Speaker 1: The torture by hope by Villiere delis Adam many years ago,
as evening was closing in the venerable Pedro Abuez de 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 impache,
where the dim light revealed between rings fastened to a 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 Assa Abbabknell, a Jew of Arrogan, 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 ipsy Boa,
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 Abouz de Espillah, approaching the
shuddering Rabbi, addressed him as follows, my son, Rejoice, your
trials here below are about to end. 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 to night.
To morrow you will be included in the otto d'afay,
that is, you will be exposed to the Quamadero, 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 bewitched in
the darkness. Rabbi Assa Arbabanel, 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 bult 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 illuminated 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 fright 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 heard again 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 specter, Rabbi Asser Arbabanel
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 the look, whose absence of expression, the haplessnes man
did not at first notice, he fancied. He again felt
the burning pincers scorch his flesh. He was 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, and ghost
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 thought,
the idea darted through his brain. Can I be already
dead that they did not see me? 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 his hand groped over the stones. It was the
reflection of the inquisitor's eyes, still retained in his own,
which had been refracted 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. How
Illuliah 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 field, stretching towards the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines
were relieved against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom. Oh to escape,
He would journey all night through the lemngros, 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 veni
foras 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 some
one'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 Abuez Despilla, who gazed at him with tearful eyes,
like a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.
The dark robed priest pressed the hapless dew to his
heart with so fervent an outburst of love that the
edges of the monochal haircloth rubbed the Dominican's breast, and
while Esa 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?
End of the torture by Hope, by Villie delis Adam,