“Cruel one! What thanks have I to render to fortune if you thus repulse the proofs of my love?”
“You must overcome your passion,” said she; “I cannot listen to it without being criminal. Make an effort to suppress your desires, and I will set you the example.”
“Alas! Susan, you have but little love left if you advise me to suppress mine. And for what cause am I to do this, when nothing obstructs our happiness?”
“Nothing to oppose our happiness! How I wish you spoke the truth in saying so!” and she burst into tears, of which I asked the cause.
“Would you,” said she, “partake with me the sad consequences of my debauchery? And if you would, could I have the cruelty to consent to it?”
“Do you think to restrain me by so weak a reason? I would readily die with my Susan, and shall I shrink from sharing her misfortunes?” So saying I threw her down on the bed and prepared to prove by acts that I feared no dangers.
“Ah, Silas! You will destroy yourself.”
“If I do, it will be in your arms,” said I in a transport of passion.
She gave way to me, and I effected an entry: let me be permitted here to imitate the sagacious Greek, who, in his picture of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, after having exhausted on the countenances of the assistants every trait characteristic of the deepest grief, threw a veil over the face of Agamemmon, leaving it for the imagination of others to conceive what must be the immolation of an adored daughter. I leave you, dear reader, the pleasure of imagining; but I address myself to you only who have experienced all the crosses of love, and after long years of waiting, have seen your passion crowned by the beloved object of it. Recall your transports, stretch your imagination still farther, if possible, and still you will fall short of my ecstasies. But what demon, jealous of my tranquility, is continually holding up to my view the recollection which can almost make me shed tears of blood?
The day came before we were aware that the night had fled. I had forgotten my griefs, and everything else in the embraces of Susan.
“We will never part, my dear brother,” said she; “where can you find one to love you more; one whose passion for you can be more ardent?”
I swore to live with her always; I swore it, alas! And we were that moment on the point of an eternal separation. The storm burst over our heads, but we saw it not till too late to save ourselves from its violence.
“Fly, Susan, fly!” cried a terrified girl as she burst into our room. “Fly by the back staircase.”
All amazed, we hastened to get up; but it was too late: a fierce-looking officer entered the moment we were out of bed. Susan, trembling and bewildered, threw herself into my arms, but he tore her from me in spite of my efforts, and was going off with her. This sight made me furious; rage increased my strength, and despair made me invincible. A dog-iron that I snatched up from the fire-place became a deadly weapon in my hands. I flew at the officer, and in a moment Susan's ravisher was stretched on the floor at my feet. His comrades rushed forwards upon me; I could no longer defend myself, but surrendered, and was made prisoner. They bound me,” and would scarcely permit me to take the half of my clothes.
“Adieu! My dear sister, adieu!” I cried, stretching out my hands as well as I could.
They dragged me down the staircase by my legs; and the pain caused by my head thumping against the steps soon made me insensible.
I ought here to close the recital of my misfortunes. Ah, reader! if you have a tender heart, suspend your curiosity, and be content to bemoan my lot. But why must the sense of sorrow always prevail? Have I not wept enough? I have reached my port, and I regret still the dangers of the sea. Read, and you will see the sad termination of debauchery; lucky will you be if you do not pay dearer for it than myself.
When I recovered my sense, it was to find myself on a miserable bed in the middle of a hospital. I asked where I was, and was told at Bicetre. Good heavens, at Bicetre! My grief petrified me, a fever seized me, and I only recovered from that to fall into a still worse malady, the pox. I received this additional chastisement from the hand of Providence without a murmur, saying to myself that I would not lament my own fate while Susan was suffering from the same disease.
I gradually became so much worse that the doctors were compelled to have recourse to the most violent remedy to save me from the death that threatened me. I will spare my readers the pain of reading a detail of my sufferings during and after the operation to which I owed my life, though I was reduced to so weak a state that my life was despaired of. How much happier for me if I had never recovered from the fit of insensibility that followed the anguish of that awful moment! But I recovered, and the first thing I did on regaining my senses was to put my hand to the part where I felt the most acute pain. I shrieked with terror on finding that I was no longer a man, and fell into a swoon. When I came to myself I felt like Job on his dung-hill, overwhelmed with grief but resigned to the will of heaven, and in the bitterness of my heart I exclaimed: The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!
I now had no wish but to die; I had lost all power of enjoying life, and the grave was the end of my every hope. I was desirous of hiding even from myself what I had been, and I could not without horror think of my present condition.
“Here then am I,” said I to myself, “the unfortunate Father Silas, the man once so cherished by the women; but the better part of me is no more; a cruel blow has struck off what I prized more than mere existence. I was a hero, and am now nothing but… Die unhappy one, die; is it possible to survive this loss? You are but an eunuch.”
But Death was deaf to my supplications; my health returned, and I was well again. The Superior of the hospital came and told me that I was free.
“Free,” cried I; “Alas! Of what use to me is the liberty that you give me. To one situated as I am, it is the most disagreeable favor you can confer. But, sir, may I venture to ask after a young woman that was brought here the same day as myself.”
“She is happier in her fate than yourself,” he replied; “she died under the treatment.”
“Died!” cried I, quite prostrated by this last stroke; “Susan is dead! Oh, heavens! And I still live.”
Such was my despair that I should have instantly put an end to my miserable existence, had not the attendants prevented me. They saved me from my own fury, and put me in the way to take advantage of the liberty I had recovered, that is to say, they turned me out of doors.
For a moment I was as if annihilated; the tears that flowed from my eyes were the only signs of life. My despair was extreme. Covered with a miserable coat, having scarcely anything to live on, and not knowing where to go, I threw myself on the care of Providence. I took the road to Paris, and on arriving there the walls of a convent of the Carthusians struck my eye, and a hope arose in my mind that I might there find a refuge from the pranks of fortune among its inmates. I went and asked permission to see the Superior, and it was granted. When introduced to him I threw myself down at his feet, and told him the sad tale of my woes.
“O my son,” said he, embracing me with kindness, “praise the Lord, who has reserved this port for you to repose in after so many troubles. Come and live here, and, if possible, be happy.”
I accepted the invitation of the pious old man and was formally received. I was in the convent some time before I had any employment, but at last a trifling office was given to me. I rose by degrees to the rank of door porter, and have retained the situation to the present moment.
Here the hatred of the world that had been engendered by my difficulties and trials in passing through its sweet and thorny paths, gained deep hold of my heart, and I await death without fearing its approach or wishing to hasten the moment of its coming; and come when it may, I hope to meet it with the same collectedness of spirit with which I can now contemplate the enjoyment of its imperturbable repose.
