Part 6
“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.’
“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:--
“‘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.”
I V. THE FUNERAL
“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:
“‘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.”
EPILOGUE.
Chactas, son of Outalissi the Natchez, related this story to René the European. Fathers have repeated it to their sons; and I, a traveller to distant lands, have faithfully narrated what the Indians told me. I saw in this story the picture of the hunting people and of the laboring people; religion, the first lawgiver of men; the dangers of ignorance and religious enthusiasm opposed to the light, the charity and the veritable spirit of the Evangile; the struggles of the passions and the virtues in a simple heart; and, finally, the triumph of Christianity over the most ardent sentiment and the most terrible fear--Love and Death.
When a Seminole related this story to me, I found it very instructive and perfectly beautiful, because he narrated it with the flowery eloquence of the desert, the grace of the cabin, and a simplicity in describing grief which I am afraid I have not been able to preserve. But one thing remained for me to learn. I wished to know what had become of Father Aubry, and no one could tell me. I should never have ascertained if Providence, who guides all, had not led me to discover what I was seeking. This is how the matter came about.
I had visited the shores of the Mississippi, which formerly constituted the southern boundary of New France, and I was desirous of seeing, in the north, that other wonder of the American empire, the cataract of Niagara. I had nearly reached the falls, in the ancient country of the Agannonsioni, * when one morning, as I was crossing a plain, I perceived a woman seated beneath a tree, and holding a dead child upon her knees. I quietly approached the young mother, and heard her singing to this effect:--
“If thou hadst remained amongst us, dear babe, with what grace thy hand might have bent the bow! Thy arm might have tamed the furious bear, and thy steps might have outrun the flying kid on the summit of the mountain. White ermine of the rock, to go so young to the land of souls! How wilt thou manage to live there? Thy father is not there to feed thee with the produce of his chase. Thou wilt be cold, and no Spirit will give thee skins to cover thyself. Oh! I must hasten to rejoin thee, to sing songs to thee and to give thee my breast.” And the young mother sang with a trembling voice, rocked the child upon her knees, wetted its lips with her maternal milk, and bestowed upon the dead all those cares which are usually given to the living.
According to the Indian custom, the woman desired to dry the body of her son upon the branches of a tree before taking it away to the tomb of its ancestors. She therefore undressed the new-born babe, and, after breathing some instants upon its mouth, uncovered its breast, and embraced the icy remains, which would certainly have been re-animated by the fire of that maternal heart, if God had not reserved to Himself the breath that imparts life.
She rose, and looked about for a tree upon which she might lay her child. She selected a maple with red flowers, festooned with garlands of apios, that emitted the sweetest perfumes. With one hand she pulled down the lowest branch, and with the other she placed the body thereon; then loosing the branch, it returned to its natural position, with the remains of innocence concealed in its ordoriforous foliage. Oh, how touching is this Indian custom! Pompous monuments of the Crassi and of the Cæsars, I have seen you in your desolated plains; but I by far prefer those aërian tombs of the savages, those mausoleums of flowers and verdure, perfumed by the bee and waved by the zephyr, wherein the nightingale builds its nest and warbles its plaintive melody. When the mortal remains are those of a young maiden suspended by the hand of a lover to the tree of death, or of a beloved child placed by a fond mother in the dwelling of the little birds, the charm is still greater. I approached her who was groaning at the foot of the maple-tree, and placed my hands upon her head as I uttered the three cries of grief. Afterwards, without speaking to the young mother, I imitated her by taking a bough and driving away the insects that were buzzing about the child’s body. But I was careful not to disturb a neighboring dove. The Indian woman said to it: “Dove, if thou art not the soul of my departed son, thou art doubtless a mother seeking for something to make a nest. Take these hairs, which I shall no more wash in scented water; take them for a bed for thy little ones, and may the Great Spirit preserve them to thee!”
* The Iroquois,
Nevertheless, the mother wept with joy on remarking the stranger’s politeness. As we were thus occupied, a young man came up and said, “Daughter of Céluta, take down our child: we will no longer sojourn in this place; we will set off at the rising of the next sun.” I then said, “Brother, I wish you a blue sky, plenty of game, a beaver cloak, and hope! You are not of the desert, then?”
“No,” replied the young man; “we are exiles, and we are going to seek a country.” Saying that, the warrior lowered his head upon his breast, and began knocking off the heads of some flowers with the end of his bow. I saw that there were tears at the bottom of this story, so I remained silent. The mother took her son’s body down from the branch of the tree, and gave it to her spouse to carry. I then said, “Will you allow me to light your fire to-night?”
“We have no cottage,” replied the warrior; “but if you desire to follow us, we are going to camp on the border of the Falls.”
“With pleasure,” I replied; and we started off together.
We soon arrived at the border of the cataract, which announced itself with frightful roarings. It is formed by the river Niagara, which takes its rise in Lake Erie, and falls into Lake Ontario. Its perpendicular height is one hundred and forty-four feet. From Lake Erie to the Falls, the river flows with a rapid inclination; and at the leap it is less a river than a sea whose torrents crush each other in the yawning mouth of an abyss. The cataract is divided into two branches, and bends like a horse-shoe. Between the two falls there is an island, hollow underneath, and which hangs with all its trees over the chaos of the waves. The mass of the river which rushes towards the north, assumes the form of a vast cylinder, unrolling itself into a field of snow, and shining with every color in the sun; that which flows to the east descends into a fearful shade, and might be taken for a column of the water of the Deluge. A thousand rainbows bend and cross each other above the abyss. Striking against the shaken rock, the water rebounds in whirlwinds of froth that rise above the forests like smoke from a vast burning mass. Pine-trees, walnut-trees, and rocks worn into fantastic forms, ornament the scene. Eagles, carried along by the current of air, are whirled down to the bottom of the gulf; and carcajous, hanging by their flexible tails to the ends of the fallen branches, wait to seize in the abyss the crushed bodies of bears and elks.
Whilst I was contemplating this spectacle with a sort of pleasure mixed with terror, the Indian and his spouse left me. I looked for them as I ascended the river-side above the Falls, and soon discovered them in a place suited to their grief. They were lying down upon the grass, with a number of old men, near some human bones wrapped in bear-skins. Astonished at everything I had seen during the last few hours, I sat down near the young mother, and said, “What is all this, my sister?” She replied: “My brother, the earth of our country and the ashes of our forefathers follow us in our exile.”