The Torture of Hope

MANY years ago, as evening was closing in, the venerable Pedro Arbuez
d'Espila, sixth prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, and third Grand
Inquisitor of Spain, followed by a fra redemptor, and preceded by two
familiars of the Holy Office, the latter carrying lanterns, made their way to
a subterranean dungeon. The bolt of a massive door creaked, and they entered
a mephitic in pace, where the dim light revealed between rings fastened to
the wall a blood-stained rack, a brazier, and a jug. On a pile of straw,
loaded with fetters and his neck encircled by an iron carcan, sat a haggard
man, of uncertain age, clothed in rags.

This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Aragon,
who--accused of usury and pitiless scorn for the poor--had been daily
subjected to torture for more than a year. Yet "his blindness was as dense as
his hide," and he had refused to abjure his faith.

Proud of a filiation dating back thousands of years, proud of his
ancestors--for all Jews worthy of the name are vain of their blood--he
descended Talmudically from Othoniel and consequently from Ipsiboa, the wife
of the last judge of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his courage
amid incessant torture. With tears in his eyes at the thought of this
resolute soul rejecting salvation, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila,
approaching the shuddering rabbi, addressed him as follows:

"My son, rejoice: your trials here below are about to end. If in the
presence of such obstinacy I was forced to permit, with deep regret, the use
of great severity, my task of fraternal correction has its limits. You are
the fig tree which, having failed so many times to bear fruit, at last
withered, but God alone can judge your soul. Perhaps Infinite Mercy will
shine upon you at the last moment! We must hope so. There are examples. So
sleep in peace tonight. Tomorrow you will be included in the auto da fe: that
is, you will be exposed to the quemadero, the symbolical flames of the
Everlasting Fire: it burns, as you know, only at a distance, my son; and
Death is at least two hours (often three) in coming, on account of the wet,
iced bandages with which we protect the heads and hearts of the condemned.
There will be forty-three of you. Placed in the last row, you will have time
to invoke God and offer to Him this baptism of fire, which is of the Holy
Spirit. Hope in the Light, and rest."

With these words, having signed to his companions to unchain the prisoner,
the prior tenderly embraced him. Then came the turn of the fra redemptor,
who, in a low tone, entreated the Jew's forgiveness for what he had made him
suffer for the purpose of redeeming him; then the two familiars silently
kissed him. This ceremony over, the captive was left, solitary and
bewildered, in the darkness.



Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, with parched lips and visage worn by suffering, at
first gazed at the closed door with vacant eyes. Closed? The word
unconsciously roused a vague fancy in his mind, the fancy that he had seen
for an instant the light of the lanterns through a chink between the door and
the wall. A morbid idea of hope, due to the weakness of his brain, stirred
his whole being. He dragged himself toward the strange appearance. Then, very
gently and cautiously, slipping one finger into the crevice, he drew the door
toward him. Marvelous! By an extraordinary accident the familiar who closed
it had turned the huge key an instant before it struck the stone casing, so
that the rusty bolt not having entered the hole, the door again rolled on its
hinges.

The rabbi ventured to glance outside. By the aid of a sort of luminous
dusk he distinguished at first a semicircle of walls indented by winding
stairs; and opposite to him, at the top of five or six stone steps, a sort of
black portal, opening into an immense corridor, whose first arches only were
visible from below.

Stretching himself flat he crept to the threshold. Yes, it was really a
corridor, but endless in length. A wan light illumined it: lamps suspended
from the vaulted ceiling lightened at intervals the dull hue of the
atmosphere--the distance was veiled in shadow. Not a single door appeared in
the whole extent! Only on one side, the left, heavily grated loopholes, sunk
in the walls, admitted a light which must be that of evening, for crimson
bars at intervals rested on the flags of the pavement. What a terrible
silence! Yet, yonder, at the far end of that passage there might be a doorway
of escape! The Jew's vacillating hope was tenacious for it was the last.

Without hesitating, he ventured on the flags, keeping close under the
loopholes, trying to make himself part of the blackness of the long walls. He
advanced slowly, dragging himself along on his breast, forcing back the cry
of pain when some raw wound sent a keen pang through his whole body.

Suddenly the sound of a sandaled foot approaching reached his ears. He
trembled violently, fear stifled him, his sight grew dim. Well, it was over,
no doubt. He pressed himself into a niche and, half lifeless with terror,
waited.

It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed swiftly by, holding in his
clenched hand an instrument of torture--a frightful figure--and vanished. The
suspense which the rabbi had endured seemed to have suspended the functions
of life, and he lay nearly an hour unable to move. Fearing an increase of
tortures if he were captured, he thought of returning to his dungeon. But the
old hope whispered in his soul that divine perhaps, which comforts us in our
sorest trials. A miracle had happened. He could doubt no longer. He began to
crawl toward the chance of escape. Exhausted by suffering and hunger,
trembling with pain, he pressed onward. The sepulchral corridor seemed to
lengthen mysteriously, while he, still advancing, gazed into the gloom where
there must be some avenue of escape.

Oh! oh! He again heard footsteps, but this time they were slower, more
heavy. The white and black forms of two inquisitors appeared, emerging from
the obscurity beyond. They were conversing in low tones, and seemed to be
discussing some important subJect, for they were gesticulating vehemently.

At this spectacle Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes; his heart beat so
violently that it almost suffocated him; his rags were damp with the cold
sweat of agony; he lay motionless by the wall, his mouth wide open, under the
rays of a lamp, praying to the God of David.

Just opposite to him the two inquisitors paused under the light of the
lamp--doubtless owing to some accident due to the course of their argument.
One, while listening to his companion, gazed at the rabbi! And, beneath that
look--whose absence of expression the hapless man did not at first notice--he
fancied he again felt the burning pincers scorch his flesh, he was to be once
more a living wound. Fainting, breathless, with fluttering eyelids, he
shivered at the touch of the monk's floating robe. But--strange yet natural
fact--the inquisitor's gaze was evidently that of a man deeply absorbed in
his intended reply, engrossed by what he was hearing; his eyes were
fixed--and seemed to look at the Jew without seeing him.

In fact, after the lapse of a few minutes, the two gloomy figures slowly
pursued their way, still conversing in low tones, toward the place whence the
prisoner had come. HE HAD NOT BEEN SEEN! Amid the horrible confusion of the
rabbi's thoughts, the idea darted through his brain: "Can I be already dead
that they did not see me?" A hideous impression roused him from his lethargy:
in looking at the wall against which his face was pressed, he imagined he
beheld two fierce eyes watching him! He flung his head back in a sudden
frenzy of fright, his hair fairly bristling! Yet, no! No. His hand groped
over the stones: it was the reflection of the inquisitor's eyes, still
retained in his own, which had been reflected from two spots on the wall.

Forward! He must hasten toward that goal which he fancied (absurdly, no
doubt) to be deliverance, toward the darkness from which he was now barely
thirty paces distant. He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands, at
full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark
portion of this terrible corridor.

Suddenly the poor wretch felt a gust of cold air on the hands resting upon
the flags; it came from under the little door to which the two walls led.

Oh, Heaven, if that door should open outward. Every nerve in the miserable
fugitive's body thrilled with hope. He examined it from top to bottom, though
scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the surrounding darkness. He
passed his hand over it: no bolt, no lock! A latch! He started up, the latch
yielded to the pressure of his thumb: the door silently swung open before
him.



"Halleluia!" murmured the rabbi in a transport of gratitude as, standing
on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him.

The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit sky,
into spring, liberty, life! It revealed the neighboring fields, stretching
toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved against the
horizon. Yonder lay freedom! Oh, to escape! He would journey all night
through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached him. Once in the mountains
and he was safe! He inhaled the delicious air; the breeze revived him, his
lungs expanded! He felt in his swelling heart the Veniforas of Lazarus! And
to thank once more the God who had bestowed this mercy upon him, he extended
his arms, raising his eyes toward Heaven. It was an ecstasy of joy!

Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him--fancied that
he felt these shadowy arms inclose, embrace him--and that he was pressed
tenderly to someone's breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly
before him. He lowered his eyes--and remained motionless, gasping for breath,
dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly driveling with terror.

Horror! He was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the venerable
Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, who gazed at him with tearful eyes, like a good
shepherd who had found his stray lamb.

The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so fervent
an outburst of love, that the edge of the monochal haircloth rubbed the
Dominican's breast. And while Aser Abarbanel with protruding eyes gasped in
agony in the ascetic's embrace, vaguely comprehending that all the phases of
this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of HOPE, the Grand
Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation,
murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting:

"What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation--you wished to leave
us?"