{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_1940/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_1940","id":"gutenberg_1940","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1940","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","French fiction -- Translations into English"],"text":"Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny\n\n\n\n\n\nCHRIST IN FLANDERS\n\n\nBy Honore De Balzac\n\n\n\nTranslated by Ellen Marriage\n\n\n\n\n                             DEDICATION\n\n  To Marcelline Desbordes-Valmore, a daughter of Flanders, of whom\n  these modern days may well be proud, I dedicate this quaint legend\n  of old Flanders.\n\n  DE BALZAC.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHRIST IN FLANDERS\n\n\nAt a dimly remote period in the history of Brabant, communication\nbetween the Island of Cadzand and the Flemish coast was kept up by a\nboat which carried passengers from one shore to the other. Middelburg,\nthe chief town in the island, destined to become so famous in the annals\nof Protestantism, at that time only numbered some two or three hundred\nhearths; and the prosperous town of Ostend was an obscure haven, a\nstraggling village where pirates dwelt in security among the fishermen\nand the few poor merchants who lived in the place.\n\nBut though the town of Ostend consisted altogether of some score of\nhouses and three hundred cottages, huts or hovels built of the driftwood\nof wrecked vessels, it nevertheless rejoiced in the possession of a\ngovernor, a garrison, a forked gibbet, a convent, and a burgomaster, in\nshort, in all the institutions of an advanced civilization.\n\nWho reigned over Brabant and Flanders in those days? On this point\ntradition is mute. Let us confess at once that this tale savors strongly\nof the marvelous, the mysterious, and the vague; elements which Flemish\nnarrators have infused into a story retailed so often to gatherings of\nworkers on winter evenings, that the details vary widely in poetic merit\nand incongruity of detail. It has been told by every generation, handed\ndown by grandames at the fireside, narrated night and day, and the\nchronicle has changed its complexion somewhat in every age. Like some\ngreat building that has suffered many modifications of successive\ngenerations of architects, some sombre weather-beaten pile, the delight\nof a poet, the story would drive the commentator and the industrious\nwinnower of words, facts, and dates to despair. The narrator believes in\nit, as all superstitious minds in Flanders likewise believe; and is not\na whit wiser nor more credulous than his audience. But as it would be\nimpossible to make a harmony of all the different renderings, here\nare the outlines of the story; stripped, it may be, of its picturesque\nquaintness, but with all its bold disregard of historical truth, and its\nmoral teachings approved by religion--a myth, the blossom of imaginative\nfancy; an allegory that the wise may interpret to suit themselves. To\neach his own pasturage, and the task of separating the tares from the\nwheat.\n\n\n\nThe boat that served to carry passengers from the Island of Cadzand to\nOstend was upon the point of departure; but before the skipper loosed\nthe chain that secured the shallop to the little jetty, where people\nembarked, he blew a horn several times, to warn late lingerers, this\nbeing his last journey that day. Night was falling. It was scarcely\npossible to see the coast of Flanders by the dying fires of the sunset,\nor to make out upon the hither shore any forms of belated passengers\nhurrying along the wall of the dykes that surrounded the open country,\nor among the tall reeds of the marshes. The boat was full.\n\n\"What are you waiting for? Let us put off!\" they cried.\n\nJust at that moment a man appeared a few paces from the jetty, to\nthe surprise of the skipper, who had heard no sound of footsteps. The\ntraveler seemed to have sprung up from the earth, like a peasant who had\nlaid himself down on the ground to wait till the boat should start, and\nhad slept till the sound of the horn awakened him. Was he a thief? or\nsome one belonging to the custom-house or the police?\n\nAs soon as the man appeared on the jetty to which the boat was moored,\nseven persons who were standing in the stern of the shallop hastened to\nsit down on the benches, so as to leave no room for the newcomer. It was\nthe swift and instinctive working of the aristocratic spirit, an impulse\nof exclusiveness that comes from the rich man's heart. Four of the seven\npersonages belonged to the most aristocratic families in Flanders. First\namong them was a young knight with two beautiful greyhounds; his long\nhair flowed from beneath a jeweled cap; he clanked his gilded spurs,\ncurled the ends of his moustache from time to time with a swaggering\ngrace, and looked round disdainfully on the rest of the crew. A\nhigh-born damsel, with a falcon on her wrist, only spoke with her mother\nor with a churchman of high rank, who was evidently a relation. All\nthese persons made a great deal of noise, and talked among themselves as\nthough there were no one else in the boat; yet close beside them sat\na man of great importance in the district, a stout burgher of Bruges,\nwrapped about with a vast cloak. His servant, armed to the teeth, had\nset down a couple of bags filled with gold at his side. Next to the\nburgher came a man of learning, a doctor of the University of Louvain,\nwho was traveling with his clerk. This little group of folk, who looked\ncontemptuously at each other, was separated from the passengers in the\nforward part of the boat by the bench of rowers.\n\nThe belated traveler glanced about him as he stepped on board, saw that\nthere was no room for him in the stern, and went to the bows in quest\nof a seat. They were all poor people there. At first sight of the\nbareheaded man in the brown camlet coat and trunk-hose, and plain stiff\nlinen collar, they noticed that he wore no ornaments, carried no cap nor\nbonnet in his hand, and had neither sword nor purse at his girdle, and\none and all took him for a burgomaster sure of his authority, a worthy\nand kindly burgomaster like so many a Fleming of old times, whose homely\nfeatures and characters have been immortalized by Flemish painters.\nThe poorer passengers, therefore, received him with demonstrations of\nrespect that provoked scornful tittering at the other end of the boat.\nAn old soldier, inured to toil and hardship, gave up his place on the\nbench to the newcomer, and seated himself on the edge of the vessel,\nkeeping his balance by planting his feet against one of those traverse\nbeams, like the backbone of a fish, that hold the planks of a boat\ntogether. A young mother, who bore her baby in her arms, and seemed to\nbelong to the working class in Ostend, moved aside to make room for the\nstranger. There was neither servility nor scorn in her manner of doing\nthis; it was a simple sign of the goodwill by which the poor, who know\nby long experience the value of a service and the warmth that fellowship\nbrings, give expression to the open-heartedness and the natural impulses\nof their souls; so artlessly do they reveal their good qualities and\ntheir defects. The stranger thanked her by a gesture full of gracious\ndignity, and took his place between the young mother and the old\nsoldier. Immediately behind him sat a peasant and his son, a boy ten\nyears of age. A beggar woman, old, wrinkled, and clad in rags, was\ncrouching, with her almost empty wallet, on a great coil of rope that\nlay in the prow. One of the rowers, an old sailor, who had known her in\nthe days of her beauty and prosperity, had let her come in \"for the love\nof God,\" in the beautiful phrase that the common people use.\n\n\"Thank you kindly, Thomas,\" the old woman had said. \"I will say two\n_Paters_ and two _Aves_ for you in my prayers to-night.\"\n\nThe skipper blew his horn for the last time, looked along the silent\nshore, flung off the chain, ran along the side of the boat, and took up\nhis position at the helm. He looked at the sky, and as soon as they were\nout in the open sea, he shouted to the men: \"Pull away, pull with all\nyour might! The sea is smiling at a squall, the witch! I can feel the\nswell by the way the rudder works, and the storm in my wounds.\"\n\nThe nautical phrases, unintelligible to ears unused to the sound of the\nsea, seemed to put fresh energy into the oars; they kept time together,\nthe rhythm of the movement was still even and steady, but quite unlike\nthe previous manner of rowing; it was as if a cantering horse had broken\ninto a gallop. The gay company seated in the stern amused themselves by\nwatching the brawny arms, the tanned faces, and sparkling eyes of the\nrowers, the play of the tense muscles, the physical and mental forces\nthat were being exerted to bring them for a trifling toll across the\nchannel. So far from pitying the rowers' distress, they pointed out the\nmen's faces to each other, and laughed at the grotesque expressions on\nthe faces of the crew who were straining every muscle; but in the fore\npart of the boat the soldier, the peasant, and the old beggar woman\nwatched the sailors with the sympathy naturally felt by toilers who live\nby the sweat of their brow and know the rough struggle, the strenuous\nexcitement of effort. These folk, moreover, whose lives were spent in\nthe open air, had all seen the warnings of danger in the sky, and their\nfaces were grave. The young mother rocked her child, singing an old hymn\nof the Church for a lullaby.\n\n\"If we ever get there at all,\" the soldier remarked to the peasant, \"it\nwill be because the Almighty is bent on keeping us alive.\"\n\n\"Ah! He is the Master,\" said the old woman, \"but I think it will be\nHis good pleasure to take us to Himself. Just look at that light down\nthere...\" and she nodded her head as she spoke towards the sunset.\n\nStreaks of fiery red glared from behind the masses of crimson-flushed\nbrown cloud that seemed about to unloose a furious gale. There was a\nsmothered murmur of the sea, a moaning sound that seemed to come from\nthe depths, a low warning growl, such as a dog gives when he only means\nmischief as yet. After all, Ostend was not far away. Perhaps painting,\nlike poetry, could not prolong the existence of the picture presented by\nsea and sky at that moment beyond the time of its actual duration. Art\ndemands vehement contrasts, wherefore artists usually seek out Nature's\nmost striking effects, doubtless because they despair of rendering the\ngreat and glorious charm of her daily moods; yet the human soul is often\nstirred as deeply by her calm as by her emotion, and by silence as by\nstorm.\n\nFor a moment no one spoke on board the boat. Every one watched that sea\nand sky, either with some presentiment of danger, or because they felt\nthe influence of the religious melancholy that takes possession of\nnearly all of us at the close of the day, the hour of prayer, when all\nnature is hushed save for the voices of the bells. The sea gleamed pale\nand wan, but its hues changed, and the surface took all the colors of\nsteel. The sky was almost overspread with livid gray, but down in the\nwest there were long narrow bars like streaks of blood; while lines of\nbright light in the eastern sky, sharp and clean as if drawn by the tip\nof a brush, were separated by folds of cloud, like the wrinkles on an\nold man's brow. The whole scene made a background of ashen grays and\nhalf-tints, in strong contrast to the bale-fires of the sunset. If\nwritten language might borrow of spoken language some of the bold\nfigures of speech invented by the people, it might be said with the\nsoldier that \"the weather has been routed,\" or, as the peasant would\nsay, \"the sky glowered like an executioner.\" Suddenly a wind arose from\nthe quarter of the sunset, and the skipper, who never took his eyes off\nthe sea, saw the swell on the horizon line, and cried:\n\n\"Stop rowing!\"\n\nThe sailors stopped immediately, and let their oars lie on the water.\n\n\"The skipper is right,\" said Thomas coolly. A great wave caught up the\nboat, carried it high on its crest, only to plunge it, as it were,\ninto the trough of the sea that seemed to yawn for them. At this mighty\nupheaval, this sudden outbreak of the wrath of the sea, the company in\nthe stern turned pale, and sent up a terrible cry.\n\n\"We are lost!\"\n\n\"Oh, not yet!\" said the skipper calmly.\n\nAs he spoke, the clouds immediately above their heads were torn asunder\nby the vehemence of the wind. The gray mass was rent and scattered east\nand west with ominous speed, a dim uncertain light from the rift in\nthe sky fell full upon the boat, and the travelers beheld each other's\nfaces. All of them, the noble and the wealthy, the sailors and the poor\npassengers alike, were amazed for a moment by the appearance of the last\ncomer. His golden hair, parted upon his calm, serene forehead, fell in\nthick curls about his shoulders; and his face, sublime in its sweetness\nand radiant with divine love, stood out against the surrounding gloom.\nHe had no contempt for death; he knew that he should not die. But if at\nthe first the company in the stern forgot for a moment the implacable\nfury of the storm that threatened their lives, selfishness and their\nhabits of life soon prevailed again.\n\n\"How lucky that stupid burgomaster is, not to see the risks we are all\nrunning! He is just like a dog, he will die without a struggle,\" said\nthe doctor.\n\nHe had scarcely pronounced this highly judicious dictum when the storm\nunloosed all its legions. The wind blew from every quarter of the\nheavens, the boat span round like a top, and the sea broke in.\n\n\"Oh! my poor child! my poor child!... Who will save my baby?\" the mother\ncried in a heart-rending voice.\n\n\"You yourself will save it,\" the stranger said.\n\nThe thrilling tones of that voice went to the young mother's heart and\nbrought hope with them; she heard the gracious words through all the\nwhistling of the wind and the shrieks of the passengers.\n\n\"Holy Virgin of Good Help, who art at Antwerp, I promise thee a thousand\npounds of wax and a statue, if thou wilt rescue me from this!\" cried the\nburgher, kneeling upon his bags of gold.\n\n\"The Virgin is no more at Antwerp than she is here,\" was the doctor's\ncomment on this appeal.\n\n\"She is in heaven,\" said a voice that seemed to come from the sea.\n\n\"Who said that?\"\n\n\"'Tis the devil!\" exclaimed the servant. \"He is scoffing at the Virgin\nof Antwerp.\"\n\n\"Let us have no more of your Holy Virgin at present,\" the skipper cried\nto the passengers. \"Put your hands to the scoops and bail the water out\nof the boat.--And the rest of you,\" he went on, addressing the sailors,\n\"pull with all your might! Now is the time; in the name of the devil who\nis leaving you in this world, be your own Providence! Every one knows\nthat the channel is fearfully dangerous; I have been to and fro across\nit these thirty years. Am I facing a storm for the first time to-night?\"\n\nHe stood at the helm, and looked, as before, at his boat and at the sea\nand sky in turn.\n\n\"The skipper always laughs at everything,\" muttered Thomas.\n\n\"Will God leave us to perish along with those wretched creatures?\" asked\nthe haughty damsel of the handsome cavalier.\n\n\"No, no, noble maiden.... Listen!\" and he caught her by the waist and\nsaid in her ear, \"I can swim, say nothing about it! I will hold you by\nyour fair hair and bring you safely to the shore; but I can only save\nyou.\"\n\nThe girl looked at her aged mother. The lady was on her knees entreating\nabsolution of the Bishop, who did not heed her. In the beautiful\neyes the knight read a vague feeling of filial piety, and spoke in a\nsmothered voice.\n\n\"Submit yourself to the will of God. If it is His pleasure to take your\nmother to Himself, it will doubtless be for her happiness--in another\nworld,\" he added, and his voice dropped still lower. \"And for ours in\nthis,\" he thought within himself.\n\nThe Dame of Rupelmonde was lady of seven fiefs beside the barony of\nGavres.\n\nThe girl felt the longing for life in her heart, and for love that spoke\nthrough the handsome adventurer, a young miscreant who haunted churches\nin search of a prize, an heiress to marry, or ready money. The Bishop\nbestowed his benison on the waves, and bade them be calm; it was all\nthat he could do. He thought of his concubine, and of the delicate feast\nwith which she would welcome him; perhaps at that very moment she was\nbathing, perfuming herself, robing herself in velvet, fastening her\nnecklace and her jeweled clasps; and the perverse Bishop, so far from\nthinking of the power of Holy Church, of his duty to comfort Christians\nand exhort them to trust in God, mingled worldly regrets and lover's\nsighs with the holy words of the breviary. By the dim light that shone\non the pale faces of the company, it was possible to see their differing\nexpressions as the boat was lifted high in air by a wave, to be cast\nback into the dark depths; the shallop quivered like a fragile leaf, the\nplaything of the north wind in the autumn; the hull creaked, it seemed\nready to go to pieces. Fearful shrieks went up, followed by an awful\nsilence.\n\nThere was a strange difference between the behavior of the folk in the\nbows and that of the rich or great people at the other end of the boat.\nThe young mother clasped her infant tightly to her breast every time\nthat a great wave threatened to engulf the fragile vessel; but she clung\nto the hope that the stranger's words had set in her heart. Each time\nthat the eyes turned to his face she drew fresh faith at the sight, the\nstrong faith of a helpless woman, a mother's faith. She lived by that\ndivine promise, the loving words from his lips; the simple creature\nwaited trustingly for them to be fulfilled, and scarcely feared the\ndanger any longer.\n\nThe soldier, holding fast to the vessel's side, never took his eyes off\nthe strange visitor. He copied on his own rough and swarthy features the\nimperturbability of the other's face, applying to this task the whole\nstrength of a will and intelligence but little corrupted in the course\nof a life of mechanical and passive obedience. So emulous was he of a\ncalm and tranquil courage greater than his own, that at last, perhaps\nunconsciously, something of that mysterious nature passed into his\nown soul. His admiration became an instinctive zeal for this man, a\nboundless love for and belief in him, such a love as soldiers feel for\ntheir leader when he has the power of swaying other men, when the halo\nof victories surrounds him, and the magical fascination of genius is\nfelt in all that he does. The poor outcast was murmuring to herself:\n\n\"Ah! miserable wretch that I am! Have I not suffered enough to expiate\nthe sins of my youth? Ah! wretched woman, why did you lead the gay life\nof a frivolous Frenchwoman? why did you devour the goods of God with\nchurchmen, the substance of the poor with extortioners and fleecers of\nthe poor? Oh! I have sinned indeed!--Oh my God! my God! let me finish my\ntime in hell here in this world of misery.\"\n\nAnd again she cried, \"Holy Virgin, Mother of God, have pity upon me!\"\n\n\"Be comforted, mother. God is not a Lombard usurer. I may have killed\npeople good and bad at random in my time, but I am not afraid of the\nresurrection.\"\n\n\"Ah! master Lancepesade, how happy those fair ladies are, to be so near\nto a bishop, a holy man! They will get absolution for their sins,\" said\nthe old woman. \"Oh! if I could only hear a priest say to me, 'Thy sins\nare forgiven!' I should believe it then.\"\n\nThe stranger turned towards her, and the goodness in his face made her\ntremble.\n\n\"Have faith,\" he said, \"and you will be saved.\"\n\n\"May God reward you, good sir,\" she answered. \"If what you say is true,\nI will go on pilgrimage barefooted to Our Lady of Loretto to pray to her\nfor you and for me.\"\n\nThe two peasants, father and son, were silent, patient, and submissive\nto the will of God, like folk whose wont it is to fall in instinctively\nwith the ways of Nature like cattle. At the one end of the boat stood\nriches, pride, learning, debauchery, and crime--human society, such as\nart and thought and education and worldly interests and laws have made\nit; and at this end there was terror and wailing, innumerable different\nimpulses all repressed by hideous doubts--at this end, and at this only,\nthe agony of fear.\n\nAbove all these human lives stood a strong man, the skipper; no doubts\nassailed him, the chief, the king, the fatalist among them. He was\ntrusting in himself rather than in Providence, crying, \"Bail away!\"\ninstead of \"Holy Virgin,\" defying the storm, in fact, and struggling\nwith the sea like a wrestler.\n\nBut the helpless poor at the other end of the wherry! The mother rocking\non her bosom the little one who smiled at the storm; the woman once\nso frivolous and gay, and now tormented with bitter remorse; the old\nsoldier covered with scars, a mutilated life the sole reward of his\nunflagging loyalty and faithfulness. This veteran could scarcely count\non the morsel of bread soaked in tears to keep the life in him, yet he\nwas always ready to laugh, and went his way merrily, happy when he could\ndrown his glory in the depths of a pot of beer, or could tell tales\nof the wars to the children who admired him, leaving his future with a\nlight heart in the hands of God. Lastly, there were the two peasants,\nused to hardships and toil, labor incarnate, the labor by which the\nworld lives. These simple folk were indifferent to thought and its\ntreasures, ready to sink them all in a belief; and their faith was but\nso much the more vigorous because they had never disputed about it nor\nanalyzed it. Such a nature is a virgin soil, conscience has not been\ntampered with, feeling is deep and strong; repentance, trouble, love,\nand work have developed, purified, concentrated, and increased their\nforce of will a hundred times, the will--the one thing in man that\nresembles what learned doctors call the Soul.\n\nThe boat, guided by the well-nigh miraculous skill of the steersman,\ncame almost within sight of Ostend, when, not fifty paces from the\nshore, she was suddenly struck by a heavy sea and capsized. The stranger\nwith the light about his head spoke to this little world of drowning\ncreatures:\n\n\"Those who have faith shall be saved; let them follow me!\"\n\nHe stood upright, and walked with a firm step upon the waves. The young\nmother at once took her child in her arms, and followed at his side\nacross the sea. The soldier too sprang up, saying in his homely fashion,\n\"Ah! _nom d'un pipe_! I would follow _you_ to the devil;\" and without\nseeming astonished by it, he walked on the water. The worn-out sinner,\nbelieving in the omnipotence of God, also followed the stranger.\n\nThe two peasants said to each other, \"If they are walking on the sea,\nwhy should we not do as they do?\" and they also arose and hastened after\nthe others. Thomas tried to follow, but his faith tottered; he sank\nin the sea more than once, and rose again, but the third time he also\nwalked on the sea. The bold steersman clung like a remora to the wreck\nof his boat. The miser had had faith, and had risen to go, but he tried\nto take his gold with him, and it was his gold that dragged him down\nto the bottom. The learned man had scoffed at the charlatan and at the\nfools who listened to him; and when he heard the mysterious stranger\npropose to the passengers that they should walk on the waves, he began\nto laugh, and the ocean swallowed him. The girl was dragged down into\nthe depths by her lover. The Bishop and the older lady went to the\nbottom, heavily laden with sins, it may be, but still more heavily laden\nwith incredulity and confidence in idols, weighted down by devotion,\ninto which alms-deeds and true religion entered but little.\n\nThe faithful flock, who walked with a firm step high and dry above the\nsurge, heard all about them the dreadful whistling of the blast; great\nbillows broke across their path, but an irresistible force cleft a way\nfor them through the sea. These believing ones saw through the spray a\ndim speck of light flickering in the window of a fisherman's hut on the\nshore, and each one, as he pushed on bravely towards the light, seemed\nto hear the voice of his fellow crying, \"Courage!\" through all the\nroaring of the surf; yet no one had spoken a word--so absorbed was each\nby his own peril. In this way they reached the shore.\n\nWhen they were all seated near the fisherman's fire, they looked round\nin vain for their guide with the light about him. The sea washed up the\nsteersman at the base of the cliff on which the cottage stood; he was\nclinging with might and main to the plank as a sailor can cling when\ndeath stares him in the face; the MAN went down and rescued the almost\nexhausted seaman; then he said, as he held out a succoring hand above\nthe man's head:\n\n\"Good, for this once; but do not try it again; the example would be too\nbad.\"\n\nHe took the skipper on his shoulders, and carried him to the fisherman's\ndoor; knocked for admittance for the exhausted man; then, when the door\nof the humble refuge opened, the Saviour disappeared.\n\nThe Convent of Mercy was built for sailors on this spot, where for long\nafterwards (so it was said) the footprints of Jesus Christ could be seen\nin the sand; but in 1793, at the time of the French invasion, the monks\ncarried away this precious relic, that bore witness to the Saviour's\nlast visit to earth.\n\n\n\nThere at the convent I found myself shortly after the Revolution of\n1830. I was weary of life. If you had asked me the reason of my despair,\nI should have found it almost impossible to give it, so languid had\ngrown the soul that was melted within me. The west wind had slackened\nthe springs of my intelligence. A cold gray light poured down from the\nheavens, and the murky clouds that passed overhead gave a boding look to\nthe land; all these things, together with the immensity of the sea, said\nto me, \"Die to-day or die to-morrow, still must we not die?\" And then--I\nwandered on, musing on the doubtful future, on my blighted hopes. Gnawed\nby these gloomy thoughts, I turned mechanically into the convent church,\nwith the gray towers that loomed like ghosts though the sea mists.\nI looked round with no kindling of the imagination at the forest of\ncolumns, at the slender arches set aloft upon the leafy capitals, a\ndelicate labyrinth of sculpture. I walked with careless eyes along the\nside aisles that opened out before me like vast portals, ever turning\nupon their hinges. It was scarcely possible to see, by the dim light of\nthe autumn day, the sculptured groinings of the roof, the delicate and\nclean-cut lines of the mouldings of the graceful pointed arches. The\norgan pipes were mute. There was no sound save the noise of my own\nfootsteps to awaken the mournful echoes lurking in the dark chapels.\nI sat down at the base of one of the four pillars that supported the\ntower, near the choir. Thence I could see the whole of the building. I\ngazed, and no ideas connected with it arose in my mind. I saw without\nseeing the mighty maze of pillars, the great rose windows that hung like\na network suspended as by a miracle in air above the vast doorways. I\nsaw the doors at the end of the side aisles, the aerial galleries, the\nstained glass windows framed in archways, divided by slender columns,\nfretted into flower forms and trefoil by fine filigree work of carved\nstone. A dome of glass at the end of the choir sparkled as if it had\nbeen built of precious stones set cunningly. In contrast to the roof\nwith its alternating spaces of whiteness and color, the two aisles lay\nto right and left in shadow so deep that the faint gray outlines of\ntheir hundred shafts were scarcely visible in the gloom. I gazed at the\nmarvelous arcades, the scroll-work, the garlands, the curving lines, and\narabesques interwoven and interlaced, and strangely lighted, until by\nsheer dint of gazing my perceptions became confused, and I stood upon\nthe borderland between illusion and reality, taken in the snare set for\nthe eyes, and almost light-headed by reason of the multitudinous changes\nof the shapes about me.\n\nImperceptibly a mist gathered about the carven stonework, and I only\nbeheld it through a haze of fine golden dust, like the motes that hover\nin the bars of sunlight slanting through the air of a chamber. Suddenly\nthe stone lacework of the rose windows gleamed through this vapor\nthat had made all forms so shadowy. Every moulding, the edges of every\ncarving, the least detail of the sculpture was dipped in silver. The\nsunlight kindled fires in the stained windows, their rich colors sent\nout glowing sparks of light. The shafts began to tremble, the capitals\nwere gently shaken. A light shudder as of delight ran through the\nbuilding, the stones were loosened in their setting, the wall-spaces\nswayed with graceful caution. Here and there a ponderous pier moved as\nsolemnly as a dowager when she condescends to complete a quadrille at\nthe close of a ball. A few slender and graceful columns, their heads\nadorned with wreaths of trefoil, began to laugh and dance here and\nthere. Some of the pointed arches dashed at the tall lancet windows,\nwho, like ladies of the Middle Ages, wore the armorial bearings of their\nhouses emblazoned on their golden robes. The dance of the mitred arcades\nwith the slender windows became like a fray at a tourney.\n\nIn another moment every stone in the church vibrated, without leaving\nits place; for the organ-pipes spoke, and I heard divine music mingling\nwith the songs of angels, and unearthly harmony, accompanied by the deep\nnotes of the bells, that boomed as the giant towers rocked and swayed on\ntheir square bases. This strange Sabbath seemed to me the most natural\nthing in the world; and I, who had seen Charles X. hurled from his\nthrone, was no longer amazed by anything. Nay, I myself was gently\nswaying with a see-saw movement that influenced my nerves pleasurably in\na manner of which it is impossible to give any idea. Yet in the midst of\nthis heated riot, the cathedral choir felt cold as if it were a winter\nday, and I became aware of a multitude of women, robed in white, silent,\nand impassive, sitting there. The sweet incense smoke that arose from\nthe censers was grateful to my soul. The tall wax candles flickered. The\nlectern, gay as a chanter undone by the treachery of wine, was skipping\nabout like a peal of Chinese bells.\n\nThen I knew that the whole cathedral was whirling round so fast that\neverything appeared to be undisturbed. The colossal Figure on the\ncrucifix above the altar smiled upon me with a mingled malice and\nbenevolence that frightened me; I turned my eyes away, and marveled\nat the bluish vapor that slid across the pillars, lending to them an\nindescribable charm. Then some graceful women's forms began to stir on\nthe friezes. The cherubs who upheld the heavy columns shook out their\nwings. I felt myself uplifted by some divine power that steeped me in\ninfinite joy, in a sweet and languid rapture. I would have given my\nlife, I think, to have prolonged these phantasmagoria for a little, but\nsuddenly a shrill voice clamored in my ears:\n\n\"Awake and follow me!\"\n\nA withered woman took my hand in hers; its icy coldness crept through\nevery nerve. The bones of her face showed plainly through the sallow,\nalmost olive-tinted wrinkles of the skin. The shrunken, ice-cold old\nwoman wore a black robe, which she trailed in the dust, and at her\nthroat there was something white, which I dared not examine. I could\nscarcely see her wan and colorless eyes, for they were fixed in a stare\nupon the heavens. She drew me after her along the aisles, leaving a\ntrace of her presence in the ashes that she shook from her dress. Her\nbones rattled as she walked, like the bones of a skeleton; and as we\nwent I heard behind me the tinkling of a little bell, a thin, sharp\nsound that rang through my head like the notes of a harmonica.\n\n\"Suffer!\" she cried, \"suffer! So it must be!\"\n\nWe came out of the church; we went through the dirtiest streets of the\ntown, till we came at last to a dingy dwelling, and she bade me enter\nin. She dragged me with her, calling to me in a harsh, tuneless voice\nlike a cracked bell:\n\n\"Defend me! defend me!\"\n\nTogether we went up a winding staircase. She knocked at a door in the\ndarkness, and a mute, like some familiar of the Inquisition, opened\nto her. In another moment we stood in a room hung with ancient, ragged\ntapestry, amid piles of old linen, crumpled muslin, and gilded brass.\n\n\"Behold the wealth that shall endure for ever!\" said she.\n\nI shuddered with horror; for just then, by the light of a tall torch and\ntwo altar candles, I saw distinctly that this woman was fresh from the\ngraveyard. She had no hair. I turned to fly. She raised her fleshless\narm and encircled me with a band of iron set with spikes, and as she\nraised it a cry went up all about us, the cry of millions of voices--the\nshouting of the dead!\n\n\"It is my purpose to make thee happy for ever,\" she said. \"Thou art my\nson.\"\n\nWe were sitting before the hearth, the ashes lay cold upon it; the\nold shrunken woman grasped my hand so tightly in hers that I could not\nchoose but stay. I looked fixedly at her, striving to read the story of\nher life from the things among which she was crouching. Had she indeed\nany life in her? It was a mystery. Yet I saw plainly that once she must\nhave been young and beautiful; fair, with all the charm of simplicity,\nperfect as some Greek statue, with the brow of a vestal.\n\n\"Ah! ah!\" I cried, \"now I know thee! Miserable woman, why hast thou\nprostituted thyself? In the age of thy passions, in the time of thy\nprosperity, the grace and purity of thy youth were forgotten. Forgetful\nof thy heroic devotion, thy pure life, thy abundant faith, thou didst\nresign thy primitive power and thy spiritual supremacy for fleshly\npower. Thy linen vestments, thy couch of moss, the cell in the rock,\nbright with rays of the Light Divine, was forsaken; thou hast sparkled\nwith diamonds, and shone with the glitter of luxury and pride. Then,\ngrown bold and insolent, seizing and overturning all things in thy\ncourse like a courtesan eager for pleasure in her days of splendor, thou\nhast steeped thyself in blood like some queen stupefied by empery. Dost\nthou not remember to have been dull and heavy at times, and the sudden\nmarvelous lucidity of other moments; as when Art emerges from an\norgy? Oh! poet, painter, and singer, lover of splendid ceremonies and\nprotector of the arts, was thy friendship for art perchance a caprice,\nthat so thou shouldst sleep beneath magnificent canopies? Was there not\na day when, in thy fantastic pride, though chastity and humility were\nprescribed to thee, thou hadst brought all things beneath thy feet, and\nset thy foot on the necks of princes; when earthly dominion, and\nwealth, and the mind of man bore thy yoke? Exulting in the abasement of\nhumanity, joying to witness the uttermost lengths to which man's folly\nwould go, thou hast bidden thy lovers walk on all fours, and required\nof them their lands and wealth, nay, even their wives if they were worth\naught to thee. Thou hast devoured millions of men without a cause; thou\nhast flung away lives like sand blown by the wind from West to East.\nThou hast come down from the heights of thought to sit among the kings\nof men. Woman! instead of comforting men, thou hast tormented and\nafflicted them! Knowing that thou couldst ask and have, thou hast\ndemanded--blood! A little flour surely should have contented thee,\naccustomed as thou hast been to live on bread and to mingle water with\nthy wine. Unlike all others in all things, formerly thou wouldst bid thy\nlovers fast, and they obeyed. Why should thy fancies have led thee to\nrequire things impossible? Why, like a courtesan spoiled by her lovers,\nhast thou doted on follies, and left those undeceived who sought to\nexplain and justify all thy errors? Then came the days of thy later\npassions, terrible like the love of a woman of forty years, with a\nfierce cry thou hast sought to clasp the whole universe in one last\nembrace--and thy universe recoiled from thee!\n\n\"Then old men succeeded to thy young lovers; decrepitude came to thy\nfeet and made thee hideous. Yet, even then, men with the eagle power\nof vision said to thee in a glance, 'Thou shalt perish ingloriously,\nbecause thou hast fallen away, because thou hast broken the vows of thy\nmaidenhood. The angel with peace written on her forehead, who should\nhave shed light and joy along her path, has been a Messalina, delighting\nin the circus, in debauchery, and abuse of power. The days of thy\nvirginity cannot return; henceforward thou shalt be subject to a master.\nThy hour has come; the hand of death is upon thee. Thy heirs believe\nthat thou art rich; they will kill thee and find nothing. Yet try at\nleast to fling away this raiment no longer in fashion; be once more as\nin the days of old!--Nay, thou art dead, and by thy own deed!'\n\n\"Is not this thy story?\" so I ended. \"Decrepit, toothless, shivering\ncrone, now forgotten, going thy ways without so much as a glance from\npassers-by! Why art thou still alive? What doest thou in that beggar's\ngarb, uncomely and desired of none? Where are thy riches?--for what were\nthey spent? Where are thy treasures?--what great deeds hast thou done?\"\n\nAt this demand, the shriveled woman raised her bony form, flung off her\nrags, and grew tall and radiant, smiling as she broke forth from the\ndark chrysalid sheath. Then like a butterfly, this diaphanous creature\nemerged, fair and youthful, clothed in white linen, an Indian from\ncreation issuing her palms. Her golden hair rippled over her shoulders,\nher eyes glowed, a bright mist clung about her, a ring of gold hovered\nabove her head, she shook the flaming blade of a sword towards the\nspaces of heaven.\n\n\"See and believe!\" she cried.\n\nAnd suddenly I saw, afar off, many thousands of cathedrals like the one\nthat I had just quitted; but these were covered with pictures and with\nfrescoes, and I heard them echo with entrancing music. Myriads of human\ncreatures flocked to these great buildings, swarming about them like\nants on an ant-heap. Some were eager to rescue books from oblivion or\nto copy manuscripts, others were helping the poor, but nearly all were\nstudying. Up above this countless multitude rose giant statues that they\nhad erected in their midst, and by the gleams of a strange light from\nsome luminary as powerful as the sun, I read the inscriptions on the\nbases of the statues--Science, History, Literature.\n\nThe light died out. Again I faced the young girl. Gradually she slipped\ninto the dreary sheath, into the ragged cere-cloths, and became an aged\nwoman again. Her familiar brought her a little dust, and she stirred it\ninto the ashes of her chafing-dish, for the weather was cold and stormy;\nand then he lighted for her, whose palaces had been lit with thousands\nof wax-tapers, a little cresset, that she might see to read her prayers\nthrough the hours of night.\n\n\"There is no faith left in the earth!...\" she said.\n\nIn such a perilous plight did I behold the fairest and the greatest, the\ntruest and most life-giving of all Powers.\n\n\n\n\"Wake up, sir, the doors are just about to be shut,\" said a hoarse\nvoice. I turned and beheld the beadle's ugly countenance; the man was\nshaking me by the arm, and the cathedral lay wrapped in shadows as a man\nis wrapped in his cloak.\n\n\"Belief,\" I said to myself, \"is Life! I have just witnessed the funeral\nof a monarchy, now we must defend the church.\"\n\n\nPARIS, February 1831.","title":"Christ in Flanders","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":7062}