On the morning succeeding to the arrival of the Count D’Albini at the
cottage of Montmorency, Gabrielle, as was her custom, rose at an early
hour to pursue her customary avocations. D’Albini, awakening at a time
at which it had been more usual for him to retire to repose, rose
likewise, and perceived from his lattice the fair daughter of
Montmorency tending the little garden which spread its green carpet on a
small spot of the rugged rock, and flowered along the sides of a
frowning precipice. Struck with the beautiful simplicity of her
appearance, which, instead of detracting from, added a singular charm
to her majestic figure, he stepped back a few paces, for the purpose of
contemplating her unobserved; for Angelo did not pride himself on
possessing the vulgar effrontery which can look on modest beauty with
the bold stare of avowed libertinism. When Gabrielle turned her face
towards him, its sweet and noble expression, energetically animated, yet
devoid of boldness, conveyed a novel sensation to his breast; his heart
beat; a sensation of shame assailed him, and this feeling was occasioned
by the reflection of what women, how different in seeming to the
creature before him, had hitherto attracted his admiration, and enslaved
his senses.
“Oh, daughter of innocence,” he said to himself, “if all women looked
like you, men would reform, and feeling in the presence of superior
beings, abjure all guilty thoughts.”
Such were the ideas of Angelo, and involuntarily, in a moment, he found
himself at the side of her who had inspired them. Scarcely would it be
imagined, that, habituated so long to the great world, the gay and
admired Angelo should feel embarrassment in addressing a simple
mountaineer; yet such was in reality the case, for the unaffected
dignity of innocence will ever inspire awe in minds the most unfeeling
or depraved. Gabrielle, who felt only a natural timidity, resulting from
the circumstance of speaking, for the first time, with any other man
than her father, replied to the confused observations of Angelo with
delicate reserve, yet without shame, or hesitation; his admiration
encreased; and if the peculiar beauty which belonged to her, had first
charmed his fancy, the unstudied elegance of her manners now added to
that sentiment a feeling of surprise, and began powerfully to interest
the sensibility of a heart ever alive to the attraction of female
loveliness.
In Gabrielle he beheld a woman different to any he had ever seen;
therefore to her other charms, in his eyes, she added that of novelty;
by her replies to his questions, and from some few remarks that she
occasionally ventured of her own, he moreover discerned, that she had a
mind, and that of itself was a novelty greater than any which he had
ever yet discovered; for, till now, he had believed with the Mahometans,
that women had no souls; in which idea, certainly, he had been justified
in his intercourse with such of the sex as he had known. Gradually their
conversation assumed an interest; and, as the eyes of Gabrielle
sometimes met in furtive glances the eyes of the traveller, mentally she
would say “and can this man then resemble those monsters of depravity,
of whom my father has so often spoken? If so, nature, methinks, should
have fixed some mark upon them, or rendered them less prepossessing.”
Mean time Angelo, more and more delighted, probably from the difficulty
he perceived of prolonging his pleasure, was considering what plea he
could invent for remaining some time at the cottage of Montmorency. The
good Swiss, with whom he had occasionally sojourned during his tour, had
ever pressed him to extend his stay beyond the period of his
inclination, but with Montmorency he feared it would be different; for
his dignified air, his look of proud superiority, stamped him of a class
above those beings among whom he had chosen to fix his residence. With
him, therefore, he felt that unqualified freedom would be misplaced, or
be esteemed presumption; and his mind became on the rack to discover
what line must be pursued to facilitate his wishes.
While thus ruminating, Montmorency appeared, coming from the cottage. On
beholding the stranger with his daughter, he involuntarily started, and
a shadow of displeasure passed over his features. He advanced towards
them hastily, and taking the arm of Gabrielle, was in an instant,
without seeming to purpose it, between her and Angelo; on the latter, as
he returned his salutation, he cast a look of coolness and distrust, as
though he would have said, “You are of the world, and I dread you.” With
pain did Angelo observe this expressive glance; he felt dispirited, but
not discouraged; he entered into conversation with Montmorency; his
natural politeness, aided by the interest he felt in gaining the
good-will of his host, made it gradually agreeable to him; and by
little and little, the anxious Angelo succeeded in drawing him from the
intrenchment of his reserve: at length he ventured a remark on the
sublimely beautiful situation of Meillerie. Montmorency, to whom its
beauties were familiar, coolly acquiesced; next he reverted to his
cottage, its magnificent views, the salubrity of the air; with equal
indifference Montmorency acquiesced. “How happy should I be,” cried
Angelo, involuntarily looking towards Gabrielle, “to live and die in
such a spot as this.”
A sceptic smile was the only answer of Montmorency.
“Might I hope,” pursued Angelo, resolved, since he had proceeded thus
far, to make a grand effort, “might I hope, for permission to remain
your guest a few days?”
Distrust darkened again the brow of Montmorency; the sceptic smile was
succeeded by a piercing look; and, as he half bowed, his air of
constraint marked how inimical to his wish was the desire of the
stranger. Feeling it necessary, however, to make some reply; “You would
soon be weary of this place,” he said; “and be more anxious to quit it,
than you are at present to remain.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Angelo, with vivacity; and checking what further
hovered on his lips.
Montmorency looked at him more penetratingly than before. “If such be
the case,” he emphatically observed, “then must you have some _motive_
of which I am not aware.”
“Why should you think so?” with deep embarrassment, enquired Angelo.
“Because men do not abandon their habits, or their prejudices, without
some strong inducement; that inducement, for the most part, is the
suggestion of some secret interest.”
At this plain language, to which Angelo was unused, his ingenuous cheek
became slightly suffused; and with consequent hesitation he replied, “I
am not aware indeed of any interest I could derive from receiving your
permission to remain with you a short time, excepting the pleasure I
must naturally experience from being in such society.”
In this answer Angelo had adhered to truth. Montmorency, sceptic as he
was, felt an emotion of regret at his uncalled-for severity; and,
stretching forth his hand to Angelo, he said, “There seems honesty in
your manner; though too well I know, many seem honest, that are not
so.--Since you desire it, I will endeavour for a few days to render your
stay here as agreeable to you as I can.”
Angelo bowed with a smile of gratitude and joy, which lighted up his
fine features with an additional beauty; the preceding harshness of
Montmorency was forgotten, and an expressive silence spoke his thanks.
No sooner, however, had these few words of comparative complacency
escaped the lips of the suspicious Frenchman, than instantly he repented
of them, and the transient ray of sunshine was succeeded by the most
frozen constraint.
Angelo, beginning now to perceive something of the character of his
host, appeared not to remark this change; he talked on various topics,
and was not discomfited by the observations, sometimes severe, oftener
just, by which he was answered. On receiving permission to remain
beneath his roof, he had thought it incumbent on him to state explicitly
his name, situation, and rank in life, his motives for travelling, &c.
Montmorency listened in silence, and then said; “You are of the great
world, Conte D’Albini, and yet seek a solitude so little appropriate?
how may this be? for you are yet too young, too little experienced, to
have become disgusted with society; consequently, however we might
approve our guest, we could not long flatter ourselves with enjoying his
company.”
“Ah,” replied Angelo, “never could I be weary of society so refined as
this; yet, frankly I own, that I am not absolutely disgusted with the
world.”
“No,” cried Montmorency, with a cynic laugh, “I will be sworn you are
not; yet I was disgusted with, and quitted it at an age, when, for
many, it retains charms still stronger than in the high tide of youth; I
am now upwards of three-score; yet, during eighteen years passed in this
solitude, have never once regretted that I left it.”
“We should not be too fastidious about the things of this life,”
answered Angelo, gaily, “I think the world, with all its inconveniences,
a most bewitching place. What would you more? Pleasure on all sides, and
pleasure of every description, courts the acceptance of him who is blest
with independence; the most delicious fruits for his palate, rational
enjoyments for his mind, lovely beings for his softer passions, friends
for his sober reason.”
“Friends!” interrupted Montmorency, “did you say friends? Young,
mistaken enthusiast, what a picture does your heated fancy draw of a
miserable world! now behold mine, pourtrayed in somberer colours,
indeed, but far more just. Those lovely beings, which you speak of, are
dangerous to men; men first causing them to become so, they teach them
evil, and they retaliate on their masters.--Your friends will laugh with
you, drink with you, live with you. This day you shall sumptuously
entertain them; they shall depart from your roof, professing the
strongest regard, the most anxious desire to serve you; the following
day, sickness shall assail you--where then are your bottle
companions?--where are your _friends_?--Or, you shall require some aid,
some trifling assistance--where are the nothings?--where are they
still?--Die.--Which of them will grieve?--those hours of merriment they
passed in your society are forgotten, _because_ they are past;--the
laugh of the moment was excited; it was transient as their friendship.
High in blood, elevated by wine, exhilirated by converse, they made you
professions, which lived and died in the instant that gave them
utterance. Do you believe there are any _sincere_ friends in the
world?--if you do, try them, and be undeceived. Self interest is the
center of their passions--throughout all nature it is the actuating
principle.--Man preys on man, beast on beast, the very tree which
vegetates, and seems unincumbered, is covered by countless animalculæ,
which drink up its juices, and are in turn preyed on themselves by a
race still more minute.
“Heaven!” cried Angelo; “to prove your terrible system, already you have
roamed through the regions of earth and air; next you will dive beneath
the bowels of the briny deep, or analyse even the element of fire, in
support of your assertion. You are a misanthrope; to listen to you is
sufficient to infect the very soul of mirth. I almost fancy that I feel
a sensible oppression at my heart, from having listened so long.
“I am no misanthrope,” answered Montmorency, “although I know mankind
well; it is a mass of depravity, cruelty, and illiberality; it does no
justice to motives; it decides by effect, and not by cause; it condemns
misfortune, as if it were a crime; it worships greatness, as if it were
a virtue; it is uninterested in your miseries, and interested in your
welfare only, in hopes of pleasure or benefit to self. Self is the
predominant idea, self is the darling theme, self is the focus to which
every principle converges. Mankind are a species of civilized monsters,
without hearts. Society is the hot-bed of crimes and vices; in solitude
alone can we be free from the contagion of example, and enjoy a
comparative felicity.”
“Oh, cease!” cried Angelo, shocked at the picture, “in mercy cease; let
me partake of your solitude, let me--” His eyes met those of Gabrielle,
and he could not proceed, while she, unknowing why, blushed deeply as
she marked his hesitation. Montmorency observed both; his penetrating
eye caught the lucid beam of Angelo’s, as it withdrew from commingling
with his daughter’s; and, in an expressive voice, he said, “Do you think
then, Count D’Albini, that my system of _self_ is so very
erroneous?”--He paused; then added,--“Do you think that _my_ society
alone would be charm sufficient to attract you to this solitude?”
“Now, indeed,” cried Angelo, with graceful _naiveté_, “that is asking a
most malicious question. Can it be doubted, that society, such as it is
at present, is too precious to be diminished, and requires no addition?”
Montmorency sighed, as in his brooding mind he began to revolve over,
and lament, the various motives and passions which incessantly actuate
the heart of man. Yet, gloomy and sceptical as he was, there was a
something in Angelo with which he could not avoid being pleased,--a
warmth, a sincerity, an enthusiasm, resembling what he had himself
possessed, before ill treatment, and long seclusion from society, had
obliterated in his heart all but the remembrance of what he once was.
While he pitied the sanguine hopes, and vain delusions, of his guest,
which prompted him to dress the world in its gayest colours, he could
not avoid seeing they had their source in a heart as yet not infinitely
polluted; and surely, thought he, better thus, than one out of love
with the world, disgusted with human nature, supposing intended
treachery in every appearance of friendship, and, to guard against
deception, be the first to deceive. Montmorency easily perceived that he
had cast a damp over the warm imagination of the young enthusiast, and
this very circumstance caused him to regard him with additional
interest; for men insensibly feel a complacency for those who appear
impressed by their opinions, or convinced by their arguments. “At least
then,” thought he, “this youth, so far from being corrupted by the
example of others, is scarcely aware of their depravity; ignorance in
this case is comparative virtue; he is not therefore, as yet, to be
classed among the herd.” Short-sighted philosopher, as though it were
impossible that man should be vicious from other causes, than the mere
influence of example!