Part 4

I, also, receive my letters only after a long delay. They have only now given me your letter of Tuesday morning. With it were numerous letters from all the family. What can we do, my darling? We must bow our heads, we must suffer without complaining. Truly, even now, when I think it over, I wonder how I could have had the courage to promise you to live on after my condemnation. That day, that Saturday, is burned into my mind in letters of fire. I have the courage of the soldier who goes forward gladly to meet death face to face: but alas! shall I have the soul of the martyr?

But be tranquil, my darling. I shall force myself to live and to resist until the day of my vindication. I have borne without flinching the anguish of the most wounding affront that can be imposed upon a man of heart who is innocent, whose conscience is pure. My heart has bled; it bleeds still. I live only by the hope that they will give me back my place in the army, the place I won by gallant and meritorious conduct--the _galons_ that no act of mine had ever sullied!

And moreover, whatever sufferings may still await me, my heart commands me to live. I must resist; I must resist for the name that is borne by my dear children, for the name of all the family.

But duty is sometimes hard to follow. You speak of my life in this prison--what good can it do to increase your sadness, my darling? Your grief is great enough without my augmenting it by my complaining.

I live by hope, my good darling. I live, because I believe that it is impossible that the truth shall not some day be made clear, because it cannot be that my innocence shall not be some day recognised and proclaimed by this dear France--my country, to whom I have always brought my intelligence and my strength--to whom I would have consecrated all the blood that is in my veins.

I must have patience; I must draw it from the deep well of your love, from the affection of all those who love us, and from the conviction that I shall ultimately be rehabilitated.

A thousand kisses to the darlings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

Your letter tells me that they have refused to permit Me. Demange to see me; I hope, notwithstanding this, that they will soon accord him the permission.

I count the hours until Friday, when I shall see you. Thanks for the good letters I receive from all. Thank them all for me and tell them that one of the best hours in my day is that which I pass in reading my letters. But I am incapable of answering all of them. I can say nothing except that I am resigned and that I expect that the truth will be discovered.

_10 January, 1895, 9 A. M._

Since two o’clock this morning I could not sleep for thinking that to-day I should see you. It seems that even now I hear your sweet voice speaking to me of my dear children, of our dear families, and if I weep I am not ashamed of it, for the martyrdom that I endure is truly cruel for a man who is innocent.

Who is the monster who has thrown the brand of evil, of dishonor, into a brave and honorable family?

If there is such a thing as justice on this earth, there is no punishment too great to be reserved for him, no torture that should not some day be inflicted on him.

But my courage is not weakening. I have painful moments, when my eyes are veiled by the mournful darkness of the present; but I comfort myself by looking forward to the future.

Your devotion is so heroic--you are all making such powerful efforts, it is impossible that the truth shall be forever hidden. Besides that, the truth must be made plain, _it must be_; the will is a powerful lever.

Now, at once, my darling, I am to have the joy of embracing you, of clasping you in my arms. I count the seconds which separate me from that happy moment.

_Half-past 3 o’clock, P. M., 10 January, 1895._

The moment is passed, my darling; so quick, so short, that it seems to me I have not told you the twentieth part of what I had to say. How heroic you are, my adored one! How sublime is your self-forgetfulness, your devotion! I can do nothing but wonder at you.

Under the combined influence of your loving sympathy and of your heroic efforts I have not the right to hesitate.

I will suffer, then, I will not murmur, but let me when my heart overflows weep out my anguish on your breast.

The cruelest of all is this--I cannot repeat it too often--it is not the physical suffering that I endure; it is this atmosphere of contempt which surrounds my name--your name, my adored Lucie. You know that I have always been proud, dignified. You know that I have held duty above all else. You can therefore appreciate all that I suffer now. And that is why I wish to live; that is why I cry my innocence to all the world. I will cry it each day until my last breath, while in my body there is one drop of blood.

I shall find in your dear eyes the courage needful for my martyrdom. I shall draw from the memory of my children the strength to resist to the end of my agony.

Bring me your portrait, too. I will place it between the pictures of our darlings, and contemplating those faces, I shall each day, each instant, read my duty.

Embrace all for me.

ALFRED DREYFUS.

Thank your sister Alice for her excellent letter, which has given me a great deal of pleasure. Also give me news of all the members of the family, to whom I cannot write. Tell them that their letters are always welcome.

I embrace you tenderly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Half-past 7 in the evening._

I have to-day received no letter from you--no letter from any one. Have they been stopped on the way? However that may be, I have to-day been deprived of the only ray of sunlight which can lighten the darkness of my prison.

P. S. Just now, as I was about to go to bed, they brought me a package of letters, which I am going to devour with delight.

* * * * *

_Thursday, 5 o’clock in the evening, 11 January, 1895._

My Darling:

I thank you for your two last letters (one written Tuesday and the other written, I think, Wednesday morning). They have just given them to me. Write to me morning and evening. Although I receive the two letters at the same time, nevertheless I can follow you in my thoughts. I see you in all you do. It seems to me that I am living near to you.

I occupy my time in reading and in writing; in that way I try to calm the fever of my brain; to think no more of my situation, so sad, so undeserved.

Forgive me, my darling, if sometimes I complain. What would you, at times memory is so bitter! I need to throw myself upon your breast, there to pour out my overburdened heart. We have always understood each other’s thoughts so well, my darling, that I am sure that your strong and generous heart beats with the indignation of my own.

We were so happy--everything in life smiled upon us. Do you remember when I told you that we had nothing for which to envy any one; that all was ours? Position, fortune, the love we bore each other, our adorable little children--we had everything.

There was not a cloud on the horizon; then came the awful thunderbolt, so unexpected, so unbelievable! Even now it seems sometimes that I must be the victim of a horrible nightmare.

I do not complain of physical sufferings, you know that I despise them; but to know that an accusation of infamy stains my name, when I am innocent--oh, no! no! This is why I have borne all my torment, all the anguish, all the insults. I am convinced that soon or late the truth will come to light, and then they will do me justice.

I can easily excuse this anger, this rage of all the people--the noble people, who have been taught to believe that there is a traitor; but I want to live so that they may know that the traitor is not I.

Upheld by your love, by the boundless love of all of ours, I shall overcome fatality. I do not say that I shall not still have moments of despondency, even of despair. Truly not to complain of an error so monstrous would require a grandeur of soul to which I cannot pretend. But my heart will remain strong and valiant.

Then courage and energy, my darling. We must all be brave and strong. Let us lift up our heads all of us, carry them high and proudly. We are martyrs. I will live, my adored one, because I will that you shall bear my name, as you have borne it until now, with honor, with joy, and with love; and because I will to transmit it to our children without a stain.

Therefore do not allow yourselves to be beaten down by adversity--neither you nor the others. Search for the truth without parleying, without a truce.

As to me, I shall wait with the strength born of a pure and tranquil conscience until this mysterious and tragical affair is dragged into the light.

You know, moreover, my darling, that the only mercy I have ever asked for is the truth; I hope that my countrymen will not fail in the duty which they owe to a fellow-man, who asks one right only--that the search for the truth may be kept up.

And when the light shines in on my vindication; when they give me back my _galons_ that I won, and that I am as worthy to wear now as when I won them by my own might; when I am once more in my own place, at the head of my troopers, oh, then, my darling, I shall forget everything--the sufferings, the torture, the insults, the bleeding wounds.

May God and human justice grant that the day break soon!

Until to-morrow, my adored Lucie! Then shall I have the pleasure of embracing you again. Now I am counting the hours; to-morrow I shall count the minutes.

I embrace you fondly.

ALFRED.

Good, long kisses to our two darlings. I dare not think of them. Talk to them about me. Let not these young souls suffer from our sadness. Embrace every one at home for me.

* * * * *

_12 January, 1895, Saturday, 4 o’clock._

How short was that half hour yesterday! I arrange in my mind in advance just how I shall employ every minute, so that I may not forget what I want to say. Then the time goes by as in a dream; and all at once the interview is over, and again I have said almost nothing.

How can two beings like you and me be so cruelly tried?

Do you remember the charming plans that we had sketched out for this very winter? We ought to profit a little by our liberty when we are together to go back to those days when, two young lovers, we wandered together in the land of the sun. Ah, it cannot be possible! All this anguish, all that is passing now, is inhuman. If there is a God, if there is any justice in this world, we must believe that the truth must declare itself soon; that we shall be recompensed for all that we have suffered.

I have put the children’s photographs before me on the little table of my cell. When I look at them the tears rush to my eyes, my heart bursts--but at the same time it does me good, it strengthens my courage. Bring me your photograph, too. Your three faces before my eyes will be the companions of my mournful solitude.

Ah, my darling wife, you have a noble mission to fulfil, and for it you need all your energy. That is why I am always begging of you to care for your health. Your physical strength is more necessary than ever before. You owe yourself to your children first, then to the name they bear. It must be proven to the whole world that that name is pure and stainless.

Oh, for light upon my tragic situation! How I long for it! How I wait for it! How I would buy it if I could, not only with all my fortune--that would be nothing--but with my very blood!

If only I could put my brain to sleep! If I could prevent it from thinking always of this unexplainable mystery! I long to pierce the shadows; I long to tear up the earth that the daylight may burst through.

You will answer, and with justice, that I must be patient; that time is necessary to discover the truth. Alas! I know it. But what would you? The minutes to me seem hours. It always seems to me that some one will come to me in another minute and say:

“Forgive us, we were deceived; the mistake has been discovered.”

Now I am waiting for Monday. Henceforth the weeks for me are composed but of the two days when you come to visit me. You cannot know how I marvel at your self-sacrifice, your heroism, how I draw courage from your love, so profound, so devoted.

Thank your sister Alice for her excellent letter, which has given me great pleasure. Give news of me to all the members of the family to whom I cannot write. Tell them that their letters are always most welcome.

I embrace you tenderly, fondly.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_14 January, 1895, Monday, 9 o’clock in the morning._

At last the happy day has come again when I can have the happiness of seeing you, of kissing you, of receiving news by word of mouth of you all. I have so many things to tell you; but when I see you shall not I again, in the emotion which will seize me, forget everything? Last night again I could not sleep until two o’clock. I was thinking of you, of you all, of this fearful enigma which I long to decipher. I have turned over in my mind a thousand ways, each more violent, more extravagant than the other, by which to rend the veil which shields the monster.

How can I help it, my darling? Night and day I think only of that. My mind is always straining to reach that end, and I cannot help you in any way. It is the feeling of my utter helplessness which hurts me most.

I try hard to read, but while my eyes follow the lines my thoughts wander.

And now, immediately, my darling, I am to have the joy of seeing you!

Waiting for that moment, I pace my cell like a lion in its cage.

* * * * *

_14 January, 1895, 1 o’clock._

The time drags slowly; the minutes are hours. How can I use up my energy! How can I restrain my heart! Sometimes I lose my patience. It is not the courage, the energy that I lack--you know it well--and my conscience gives me superhuman force, but it is this terrible idleness, this longing to be able to help you to pursue the only object of my life, to discover the wretch who has stolen my honor; this is what burns in my blood. Ah, I would rather mount alone to the assault of ten redoubts than be here powerless, inactive, waiting passively for the truth to be revealed! I envy the man who breaks stones on the highway, absorbed in his mechanical labor. But, my darling, I shall soon see you now, and you will give me back my patience.

* * * * *

_3 o’clock._

Already the time has passed as in a dream, ... and I had so many things to tell you, ... and then when I am

in your presence I look at you, I no longer can remember anything. All that happens to me then appears a dream; it seems to me that never again shall we be separated--that I am awaking from my horrible nightmare. But alas! then comes reality--our parting.

Ah, the wretch who committed the crime--who stole our honor! It is no ordinary punishment that he deserves. When the day comes and his guilt is known I hope that public opinion may nail his name to the pillory of history, that his punishment may be beyond all that we can imagine.

I ask you to forgive me for my weakness, for my impatience. But think, my darling, what these long hours are to me--these long days.

But I am calmer after each interview. I draw new strength, a new store of patience from your looks, from your love.

Ah, the truth! We must reveal it, it must shine forth clear and luminous. I live only for that; I live only by that hope.

And this truth, as you have so truly said, must be entire, absolute--there must be left no doubt in the mind of any one. My innocence must burst forth. Everybody--all must recognize it--they must know that my honor stands as high as that of any man on the earth.

And it is to this end that I must be patient.... I realize it as you do, ... but the heart has reasons that reason knows not! If I could only put my brain to sleep until the day when they find the guilty one I should bear physical torments valiantly, I should not waver. And then think of the atmosphere that is to envelop me on the path I have yet to follow!

But my heart must be silent. I gain each time new strength, new patience, from your dear eyes.

Do not think any longer of my sufferings. You can comfort me only in doing as you have done--in searching for the guilty one, without a thought of truce--without an hour of rest.

I have read Pierrot’s few lines in Marie’s letter. Thank them both, particularly the hand that directed the hand of Pierrot.

Make of our dear children vigorous and healthy beings.

I embrace you as I love you.

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_Tuesday, 15 January, 1895, 9 o’clock in the morning._

My Darling:

I was thinking a great deal last night of what you said yesterday when you urged me to be patient; when you explained to me that nothing is done in a day. Alas! I know it well; but I suffer precisely because of my good qualities, which are defects situated as we are now. I am an active man, and I am impatient to have it deciphered--this enigma that is torturing my brain.

But you understand, my darling, since you know me so well. It is useless for me to tell each day of the fevers of impatience which at times overcome me; the paroxysms of crazy anger which at times carry me away....

Yesterday I received good news. They told me that I am to see your mother to-day. I am rejoicing over it in advance.

_Half-past 5 o’clock._

I have seen Me. Demange for a few minutes; afterward I had the pleasure of seeing your mother.

I was so enervated to-day that I almost fainted before her. I could not help it. Sometimes I become again a man, with all man’s weakness, with all man’s passions. You must admit that there is in my situation enough to break down the strongest.

Ah, believe that were it not for you--for our dear children--it would be far easier for me to die! But I must bear up and face my sorrow. I must tell myself that I will bear all the agony, all the martyrdom, until the time when my innocence shall burst forth in the light of day.

It is impossible that it can be otherwise.

I shall hold out to the end, be sure of it; but at times I will give way to cries of wrath--to cries of anguish.

Embrace them all, our darlings, for me.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

* * * * *

_7 o’clock._

My moment of weakness is past. I see and I live in the future. Courage, then, all of us. Sooner or later innocence will triumph.

Go forward without flinching on the path you have marked out, as I shall go forward without weakening on my dolorous journey.

_Wednesday, 16 January, 1895, 10 o’clock in the morning._

My Darling:

I have succeeded in conquering my nerves. I have silenced the tumult of my soul. It does no good to be impatient, since I am resolved to live to see my innocence proclaimed.

I know that it will require time--yes, a long time--but I shall wait, as I promised you that I would, with calmness and with dignity until the truth is known. My conscience will give me the necessary strength.

I will prepare my soul to bear without a murmur the suffering which yet awaits me. I will stifle the sobs of my bleeding heart.

Yesterday I lost for some minutes the sense of my existence; remember that it is now three months that I have been shut up in this room, a prey to the most appalling mental tortures that can be inflicted upon a man of heart; but by a violent effort of my whole being I regained possession of myself.

It is, above all, my nerves that are weak; my spirit is what it was in the beginning.

But you all are united in will, in intelligence, and in devotion; therefore I have the conviction that soon or late the day will dawn. I shall not belie your efforts.

Let us speak no more of it.

What shall I tell you? My daily life? You know it! I have described it to you in its smallest details. My thoughts? They are all of you, of our dear children, of our dear families. Still two more days to wait before I can see you and embrace you. How long the interval is that separates our interviews, and how short the time of our meetings! I would make the time run by when you are far from me. I would make it an eternity when you are with me.

What courage you give me to live, my darling; what patience I draw from the deep well of your eyes, from the memories you recall to me, from my duty to our darlings.

* * * * *

_1 o’clock._

I have just received your two dear letters of Tuesday. You are right to speak to me of our dear ones. Though every thought of them rends my heart, their chatter, which you repeat to me, awakes in me happy and touching memories, and faith comes back to me--a faith in better days.

I agree absolutely with you as to the work in which you are engaged. Calmness, time, and perseverance are needful if we would go on to the end. I know it well; I should do just as you are doing were I in your place, preferring to advance slowly but surely rather than lose all by thoughtless haste. But I, alas! I am shut up between four walls, idle, my blood on fire and my point of view is necessarily different from yours.

They have just told me that my two sisters will come to see me at two o’clock. What a happiness it is to see those who belong to one!

* * * * *

_5 o’clock._

I have seen Louise and Rachel. I have felt that their hearts beat with mine, that they share my sufferings. Their faith in the future is absolute. I hope as they do.

What devotion I meet in our wonderful families, in our friends! It consoles me, moreover, for the weakness of humanity. Truly we can judge of people only when we are in trouble.

I embrace you a thousand times, as I love you.

Your devoted

ALFRED.

Dear Jeanne must be changing in her appearance. Is she becoming as handsome as a girl as her brother is handsome as a boy?

* * * * *

_Thursday, 17 January, 1895, 9 o’clock._

What a part these accursed nerves play in human life! Why cannot we entirely disengage our material being from our moral personality, so that one shall not influence the other?

My moral personality is always salient, always strong, as ever resolved to go on to the end; it is determined to face all. I must get back my honor that they tore from me, although I had never faltered. But my material personality is subjected to rude shocks. My nerves, which have been too tensely strung during nearly three months, make me suffer horribly at times, and I have not even the resource of violent physical exercise by which to subdue them. I am to be given some medicine to-day to relax their tension.

Ah, when I think of those who have accused me and caused my condemnation! May remorse pursue them and make them bear the anguish that I am bearing. But let us talk of other things.

How are you, my darling? How are the children? I hope that you all may continue to be well. Be careful of yourself; you have not the right to allow yourself to be broken down. You have need of all your courage and of all your energy; and therefore you need all your physical strength.

At last the time has come. To-morrow will be Friday. How long that day is in coming! Happily the time seemed a little less long this week; for yesterday and the day before I heard of you from those who came to see me.

After all, why should not I, too, have confidence, when I feel around me all this friendship, all this affection, all this devotion!

But that which I must have above all things is patience.

* * * * *

_2 o’clock._