The Hour and the Man Part 46

So was Euphrosyne when she heard her argument thus stated.

"I only mean," said she, striving to subdue her sobs; "I only mean that I wish sister Claire, and sister Benoite, and all of them, would not want me to be glad and revengeful."

"Glad and revengeful!" repeated Father Gabriel. "That would be difficult."

"It makes me very miserable--it can do no good now--it could not bring grandpapa to life again, if every negro in Limbe were shot," she continued, as tears rained down her cheeks. "Dear grandpapa never wished any ill to anybody--he never did anybody any harm--"

The priest and the abbess exchanged glances.

"Why do you suppose these wretched blacks killed him, my dear?"

"I do not know why they rose, this one particular time. But I believe they have always risen because the whites have been proud and cruel; because the whites used to put them in chains, and whip them, and part mothers and children. After doing all this, and after bringing them up ignorant and without religion, we expect them to forgive everything that has pa.s.sed, while we will not forgive them ourselves. But I will--I will forgive them my share. For all that you religious people may say, I will forgive them: and I am not afraid of what grandpapa would think.

I hope he is in a place now where there is no question about forgiving those who have injured us. The worst thing is, the thing that I cannot understand is, how L'Ouverture could do anything so cruel."

"I have a word to say to you, my dear," said the priest, with a sign to the abbess.

"Oh, father!" replied the abbess, in an imploring tone.

"We must bring her to a right view, reverend sister. Euphrosyne, if your grandfather had not been the kind master you suppose him--if he had been one of the cruel whites you spoke of just now, if his own slaves had always hated him, and--"

"Do stop!" said Euphrosyne, colouring crimson. "I cannot bear to hear you speak so, father."

"You must bear, my child, to listen to what it is good for you to hear.

If he had been disliked by every black in the colony, and they had sought his life out of revenge, would you still be angry that justice was done, and ungrateful that he is avenged?"

"You talk of avenging--you, a Christian priest!" said Euphrosyne. "You talk of justice--you, who slander the dead!"

"Peace, my daughter," said the abbess, very gently. "Remember where you are, and whom you speak to."

"Remember where my grandfather is," cried Euphrosyne. "Remember that he is in his grave, and that I am left to speak for him. However," she said--and, in these few moments, a thousand confirmations of the priest's words had rushed upon her memory--a thousand tokens of the mutual fear and hatred of her grandfather and the black race, a thousand signs of his repugnance to visit Le Bosquet--"however," she resumed, in a milder tone, and with an anxious glance at Father Gabriel's face, "Father Gabriel only said 'if'--_if_ all that he described had been so."

"True, my child," replied the abbess: "Father Gabriel only said 'if it had been so.'"

"And if it had," exclaimed Euphrosyne, who did not wish to hear the father speak again at the moment--"if it had been so, it would have been wicked in the negroes to do that act in revenge; but it could never, never excuse us from forgiving them--from pitying them because they had been made cruel and revengeful. I am sure I wish they had all lived-- that they might live many, many years, till they could forget those cruel old times, and, being old men themselves, might feel what it is to touch an old man's life. This is the kind of punishment I wish them; and I am sure it would be enough."

"It is indeed said," observed the abbess, "'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

"And oh! poor Genifrede!" pursued Euphrosyne. "She no more wished ill to my parent than I do to hers; and her lover--it was not he that did it: and yet--Oh, Father Gabriel, are you sure that that firing--that last volley--"

"It was certainly the death stroke of Moyse. I perceive how it is, my child. I perceive that your friends.h.i.+ps among this new race have blinded your eyes, so that you cannot see that these executions are, indeed, G.o.d's avenging of the murder by which you are made a second time an orphan."

"Do you think L'Ouverture right, then? I should be glad to believe that he was not cruel--dreadfully cruel."

"There is no doubt of L'Ouverture's being wise and right--of his having finally a.s.sured the most unwilling of the inhabitants of their security, and his stern justice. There is no doubt that L'Ouverture is right."

"I could not have believed," said the abbess, "that my daughter would have required a justification of anything done by L'Ouverture."

"Nor I," said Euphrosyne, sighing.

"Under him," said Father Gabriel, "there is less crime in the colony than, I verily believe, in any other part of the empire. Under him have homes become sacred, children are instructed, and brethren are taught to dwell together in unity."

"As," said the abbess, "when he stopped in his journey to greet an old negro of ninety-nine, and reconcile to him two who had offended out of his many children. L'Ouverture is never in so much haste but that he can pause to honour old ago: never too busy for works of mercy. If the peace-makers are blessed, so is he."

"And where," continued the father, "where are the poor? We can observe his continual admonition to works of mercy, by nursing the sick, and consoling the afflicted; but we have no longer any poor. By his wisdom, he has won over all to labour. The fields are thronged with labourers: the bays are crowded with s.h.i.+ps: the store-houses are overflowing with food and merchandise: and there is a portion for all."

"And it was the French," said Euphrosyne, "who made this last commotion.

If they had let L'Ouverture alone, how happy we might all have been!

Now, Genifrede will never be happy again. If L'Ouverture could only have forgiven this once! But, father, I have no comfort--and never shall have comfort, as long as I think that men have been murdered for injuring us."

"Pray for comfort, my child. In prayer you will find consolation."

"I dare not pray, now this has happened. If they were but alive, how I would pray for them!"

"They are alive, my daughter, and where they much need your prayers.

Pray for them, and your intercession may be heard."

Euphrosyne saw that her feelings were not understood; and she said no more. She listened to all the teachings that were offered her, and reserved her doubts and troubles for Afra's ear. Afra would tell her whether it could be right in such a Christian as L'Ouverture to render violence for violence. As for what the father and the abbess said about the effect of example, and the necessity and the benefit of a.s.suring and conciliating the whites, by sacrificing negro offenders for their sakes, she dissented from it altogether. She had witnessed Toussaint's power-- the power with which his spirit of gentleness and forbearance endowed him; and she believed that, if he would but try, he would find he could govern better by declaring always for the right and against the wrong, and leaving vengeance to G.o.d, than by the violent death of all the ignorant and violent men in the island. She would ask Afra. She was pretty sure Afra would think as she did: and, if so, the time might come--it made her breathless to think of it, but she could not help thinking of it every day--the time might come when she might ask Toussaint himself what he thought was exactly meant, in all cases, by forgiving our enemies; and particularly whether this did not extend to forgiving other people's enemies, and using no vengeance and no violence at all.

This idea of seeing Afra gained strength under all the circ.u.mstances of her present life. If Father Gabriel offered her comfort which was no comfort, or reproved her when she did not feel herself wrong; if the abbess praised her for anything she had not designed to be particularly right; if the sisters applauded sayings which she was conscious were not wise; if her heart ached for her grandfather's voice or countenance; if Monsieur Critois visited her, or Pierre did not; if her lesson in history was hard, or her piece of needle-work dull; if her flowers faded, or her bird sang so finely that she would have been proud for the world to hear it--the pa.s.sion for seeing Afra was renewed. Afra would explain all she could not understand, would teach her what she wanted to know. Afra would blame her where she was aware she was wrong, instead of bidding her be quit of it with a few prayers, while laying much heavier stress upon something that she could cure much more easily.

Afra wrote her a few letters, which were read by the abbess before they were delivered to her; and many more which. Pierre slipped into her hand during their occasional interviews. She herself wrote such prodigiously long letters to Afra, that to read them through would have been too great an addition to the reverend mother's business. She glanced over the first page and the last; and, seeing that they contained criticisms on Alexander the Great, and pity for Socrates, and questions about flower-painting and embroidery, she skipped all that lay between.

It was not that Euphrosyne did not love and trust the abbess. She loved her so as to open to her all but the inner chambers of her heart; and she trusted her with all but other persons' concerns. The middle pages of her letters contained speculation chiefly: speculation, in the first place, on Afra's future destiny, names and events being shrouded under mysterious expressions; and, in the second place, on points of morals, which might be referred to Monsieur Pascal, whose opinion was of great value. Euphrosyne had a strong persuasion, all the while, that she should one day tell her reverend mother the whole. She knew that she should not object to her seeing every line that Afra held of hers.

Whatever was clandestine in the correspondence was for the sake of avoiding restraint, and not because she was ashamed of any of her thoughts.

One morning the abbess found her in the garden, listlessly watching the hues of a bright lizard, as it lay panting in the sun. The abbess put her arm round her waist, while stooping to look.

"How it glitters!" said she. "It is a pretty piece of G.o.d's handiwork: but we must leave it now, my dear. This sun is too hot for you. Your chamber, or sister Claire's room, is the fittest place for you at this hour. You find your chamber cool?"

"Yes, madam."

"The new ventilator works well?"

"Yes, madam."

"You find--this way, my dear--this alley is the most shady--you find your little bed comfortable?"

"Yes, madam."

"And your toilet-cover--sister Marie's work--is, I think, extremely pretty: and the book-shelf that Father Gabriel gave you very convenient.

Your friends here, my dear, are fond of you. They are anxious to make you happy."

"They are all very kind to me, madam."

"I am glad you are sensible of it. You are not of an ungrateful nature, we all know."

"I hope not: but, madam, I cannot stay here always."

"I was going to say, my dear, that we have not done everything in our power for you yet. We must not forget that we grave women must be dull companions for a girl like you."