I V. THE FUNERAL
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“I will not undertake, René, to picture the despair that took possession of my soul when Atala had heaved her last sigh. It would require more warmth than I have left, and that my closed eyes might re-open to the sun, to ask it to tell of the tears they shed in its light. Yes, the moon now shining above our heads will become weary of lighting the solitudes of Kentucky—the river that is now bearing our pirogues will suspend the course of its waters—before my tears cease to flow for Atala! During two days I was insensible to the hermit’s conversation. In trying to calm my grief, the excellent man did not employ the commonplace reasonings of earthly minds. All he said was, ‘My son, it is the will of God;’ and then he pressed me in his arms. I should never have thought there was so much consolation in those few words of a resigned Christian, if I had not myself experienced it.
“The mild tenderness and the unvarying patience of the old servant of God at length conquered the obstinacy of my grief; I became ashamed of the tears I caused him to shed. ‘My father,’ I said, ‘this is too much: let the passions of a young man disturb the peace of your days no longer. Permit me to carry away the remains of my spouse; I will inter them in some corner of the desert; and if I am condemned to live on for a time, I will endeavor to render myself worthy of the eternal nuptials that were promised me by Atala.’
“At this unexpected return of courage, the good father trembled with joy, saying, ‘O blood of Jesus Christ, blood of my Divine Master, I acknowledge herein Thy merits! Thou wilt no doubt save this young man. My God, finish Thy work; restore peace to this troubled soul, and leave it but the humble and useful remembrances of its misfortunes!’
“The righteous man refused to give up to me the body of Lopez’s daughter; but he proposed to call together his neophytes, and to inter it with all the pomp of the Christian ceremonial. In my turn, I refused. ‘Atala’s misfortunes and virtues,’ I said, ‘were unknown to men; let her grave, dug secretly by our hands, share that obscurity.’ We agreed to set off the next morning at sunrise, and to bury Atala beneath the arch of the natural bridge at the entrance to the Groves of Death. It was also decided that we should pass the night in prayer near the corpse of the saint.
“Towards evening we transported the precious remains to an opening of the grotto looking to the north. The hermit had enveloped them in a piece of European lawn, woven by his mother. It was the only thing still remaining to him of his country, and he had long preserved it for his own tomb. We laid Atala upon a turf of mountain-sensitives; her feet, her head, her shoulders, and a part of her bosom were uncovered. There was a faded magnolia in her hair, the same flower I had placed upon the virgin’s couch to render her fruitful. Her lips, like a rose-bud gathered two mornings before, seemed to languish and smile. Her cheeks, of sparkling whiteness, showed a number of blue veins. Her beautiful eyes were closed, her modest feet joined together, and her hands of alabaster pressed against her heart an ebony crucifix; the scapulary of her vows was fastened about her neck. She appeared as though enchanted by the angel of melancholy, and by the double sleep of innocence and of the tomb.
I never saw anything so heavenly. By a person unconscious that this young girl had enjoyed the light, she might have been taken for a statue of Sleeping Virginity.
“The monk did not cease praying all night. I sat in silence at the end of my Atala’s funeral couch. How often, during her sleep, I had held that charming head upon my knees! How many times I had leaned over her to hear her breathe, and to inhale her breath! But at present no sound issued from that motionless breast, and it was in vain that I looked for the awakening of my love!
“The moon lent her pale light to this funereal watching; she rose in the middle of the night, like a white vestal come to weep over the coffin of a companion. From time to time the monk dipped a flowering branch into the holy water, and shaking its moistened leaves, perfumed the night air with heavenly balms. Occasionally also he repeated, to an ancient tune, these verses by an old poet named Job:
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“‘I have passed away like a flower; I have withered like the grass of the fields.
“‘Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?’
“Thus sang the old man. His deep and irregular voice went rolling through the silence of the desert. The name of God and of the tomb issued from all the echoes, from all the torrents, and from all the forests, and the Groves of Death seemed to be murmuring a distant chorus of the departed in reply to the hermit’s sacred chant.
“Nevertheless, a bar of gold was forming in the east. The sparrow-hawks were crying upon the rocks, and the martins creeping back into the hollows of the elm-trees: these were so many signs that the time had come for Atala’s interment. I took the body on my shoulders; the hermit walked in front of me, carrying a spade in his hand. We commenced the descent from rock to rock; old age and death combined equally to slacken our pace. At the sight of the dog which had found us in the forest, and which now, jumping with joy, led us by another route, I melted into tears. Atala’s long hair, the plaything of the morning breezes, frequently threw its golden veil over my eyes, and, bending beneath the burden, I was obliged to lay it down often upon the moss, and sit awhile, to recover my strength. At length we arrived at the spot selected by my grief, and we entered beneath the arch of the bridge. O my son, you should have seen the youthful savage and the old hermit, on their knees in front of each other, in the desert, digging with their hands a grave for the poor girl whose body lay stretched out close at hand, in the dried-up bed of a torrent!
“When our work was terminated, we transported the loved one into her bed of clay. Taking then a little dust in my hand, and observing a fearful silence, I looked upon Atala’s face for the last time. I afterwards spread the earth over that forehead of eighteen springs; gradually I saw the features of my sister disappear, and her graces become hidden beneath the curtain of eternity. ‘Lopez!’ I exclaimed, ‘behold your son burying your daughter!’ And I finished by covering Atala entirely with the earth of sleep.
“We returned to the grotto, where I made the missionary acquainted with the project I had formed of remaining with him. The saint, who wonderfully understood the heart of man, penetrated my thought and the artfulness of my grief. He said: ‘Chactas, son of Outalissi, so long as Atala was alive, I myself desired that you should live with me; but at present your lot is changed; you owe yourself to your country. Believe me, my son, such griefs are not eternal. Sooner or later they wear themselves out, because the heart of man is finite. That is one of our great miseries; we are not even capable of being unhappy for a long time. Return to the Mississippi; go and console your mother, who weeps for you day by day, and who stands in need of your support. Get yourself instructed in Atala’s religion, whenever an opportunity presents itself; and remember that you promised her to be virtuous and Christian. I will watch over her tomb. Go, my son; God, your sister’s soul, and the heart of your old friend, will follow you!’
“Such was the language of the man of the rock. His authority was too great, his wisdom too profound, not to be obeyed. The next morning I quitted my venerable host, who, pressing me to his heart, gave me his last counsels, his last blessing, and his last tears. I went to the grave, and was surprised at finding a little cross placed over the body, as one may sometimes perceive the mast of a vessel that has been wrecked. I judged that the hermit had been there to pray during the night. This mark of friendship and religion caused me to shed an abundance of tears. I was almost tempted to re-open the tomb, in order to gaze once more upon my well-beloved; a religious fear withheld me. I sat down upon the recently-disturbed ground. With an elbow resting upon my knees, and my head supported by my hand, I remained buried for a time in a most bitter reverie. O René! it was then that, for the first time, I made serious reflections upon the vanity of our days, and the still greater vanity of our projects. Ah! my child, who has not made such reflections? I am no longer but an old stag whitened by the winters; my years compete with those of the crow. Well, in spite of the number of days accumulated over my head, in spite of such a long experience of life, I have not yet met with a man who had not been deceived in his dreams of happiness, nor a heart that did not contain a hidden wound.
“Having thus seen the sun rise and set upon this place of grief, the next day, at the first cry of the stork, I prepared to leave the sacred sepulchre. I quitted it as the spot from which I desired to start upon a career of virtue. Three times I evoked the soul of Atala; three times the genius of the desert responded to my cries beneath the funeral arch. I afterwards saluted the East, and then I perceived, amongst the mountain paths in the distance, the friendly hermit going to the cabin of some unhappy creature. Falling upon my knees, and ardently embracing Atala’s grave, I exclaimed, ‘Sleep in peace in this foreign land, too unfortunate maiden! In return for your love, for your exile, and for your death, you are going to be abandoned, even by Chactas!’ Then, shedding a flood of tears, I separated from Lopez’s daughter, and, tearing myself from the spot, left at the foot of nature’s monument a monument still more august—the humble Tomb of Virtue.”
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