roumania, and the few days they had yet to pass together made them feel still more strongly the happiness that they were about to lose. Giovanni had announced his intention of following his friend, and their approaching departure had cast a shade of sadness on that household, lately so joyous that it had seemed a nest hidden from the world, where alone happiness dwelt. One evening, when, according to their usual custom, they were all grouped together under the shadow of the vines, the conversation took a melancholy form, and the fear that reigned in all their hearts expressed itself by words: they were talking of death. 'Come, come,' said the Prince Balbo, after a few minutes of discussion on the subject, 'what is the use of these fears? When duty calls, we must obey, not only by action, but in heart, and without regret. Besides,' he added, 'the hour of our death is not in our own choice; and none are protected from his stroke when God calls the angel of death and says, "Strike!" I have, like you, my children, incurred many perils in my life, and yet sixty winters have whitened my head; and how many have I not seen of those whose life was peaceable—of flourishing youth—sheltered from all harm, who have been struck down before their time! Let us confide in God, my children; let us resign ourselves beforehand to his will, which is always just, always good—since he is eternally just and good.'
"Flaminia, crushed by the grief of a separation that snatched away from her for ever the half of her soul, had, until these last words of her father, remained silent; but then, lifting her head and leaning slightly toward Albert, said to him in a tone that was audible only to him, 'Yes, happily, one dies at every age.'
"Albert understood her thought.
"'Do you not, then, think on the grief of those who are left?' answered he, in a voice of low reproach.
"'Oh!' replied she quickly, 'if I die first, I will come to seek you.'
"Before that cry, uttered from the heart, before that affection that felt itself sufficiently strong to vanquish the laws of death, sufficiently holy that God should grant it a miracle, silence could be the only answer; but a glance of Albert replaced with all the eloquence of the heart the powerless word. On the morrow of that evening, Albert left Flaminia. I will not paint to you their affliction. It was immense. But a hope that is too ill known in this, our century, sustained their courage and energy.At the moment of an adieu so cruel to both, not a tear fell from their eyes. That they did flow, and most abundantly and bitterly, there is no doubt, since grief never loses its rights, and human force, even the best sustained, has its bounds; but they flowed in silence and in secret, and he who was their only witness treasured them up. The days, the months, the seasons passed on; three times the trees had lost their foliage and renewed their leaves; three times had the alley of vines seen the winter's sun pass unobstructed through their naked branches. All had changed around them; their hearts alone changed not. The renown of Albert grew each day, with his valor, more brilliant; but it was no longer renown that he sought, it was a death that would have opened before him that wide field where impatience dies away before the eternity that then commences; death that he desired because it would have brought him near to Flaminia; and death would not listen to him. In vain did he fling himself into the thickest of the danger; in vain did he accomplish prodigies that had caused the bravest to turn pale; he passed through all these without even a wound. Although he had but very rare occasion of knowing what passed in that cherished spot where ever rested his heart and thoughts, still he doubted not but that the tenderness of Flaminia was as lively and as deep as his own; nor did he deceive himself. Flaminia had refused under different pretexts the offers that had been made to her; and notwithstanding all the desire they felt to establish their daughter, I would dare to affirm that it was not without a certain secret joy that the Prince and Princess Balbo looked upon the prospect before them, the hope of keeping her always by their side. Do not blame them too quickly, my friend; for it is a painful thought that during twenty years a child should have been the object of your affection and of your solicitude; that she should have taken the best and largest portion of your life and heart, in order that, one day, a stranger, under the title of a new-born love, should carry away from you all your joy; leaving you to see your much-loved child place herself under another protection than thine, and quit without regret the house where she leaves a blank that nothing else can fill.
"I had almost forgotten to tell you that Antonia had married Adolphus, and lived happy and peaceful in this same castle where we now are finishing our career. Albert, tired of war, and freed from all further illusions of glory, had come, after having refused the highest distinctions of the order, to seek some repose by his brother's side. Ambition was dead in him; his soul, that had been so severely proved, had need of recollection and calm; and he found this by the side of him whom, after Flaminia, he loved the best in the world. Moreover, although he himself scarcely ever spoke of her who filled all his thoughts, still he felt a lively pleasure in hearing her spoken of so frequently by his brother and his wife. Albert was then calm and composed; he marched courageously forward in life as does the traveller who climbs with difficulty the bare paths of a desolate and arid mountain, sure to find in the evening the joys of the fireside and the shelter of his friends' roof.
"Three years, day by day, had passed away since the moment when Albert had quitted the palace Balbo. It was the evening; Adolphus and Antonia were by his side, in this same saloon where we now are.Contrary to his custom, Albert, for whom that anniversary was a day of mourning, felt his soul full of a penetrating and serene joy, when ten o'clock sounded from that same clock that—"
Here the recital of the count was interrupted by the sound of the clock which resounded in the vast apartment. One would have said that it affirmed the words of the count, by repeating the ten strokes which it had caused to be heard at the moment of which he was speaking. That metallic sound seemed to have in it an unusual power; there was something solemn in its grave slowness; in the deep noise of the wheel drawn round by the falling lead, which accompanied with its heavy base the more piercing sound that traversed the thick oaken case. Both the count and his friends were seized by an impression which they did not seek to dispel or resist. Both instinctively uncovered their heads, and while the count waited almost respectfully until its last vibrations were lost in silence, the baron, more moved than perhaps he was willing to show, placed on the table his pipe, yet fully charged with tobacco, and, an event that certainly had not occurred with him once in ten years, he left that inseparable companion of his leisure hours, without touching the tankard that in vain offered to his gaze its brown and golden tints.
"Ten o'clock had then sounded," continued the count, "and that being the moment when each was accustomed to separate for their bedrooms, Adolphus had got up and looked at his brother, who had been for some time previous motionless and in an attitude of profound attention, resembling a man who follows with his ear the scarcely perceptible sounds of some distant harmony.
"All is finished,' murmured Albert at the moment when the clock had finished striking; and, placing his hand on his brother's arm, 'Remain here,' said he, and turning toward Antonia: 'Pardon me, my sister, if I thus detain Adolphus; but I have need of him to-night, and to-morrow it will be too late.'
"'You frighten me,' answered Antonia; 'what then is going to happen?'
"'You will know very soon,' replied Albert. 'Poor sister! your eyes will shed many a tear; but they will be dried by the thought that the motive which causes them to flow assures for ever the happiness of those who are dear to you.'
"He then kissed her forehead, and, followed by Adolphus, went to his own room, the same which is now yours, dear Frederick.
"'What is the matter with you?' asked Adolphus of his brother, as soon as they were alone.
"'I am sad and happy at the same time; sad because I am going to leave you alone for a short time; but very happy because I go at last to rejoin her, and for this time not again to leave her!'
"'Explain yourself; why do you leave us?'
"'Listen: for that you may understand what is going to happen here this night, it is necessary that you should know what I have felt and suffered during the past three years.'
"Albert then told him of all that which I have just described to you; of his love for Flaminia, of his struggles, and of his victory, over himself; and Adolphus, who already knew through his wife of what Flaminia had suffered, saw with astonishment that all which had been felt by the one had also been by the other, in the same degree and at the same moment. Never had the most profound sympathy established between two beings a more complete identity of sensations and thoughts; near or separated, their two existences had formed but a single life, as their two souls seemed to form but a single soul. When Albert had finished his recital, he added:
"'"If I die first, I shall come to seek you!" Flaminia had told me, and now Flaminia has just died. Do not ask me how I know it, for I am ignorant myself of the reason; but I do know it. I have followed, moment by moment, the progress of her death; at the end I have felt her die, and now I await her coming. In a few instants more she will be here, and we shall depart together for that blessed home where nothing can again oppose itself to our eternal union. It seems to me that already I feel my soul disengaging itself from its bonds; I no longer regard the sufferings that I have endured, except with that sentiment of thankfulness and joy which one feels at the recollection of perils that have been overcome; my past sufferings have no longer their sting, my tears no longer their bitterness! At the solemn moment when I am about to quit a life that has been most painful in its trials for the happy life of triumph, I have wished to have you by my side, that I might say to you my last farewell in this world, and press for a last time your hand before going to await you in eternity.' I leave you to think, my dear Frederick, what must have been the astonishment of Adolphus at receiving this strange confidence.
"'I have too much confidence in the firmness of your reason,' he answered to his brother after a short silence, 'to believe that it has become weakened, were it only for a moment; but do you not fear to have been the victim of some mental illusion, and to have taken for a reality that which was in reality only the dream of your heart exalted by sadness and solitude?'
"'I understand your incredulity,' answered Albert, 'for I have myself shared in it. Each time that the recollection of that promise presented itself to my memory, my reason revolted against such an evident impossibility; the soul cannot again appear in this world once that it has quitted it, thought I, and yet I counted on the premise even while I disbelieved its possibility. Only an hour ago, I yet doubted, but now that doubt has passed away, since the moment when her dying voice sounded in my ears uttering her last words: "You have waited for me; I am here!" Then I understood that it was not merely the strong desire of a soul overexcited by the desire to be reunited to the second half of itself that I felt, but that it was really a mysterious warning; and the accomplishment of a promise that God himself had blessed, and that he permitted to be fulfilled.'
"'But how to explain this miracle?'
"'I am unable to explain it; I tell you what is about to happen, that is all that I can do. In a few minutes Flaminia will be present, and in seeing her you will believe me. For the rest,' added he, after a moment's pause, 'all is a mystery in this world, but the grand end of all is sufficient to enlighten our paths. Do you think that it would be more easy for me to tell you how it is that, notwithstanding we have never said anything to each other that could divulge the mutual state of our hearts, we have yet, in spite of our separation, lived by the same life and the same love? That you cannot believe me, I know, but only wait a little time, and you shall see.'