Justine 淑女的眼泪 Chapter 23

I had just, on the 7th of August, left Auxerre; I shall never forget that date. I had walked about two leagues: the noonday heat beginning to incommode me, I climbed a little eminence¹ crowned by a grove² of trees; the place was not far removed from the road, I went there with the purpose of refreshing³ myself and obtaining a few hours of sleep without having to pay the expense of an inn, and up there I was in greater safety than upon the highway. I established myself at the foot of an oak and, after a frugal⁴ lunch, I drifted off into sweet sleep. Well did I rest, for a considerable time, and in a state of complete tranquillity⁵; and then, opening my eyes, it was with great pleasure I mused⁶ upon the landscape which was visible for a long distance. From out of the middle of a forest that extended upon the right, I thought I could detect, some three or four leagues from where I was, a little bell tower rising modestly into the air.... "Beloved solitude," I murmured, "what a desire I have to dwell a time in thee; and thou afar," said I, addressing the abbey, "thou must be the asylum⁷ of a few gentle, virtuous⁸ recluses⁹ who are occupied with none but God... with naught¹⁰ but their pious¹¹ duties; or a retreat unto some holy hermits¹² devoted¹³ to Religion alone... men who, far removed from that pernicious society where incessant¹⁴ crime, brooding heavily, threatfully over innocence¹⁶, degrades it, annihilates¹⁷ it... ah! there must all virtues¹⁸ dwell, of that I am certain, and when mankind's crimes exile them out of the world, 'tis thither²⁰ they go in that isolated²¹ place to commune with the souls of those fortunate ones who cherish them and cultivate them every day."

 

I was absorbed in these thoughts when a girl of my age, keeper of a flock of sheep grazing upon the plateau, suddenly appeared before my eyes; I question her about that habitation, she tells me what I see is a Benedictine monastery²² occupied by four solitary²³ monks²⁵ of peerless devotion, whose continence and sobriety are without example. Once a year, says the girl, a pilgrimage is made to a miraculous²⁶ Virgin²⁷ who is there, and from Her pious folk obtain all their hearts' desire. Singularly eager immediately to go and implore²⁸ aid at the feet of this holy Mother of God, I ask the girl whether she would like to come and pray with me; 'tis impossible, she replies, for her mother awaits her; but the road there is easy. She indicates it to me, she assures me the superior of the house, the most respectable, the most saintly of men, will receive me with perfect good grace and will offer me all the aid whereof I can possibly stand in need. "Dom Severino, so he is called," continues the girl, "is an Italian closely related to the Pope, who overwhelms him with kindnesses; he is gentle, honest, correct, obliging, fifty-five years old, and has spent above two-thirds of his life in France... you will be satisfied with him, Mademoiselle," the shepherdess concluded, "go and edify²⁹ yourself in that sacred quiet, and you will only return from it improved."

 

This recital³⁰ only inflamed³¹ my zeal³² the more, I became unable to resist the violent desire I felt to pay a visit to this hallowed church and there, by a few acts of piety³³, to make restitution³⁴ for the neglect whereof I was guilty. However great was my own need of charities, I gave the girl a crown, and set off down the road leading to Saint Mary-in-the-Wood, as was called the monastery toward which I directed my steps.

 

When I had descended³⁶ upon the plain I could see the spire³⁷ no more; for guide I had nothing but the forest ahead of me, and before long I began to fear that the distance, of which I had forgotten to inform myself, was far greater than I had estimated at first; but was in nowise discouraged. I arrived at the edge of the forest and, some amount of daylight still remaining, I decided³⁸ to forge on, considering I should be able to reach the monastery before nightfall. However, not a hint of human life presented itself to my gaze, not a house, and all I had for road was a beaten path I followed virtually at random³⁹; I had already walked at least five leagues without seeing a thing when, the Star having completely ceased to light the universe, it seemed I heard the tolling⁴⁰ of a bell... I harken, I move toward the sound, I hasten, the path widens ever so little, at last I perceive several hedges and soon afterward⁴¹ the monastery; than this isolation⁴² nothing could be wilder, more rustic⁴³, there is no neighboring habitation, the nearest is six leagues removed, and dense⁴⁴ tracts⁴⁵ of forest surround the house on all sides; it was situated⁴⁶ in a depression, I had a goodly distance to descend³⁵ in order to get to it, and this was the reason I had lost sight of the tower; a gardener's cabin nestled against the monastery's walls; it was there one applied⁴⁷ before entering. I demanded of this gate-keeper whether it were permitted to speak to the superior; he asked to be informed of my errand; I advised him that a religious duty had drawn⁴⁸ me to this holy refuge and that I would be well repaid for all the trouble I had experienced to get to it were I able to kneel an instant before the feet of the miraculous Virgin and the saintly ecclesiastics⁴⁹ in whose house the divine image was preserved. The gardener rings and I penetrate⁵⁰ into the monastery; but as the hour is advanced and the fathers are at supper, he is some time in returning. At last he reappears with one of the monks:

 

"Mademoiselle," says he, "here is Dom Clement⁵¹, steward⁵² to the house; he has come to see whether what you desire merits interrupting the superior."

 

Clement, whose name could not conceivably have been less descriptive of his physiognomy, was a man of forty-eight years, of an enormous bulk, of a giant's stature⁵³; somber⁵⁴ was his expression, fierce his eye; the only words he spoke⁵⁵ were harsh, and they were expelled by a raucous⁵⁶ voice: here was a satyric personage indeed, a tyrant's exterior⁵⁷; he made me tremble.... And then despite all I could do to suppress it, the remembrance of my old miseries⁵⁸ rose to smite⁵⁹ my troubled memory in traits of blood....

 

"What do you want?" the monk²⁴ asked me; his air was surly, his mien⁶⁰ grim; "is this the hour to come to a church?... Indeed, you have the air of an adventuress."

 

"Saintly man," said I, prostrating⁶¹ myself, "I believed it was always the hour to present oneself at God's door; I have hastened from far off to arrive here; full of fervor⁶² and devotion, I ask to confess, if it is possible, and when what my conscience contains is known to you, you will see whether or not I am worthy⁶³ to humble⁶⁴ myself at the feet of the holy image."

 

"But this is not the time for confession⁶⁵," said the monk, his manner softening⁶⁶; "where are you going to spend the night? We have no hospice... it would have been better to have come in the morning." I gave him the reasons which had prevented me from doing so and, without replying, Clement went to report to the superior. Several minutes later the church was opened, Don Severino himself approached me, and invited me to enter the temple with him.

 

Dom Severino, of whom it would be best to give you an idea at once, was, as I had been told, a man of fifty-five, but endowed with handsome features, a still youthful quality, a vigorous physique, herculean limbs, and all that without harshness; a certain elegance⁶⁷ and pliancy⁶⁸ reigned⁶⁹ over the whole and suggested that in his young years he must have possessed⁷⁰ all the traits which constitute a splendid man. There were in all the world no finer eyes than his; nobility shone in his features, and the most genteel, the most courteous⁷¹ tone was there throughout. An agreeable accent which colored every one of his words enabled one to identify his Italian origin and, I admit it, this monk's outward graces did much to dispel⁷² the alarm the other had caused me.

 

"My dear girl," said he very graciously, "although the hour is unseasonable and though it is not our usage to receive so late, I will however hear your confession, and afterward we will confer upon the means whereby you may pass the night in decency⁷³; tomorrow you will be able to bow down before the sacred image which brings you here."

 

We enter the church; the doors are closed; a lamp is lit near the confessional. Severino bids me assume my place, he sits down and requests me to tell him everything with complete confidence.

 

I was perfectly⁷⁴ at ease with a man who seemed so mild-mannered, so full of gentle sympathy. I disguised nothing from him: I confessed all my sins; I related all my miseries; I even uncovered the shameful⁷⁵ mark wherewith the barbaric Rodin had branded me. Severino listened to everything with keenest attention, he even had me repeat several details, wearing always a look of pity and of interest; but a few movements, a few words betrayed him nevertheless alas⁷⁶! it was only afterward I pondered them thoroughly⁷⁷. Later, when able to reflect calmly upon this interview, it was impossible not to remember that the monk had several times permitted himself certain gestures which dramatized the emotion that had heavy entrance into many of the questions he put to me, and those inquiries⁷⁸ not only halted complacently⁷⁹ and lingered lovingly over obscene details, but had borne with noticeable insistence⁸⁰ upon the following five points: 1. Whether it were really so that I were an orphan⁸¹ and had been born in Paris. 2. Whether it were a certainty I were bereft⁸² of kin¹⁹ and had neither friends, nor protection, nor, in a word, anyone to whom I could write. 3. Whether I had confided⁸³ to anyone, other than to the shepherdess who had pointed⁸⁴ out the monastery to me, my purpose in going there, and whether I had not arranged some rendezvous⁸⁵ upon my return. 4. Whether it were certain that I had known no one since my rape⁸⁶, and whether I were fully¹⁵ sure the man who had abused me had done so on the side Nature condemns⁸⁷ as well as on the side she permits. 5. Whether I thought I had not been followed and whether anyone, according to my belief, might have observed me enter the monastery.

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