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?
“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!’
“Such was the language of the man of the rock. His authority was too great, his wisdom too profound, not to be obeyed. The next morning I quitted my venerable host, who, pressing me to his heart, gave me his last counsels, his last blessing, and his last tears. I went to the grave, and was surprised at finding a little cross placed over the body, as one may sometimes perceive the mast of a vessel that has been wrecked. I judged that the hermit had been there to pray during the night. This mark of friendship and religion caused me to shed an abundance of tears. I was almost tempted to re-open the tomb, in order to gaze once more upon my well-beloved; a religious fear withheld me. I sat down upon the recently-disturbed ground. With an elbow resting upon my knees, and my head supported by my hand, I remained buried for a time in a most bitter reverie. O RenÉ! it was then that, for the first time, I made serious reflections upon the vanity of our days, and the still greater vanity of our projects. Ah! my child, who has not made such reflections? I am no longer but an old stag whitened by the winters; my years compete with those of the crow. Well, in spite of the number of days accumulated over my head, in spite of such a long experience of life, I have not yet met with a man who had not been deceived in his dreams of happiness, nor a heart that did not contain a hidden wound.
“Having thus seen the sun rise and set upon this place of grief, the next day, at the first cry of the stork, I prepared to leave the sacred sepulchre. I quitted it as the spot from which I desired to start upon a career of virtue. Three times I evoked the soul of Atala; three times the genius of the desert responded to my cries beneath the funeral arch. I afterwards saluted the East, and then I perceived, amongst the mountain paths in the distance, the friendly hermit going to the cabin of some unhappy creature. Falling upon my knees, and ardently embracing Atala’s grave, I exclaimed, ‘Sleep in peace in this foreign land, too unfortunate maiden! In return for your love, for your exile, and for your death, you are going to be abandoned, even by Chactas!’ Then, shedding a flood of tears, I separated from Lopez’s daughter, and, tearing myself from the spot, left at the foot of nature’s monument a monument still more august—the humble Tomb of Virtue.”
103s
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104s
FULL-SIZE -- Medium-Size
