[Illustration: _Paul and Virginia. p.29._]
PAUL AND VIRGINIA,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
J.B.H. DE SAINT PIERRE.
1851
PREFACE.
The following translation of "Paul and Virginia," was written at Paris,
amidst the horrors of Robespierre's tyranny. During that gloomy epocha it
was difficult to find occupations which might cheat the days of calamity of
their weary length. Society had vanished; and amidst the minute vexations
of Jacobinical despotism, which, while it murdered in _mass_, persecuted in
detail, the resources of writing, and even reading, were encompassed with
danger. The researches of domiciliary visits had already compelled me to
commit to the flames a manuscript volume, where I had traced the political
scenes of which I had been a witness, with the colouring of their first
impressions on my mind, with those fresh tints that fade from recollection;
and since my pen, accustomed to follow the impulse of my feelings, could
only have drawn, at that fatal period, those images of desolation and
despair which haunted my imagination, and dwelt upon my heart, writing was
forbidden employment. Even reading had its perils; for books had sometimes
aristocratical insignia, and sometimes counter revolutionary allusions; and
when the administrators of police happened to think the writer a
conspirator, they punished the reader as his accomplice.
In this situation I gave myself the task of employing a few hours every day
in translating the charming little novel of Bernardin St. Pierre, entitled
"Paul and Virginia;" and I found the most soothing relief in wandering from
my own gloomy reflections to those enchanting scenes of the Mauritius,
which he has so admirably described. I also composed a few Sonnets adapted
to the peculiar productions of that part of the globe, which are
interspersed in the work. Some, indeed, are lost, as well as a part of the
translation, which I have since supplied, having been sent to the
Municipality of Paris, in order to be examined as English papers; where
they still remain, mingled with revolutionary placards, motions, and
harangues; and are not likely to be restored to my possession.
With respect to the translation, I can only hope to deserve the humble
merit of not having deformed the beauty of the original. I have, indeed,
taken one liberty with my author, which it is fit I should acknowledge,
that of omitting several pages of general observations, which, however
excellent in themselves, would be passed over with impatience by the
English reader, when they interrupt the pathetic narrative. In this
respect, the two nations seem to change characters; and while the serious
and reflecting Englishman requires, in novel writing, as well as on the
theatre, a rapid succession of incidents, much bustle and stage effect,
without suffering the author to appear himself, and stop the progress of
the story; the gay and restless Frenchman listens attentively to long
philosophical reflections, while the catastrophe of the drama hangs in
suspense.
My last poetical productions (the Sonnets which are interspersed in this
work) may perhaps be found even more imperfect than my earlier
compositions; since, after a long exile from England, I can scarcely
flatter myself that my ear is become more attuned to the harmony of a
language, with the sounds of which it is seldom gladdened; or that my
poetical taste is improved by living in a country where arts have given
place to arms. But the public will, perhaps, receive with indulgence a work
written under such peculiar circumstances; not composed in the calm of
literary leisure, or in pursuit of literary fame, but amidst the turbulence
of the most cruel sensations, and in order to escape awhile from
overwhelming misery.
H.M.W.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in the
Mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation,
are seen the ruins of two small cottages. Those ruins are situated near the
centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only towards
the north. On the left rises the mountain, called the Height of Discovery,
from whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the verge
of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches the
island. At the foot of this mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On the
right is formed the road, which stretches from Port Louis to the Shaddock
Grove, where the church, bearing that name, lifts its head, surrounded by
its avenues of bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospect
terminates in a forest extending to the furthest bounds of the island. The
front view presents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb: a little on
the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and beyond rolls the expanded
ocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands, and, among
others, the Point of Endeavour, which resembles a bastion built upon the
flood.
At the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects, the
echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds
that shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the
waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs. But near the ruined
cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the
eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. Large
clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on
their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. The showers, which
their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow on
their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little
river which flows at their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms.
Within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters, the
air, all the elements are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat the
whispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of
which are gently balanced by the winds. A soft light illuminates the bottom
of this deep valley, on which the sun only shines at noon. But even at
break of day the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and the
sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints of
gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky.
To this scene I loved to resort, where I might enjoy at once the richness
of the extensive landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted solitude. One
day, when I was seated at the foot of the cottages, and contemplating their
ruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot. He was dressed in
the ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned upon a
staff of ebony: his hair was white, and the expression of his countenance
was dignified and interesting. I bowed to him with respect; he returned the
salutation: and, after looking at me with some earnestness, came and placed
himself upon the hillock where I was seated. Encouraged by this mark of
confidence, I thus addressed him:--
"Father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?" "My son,"
replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that unfilled land, were,
twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found happiness in
this solitude. Their history is affecting; but what European, pursuing his
way to the Indies, will pause one moment to interest himself in the fate of
a few obscure individuals? What European can picture happiness to his
imagination amidst poverty and neglect? The curiosity of mankind is only
attracted by the history of the great; and yet from that knowledge little
use can be derived." "Father," I rejoined, "from your manners and your
observations, I perceive that you have acquired much experience of human
life. If you have leisure, relate to me, I beseech you, the history of the
ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that even the men who
are most perverted by the prejudices of the world, find a soothing pleasure
in contemplating that happiness which belongs to simplicity and virtue."
The old man, after a short silence, during which he leaned his face upon
his hands, as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus began
his narration:--
"Monsieur de la Tour, a young man who was a native of Normandy, after
having in vain solicited a commission in the French Army, or some support
from his own family, at length determined to seek his fortune in this
island, where he arrived in 1726. He brought hither a young woman whom he
loved tenderly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. She belonged
to a rich and ancient family of the same province; but he had married her
without fortune, and in opposition to the will of her relations, who
refused their consent, because he was found guilty of being descended from
parents who had no claims to nobility. Monsieur de la Tour, leaving his
wife at Port Louis, embarked for Madagascar, in order to purchase a few
slaves to assist him in forming a plantation in this island. He landed at
that unhealthy season which commences about the middle of October: and soon
after his arrival died of the pestilential fever, which prevails in that
country six months of the year, and which will forever baffle the attempts
of the European nations to form establishments on that fatal soil. His
effects were seized upon by the rapacity of strangers; and his wife, who
was pregnant, found herself a widow in a country where she had neither
credit nor recommendation, and no earthly possession, or rather support,
save one negro woman. Too delicate to solicit protection or relief from any
other man after the death of him whom alone she loved, misfortune armed her
with courage, and she resolved to cultivate with her slave a little spot of
ground, and procure for herself the means of subsistence. In an island
almost a desert, and where the ground was left to the choice of the
settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile and most
favourable to commerce; and seeking some nook of the mountain, some secret
asylum, where she might live solitary and unknown, she bent her way from
the town towards those rocks, where she wished to shelter herself as in a
nest. All suffering creatures, from a sort of common instinct, fly for
refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild and desolate; as if rocks
could form a rampart against misfortune; as if the calm of nature could
hush the tumults of the soul. That Providence, which lends its support when
we ask but the supply of our necessary wants, had a blessing in reserve for
Madame de la Tour, which neither riches nor greatness can purchase; this
blessing was a friend.
"The spot to which Madame de la Tour fled had already been inhabited a year
by a young woman of a lively, good natured, and affectionate disposition.
Margaret (for that was her name) was born in Britany, of a family of
peasants, by whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom she might
have passed life in simple rustic happiness, if, misled by the weakness of
a tender heart, she had not listened to the passion of a gentleman in the
neighbourhood, who promised her marriage. He soon abandoned her, and adding
inhumanity to seduction, refused to ensure a provision for the child of
which she was pregnant. Margaret then determined to leave for ever her
native village, and go, where her fault might be concealed, to some colony
distant from that country where she had lost the only portion of a poor
peasant girl--her reputation. With some borrowed money she purchased an old
negro slave, with whom she cultivated a little spot of this canton. Here
Madame de la Tour, followed by her negro woman, found Margaret suckling her
child. Soothed by the sight of a person in a situation somewhat similar to
her own, Madame de la Tour related, in a few words, her past condition and
her present wants. Margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and, more
anxious to excite confidence than esteem, she confessed, without disguise,
the errors of which she had been guilty. 'As for me,' said she, 'I deserve
my fate: but you, madam--you! at once virtuous and unhappy--' And, sobbing,
she offered Madame de la Tour both her hut and her friendship. That lady,
affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, and exclaimed,
'Ah, surely Heaven will put an end to my misfortunes, since it inspires
you, to whom I am a stranger, with more goodness towards me than I have
ever experienced from my own relations!'
"I knew Margaret; and, although my habitation is a league and a half from
hence, in the woods behind that sloping mountain, I considered myself as
her neighbour. In the cities of Europe a street, sometimes even a less
distance, separates families whom nature had united; but in new colonies we
consider those persons as neighbours from whom we are divided only by woods
and mountains; and above all, at that period when this island had little
intercourse with the Indies, neighbourhood alone gave a claim to
friendship, and hospitality toward strangers seemed less a duty than a
pleasure. No sooner was I informed that Margaret had found a companion,
than I hastened thither, in hope of being useful to my neighbour and her
guest.
"Madame de la Tour possessed all those melancholy graces which give beauty
additional power, by blending sympathy with admiration. Her figure was
interesting, and her countenance expressed at once dignity and dejection.
She appeared to be in the last stage of her pregnancy. I told them that,
for the future interests of their children, and to prevent the intrusion of
any other settler, it was necessary they should divide between them the
property of this wild sequestered valley, which is nearly twenty acres in
extent. They confided that task to me, and I marked out two equal portions
of land. One includes the higher part of this enclosure, from, the peak of
that rock buried in clouds, whence springs the rapid river of Fan-Palms, to
that wide cleft which you see on the summit of the mountain, and which is
called the Cannon's Mouth, from the resemblance in its form. It is
difficult to find a path along this wild portion of enclosure, the soil of
which is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn into channels formed by
torrents; yet it produces noble trees, and innumerable fountains and
rivulets. The other portion of land is comprised in the plain extending
along the banks of the river of Fan-Palms, to the opening where we are now
seated, from whence the river takes its course between those two hills,
until it falls into the sea. You may still trace the vestiges of some
meadow-land; and this part of the common is less rugged, but not more
valuable than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes marshy, and
in dry weather is so hard and unbending, that it will yield only to the
stroke of the hatchet. When I had thus divided the property, I persuaded my
neighbours to draw lots for their separate possessions. The higher portion
of land became the property of Madame de la Tour; the lower, of Margaret;
and each seemed satisfied with her respective share. They entreated me to
place their habitations together, that they might at all times enjoy the
soothing intercourse of friendship, and the consolation of mutual kind
offices. Margaret's cottage was situated near the centre of the valley, and
just on the boundary of her own plantation. Close to that spot I built
another cottage for the dwelling of Madame de la Tour: and thus the two
friends, while they possessed all the advantages of neighbourhood, lived on
their own property. I myself cut palisades from the mountain, and brought
leaves of Fan-Palms from the seashore, in order to construct those two
cottages, of which you can now discern neither the entrance nor the roof.
Yet, alas! there still remain but too many traces for my remembrance! Time,
which so rapidly destroys the proud monuments of empires, seems in this
desert to spare those of friendship, as if to perpetuate my regrets to the
last hour of my existence.
"Scarcely was her cottage finished, when Madame de la Tour was delivered of
a girl. I had been the godfather of Margaret's child, who was christened by
the name of Paul. Madame de la Tour desired me to perform the same office
for her child also, together with her friend, who gave her the name of
Virginia. 'She will be virtuous,' cried Margaret, 'and she will be happy. I
have only known misfortune by wandering from virtue.'
"At the time Madame de la Tour recovered, those two little territories had
already begun to yield some produce, perhaps in a small degree owing to the
care which I occasionally bestowed on their improvement, but far more to
the indefatigable labours of the two slaves. Margaret's slave, who was
called Domingo, was still healthy and robust, although advanced in years:
he possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. He
cultivated indiscriminately, on both settlements, such spots of ground as
were most fertile, and sowed whatever grain he thought most congenial to
each particular soil. Where the ground was poor, he strewed maize; where it
was most fruitful, he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy.
He threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the rocks, which
they loved to climb, and decorate with their luxuriant foliage. In dry
spots he cultivated the sweet potato; the cotton-tree flourished upon the
heights, and the sugar-cane grew in the clayey soil. He reared some plants
of coffee on the hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. The
plantain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of the
river, and encircled the cottage, yielded fruit throughout the year. And,
lastly, Domingo cultivated a few plants of tobacco, to charm away his own
cares. Sometimes he was employed in cutting wood for firing from the
mountain, sometimes in hewing pieces of rock within the enclosure, in order
to level the paths. He was much attached to Margaret, and not less to
Madame de la Tour, whose negro-woman, Mary, he had married at the time of
Virginia's birth; and he was passionately fond of his wife. Mary was born
at Madagascar, from whence she had brought a few arts of industry. She
could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass that grows in the
woods. She was active, cleanly, and, above all, faithful. It was her care
to prepare their meals, to rear the poultry, and go sometimes to Port
Louis, and sell the superfluities of these little plantations, which were
not very considerable. If you add to the personages I have already
mentioned two goats, who were brought up with the children, and a great
dog, who kept watch at night, you will have a complete idea of the
household, as well as of the revenue of those two farms.
"Madame de la Tour and her friend were employed from the morning till the
evening in spinning cotton for the use of their families. Destitute of all
those things which their own industry could not supply, they walked about
their habitations with their feet bare, and shoes were a convenience
reserved for Sunday, when, at an early hour, they attended mass at the
church of the Shaddock Grove, which you see yonder. That church is far more
distant than Port Louis; yet they seldom visited the town, lest they should
be treated with contempt, because they were dressed in the coarse blue
linen of Bengal, which is usually worn by slaves. But is there in that
external deference which fortune commands a compensation for domestic
happiness? If they had something to suffer from the world, this served but
to endear their humble home. No sooner did Mary and Domingo perceive them
from this elevated spot, on the road of the Shaddock Grove, than they flew
to the foot of the mountain, in order to help them to ascend. They
discerned in the looks of their domestics that joy which their return
inspired. They found in their retreat neatness, independence, all those
blessings which are the recompense of toil, and received those services
which have their source in affection.--United by the tie of similar wants,
and the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave each other the tender
names of companion, friend, sister.--They had but one will, one interest,
one table. All their possessions were in common. And if sometimes a passion
more ardent than friendship awakened in their hearts the pang of unavailing
anguish, a pure religion, united with chaste manners, drew their affections
towards another life; as the trembling flame rises towards heaven, when it
no longer finds any aliment on earth.
"Madame de la Tour sometimes, leaving the household cares to Margaret,
wandered out alone; and, amidst the sublime scenery, indulged that luxury
of pensive sadness, which is so soothing to the mind after the first
emotions of turbulent sorrow have subsided. Sometimes she poured forth the
effusions of melancholy in the language of verse; and, although her
compositions have little poetical merit, they appear to me to bear the
marks of genuine sensibility. Many of her poems are lost; but some still
remain in my possession, and a few still hang on my memory. I will repeat
to you a sonnet addressed to Love.
SONNET
TO LOVE.
Ah, Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As, on the sultry zone, the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leaved plantain's glossy bower;
Calm was my bosom as this silent hour,
When o'er the deep, scarce heard, the zephyr strays,
'Midst the cool tam'rinds indolently plays,
Nor from the orange shakes its od'rous flower:
But, ah! since Love has all my heart possess'd,
That desolated heart what sorrows tear!
Disturb'd and wild as ocean's troubled breast,
When the hoarse tempest of the night is there
Yet my complaining spirit asks no rest;
This bleeding bosom cherishes despair.
"The tender and sacred duties which nature imposed, became a source of
additional happiness to those affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship
acquired new strength at the sight of their children, alike the offspring
of unhappy love. They delighted to place their infants together in the same
bath, to nurse them in the same cradle, and sometimes changed the maternal
bosom at which they received nourishment, as if to blend with the ties of
friendship that instinctive affection which this act produces.
'My friend,' cried Madame de la Tour, 'we shall each of us have two
children, and each of our children will have two mothers.' As two buds
which remain on two trees of the same kind, after the tempest has broken
all their branches, produce more delicious fruit, if each, separated from
the maternal stem, be grafted on the neighbouring tree; so those two
children, deprived of all other support, imbibed sentiments more tender
than those of son and daughter, brother and sister, when exchanged at the
breast of those who had given them birth. While they were yet in their
cradle, their mothers talked of their marriage; and this prospect of
conjugal felicity, with which they soothed their own cares, often called
forth the tears of bitter regret. The misfortunes of one mother had arisen
from having neglected marriage, those of the other from having submitted to
its laws: one had been made unhappy by attempting to raise herself above
her humble condition of life, the other by descending from her rank. But
they found consolation in reflecting that their more fortunate children,
far from the cruel prejudices of Europe, those prejudices which poison the
most precious sources of our happiness, would enjoy at once the pleasures
of love and the blessings of equality.
"Nothing could exceed that attachment which those infants already displayed
for each other. If Paul complained, his mother pointed to Virginia; and at
that sight he smiled, and was appeased. If any accident befel Virginia, the
cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster; and then Virginia would suppress
her complaints when she found that Paul was unhappy. When I came hither, I
usually found them quite naked, which is the custom of this country,
tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the
arms, as we represent the constellation of the Twins. At night these
infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the same
cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms pressed close together, their hands
thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping, locked in one another's arms.
"When they began to speak, the first names they learnt to give each other
were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer
appellation. Their education served to augment their early friendship, by
directing it to the supply of their reciprocal wants. In a short time, all
that regarded the household economy, the care of preparing the rural
repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labours were always crowned
with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in motion,
he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into
the woods, where, if in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, fine
fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of a tree, he climbed up, and
brought it home to his sister.
"When you met with one of these children, you might be sure the other was
not distant. One day, coming down that mountain, I saw Virginia at the end
of the garden, running toward the house, with her petticoat thrown over her
head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. At a distance, I
thought she was alone; but as I hastened towards her, in order to help her
on, I perceived that she held Paul by the arm, who was almost entirely
enveloped in the same cavity, and both were laughing heartily at being
sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two
charming faces, placed within the petticoat, swelled by the wind, recalled
to my mind the children of Leda, enclosed within the same shell.
"Their sole study was how to please and assist each other; for of all other
things they were ignorant, and knew neither how to read nor write. They
were never disturbed by researches into past times, nor did their curiosity
extend beyond the bounds of that mountain. They believed the world ended at
the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and affections were
confined within its limits. Their mutual tenderness, and that of their
mothers, employed all the activity of their souls. Their tears had never
been called forth by long application to useless sciences. Their minds had
never been wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms
unconscious of ill. They had never been taught that they must not steal,
because every thing with them was in common; or be intemperate, because
their simple food was left to their own discretion; or false, because they
had no truth to conceal. Their young imaginations had never been terrified
by the idea that God has punishments in store for ungrateful children,
since with them filial affection arose naturally from maternal fondness.
All they had been taught of religion was to love it; and if they did not
offer up long prayers in the church, wherever they were, in the house, in
the fields, in the woods, they raised towards heaven their innocent hands,
and their hearts purified by virtuous affections.
"Thus passed their early childhood, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude of a
bright day. Already they partook with their mothers the cares of the
household. As soon as the cry of the wakeful cock announced the first beam
of the morning, Virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a
neighbouring spring; then returning to the house, she prepared the
breakfast. When the rising sun lighted up the points of those rocks which
overhang this enclosure, Margaret and her child went to the dwelling of
Madame de la Tour, and they offered up together their morning prayer. This
sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first repast, which they
often partook before the door of the cottage, seated upon the grass, under
a canopy of plantain; and while the branches of that delightful tree
afforded a grateful shade, its solid fruit furnished food ready prepared by
nature; and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the
want of linen.
"Plentiful and wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour to the
persons of those children, and their countenances expressed the purity and
peace of their souls. At twelve years of age the figure of Virginia was in
some degree formed: a profusion of light hair shaded her face, to which her
blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming brilliancy. Her eyes
sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but when she was silent, her look
had a cast upwards, which gave it an expression of extreme sensibility, or
rather of tender melancholy. Already the figure of Paul displayed the
graces of manly beauty. He was taller than Virginia; his skin was of a
darker tint; his nose more aquiline; and his black eyes would have been too
piercing, if the long eyelashes, by which were shaded, had not given them a
look of softness. He was constantly in motion, except when his sister
appeared; and then, placed at her side, he became quiet. Their meals often
passed in silence, and, from the grace of their attitudes, the beautiful
proportions of their figures, and their naked feet, you might have fancied
you beheld an antique group of white marble, representing some of the
children of Niobe; if those eyes which sought to meet those smiles which
were answered by smiles of the most tender softness, had not rather given
you the idea of those happy celestial spirits, whose nature is love, and
who are not obliged to have recourse to words for the expression of that
intuitive sentiment. In the mean time, Madame de la Tour, perceiving every
day some unfolding grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt her
maternal anxiety increase with her tenderness. She often said to me, 'If I
should die, what will become of Virginia without fortune?'
"Madame de la Tour had an aunt in France, who was a woman of quality, rich,
old and a great bigot. She had behaved towards her niece with so much
cruelty upon her marriage that Madame de la Tour had determined that no
distress or misfortune should ever compel her to have recourse to her
hard-hearted relation. But when she became a mother, the pride of
resentment was stilled in the stronger feelings of maternal tenderness. She
wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden death of her husband, the
birth of her daughter, and the difficulties in which she was involved at a
distance from her own country, without support, and burthened with a child.
She received no answer; but, notwithstanding that high spirit which was
natural to her character, she no longer feared exposing herself to
mortification and reproach; and, although she knew her relation would never
pardon her for having married a man of merit, but not of noble birth, she
continued to write to her by every opportunity, in the hope of awakening
her compassion for Virginia. Many years, however, passed, during which she
received not the smallest testimony of her remembrance.
"At length, in 1738, three years after the arrival of Monsieur de la
Bourdonnais in this island, Madame de la Tour was informed that the
governor had a letter to give her from her aunt. She flew to Port Louis,
careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely garment. Maternal hope
and joy subdued all those little considerations, which are lost when the
mind is absorbed by any powerful sentiment. Monsieur de la Bourdonnais
delivered to her a letter from her aunt, who informed her, that she
deserved her fate for having married an adventurer and a libertine; that
misplaced passions brought along with them their own punishment, and that
the sudden death of her husband must be considered as a visitation from
heaven; that she had done well in going to a distant island, rather than
dishonour her family by remaining in France: and that, after all, in the
colony where she had taken refuge, every person grew rich except the idle.
Having thus lavished sufficient censure upon the conduct of her niece, she
finished by a eulogium on herself. To avoid, she said, the almost
inevitable evils of marriage, she had determined to remain in a single
state. In truth, being of a very ambitious temper, she had resolved only to
unite, herself to a man of high rank; and although she; was very rich, her
fortune was not found a sufficient bribe, even at court, to counterbalance
the malignant dispositions of her mind, and the disagreeable qualities of
her person.
"She added, in a postscript, that, after mature deliberation, she had
strongly recommended her niece to Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. This she had
indeed done, but in a manner of late too common, and which renders a patron
perhaps even more formidable than a declared enemy: for, in order to
justify herself, she had cruelly slandered her niece, while she affected to
pity her misfortunes.
"Madame de la Tour, whom no unprejudiced person could have seen without
feeling sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness by
Monsieur de la Bourdonnais; and when she painted to him her own situation,
and that of her child, he replied, 'We will see what can be done--there are
so many to relieve--why did you affront so respectable a relation?--You
have been much to blame.'
"Madame de la Tour returned to her cottage, her bosom throbbing with all
the bitterness of disappointment. When she arrived, she threw herself on a
chair, and then flinging her aunt's letter on the table, exclaimed to her
friend, 'This is the recompense of eleven years of patient expectation!' As
Madame de la Tour was the only person in the little circle who could read,
she again took up the letter, which she read aloud. Scarcely had she
finished, when Margaret exclaimed, 'What have we to do with your relations?
Has God then forsaken us? He only is our father! Have we not hitherto been
happy? Why then this regret? You have no courage.' Seeing Madame de la Tour
in tears, she threw herself upon her neck, and pressing her in her arms,
'My dear friend!' cried she, 'my dear friend!' But her emotion choked her
utterance.
"At this sight Virginia burst into tears, and pressed her mother's hand and
Margaret's alternately to her lips and to her heart: while Paul, with his
eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasped his hands together, and stamped
with his feet, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. The
noise soon led Domingo and Mary to the spot, and the little habitation
resounded with the cries of distress. Ah, Madame!--My good mistress!--My
dear mother!--Do not weep!'
"Those tender proofs of affection at length dispelled Madame de la Tour's
sorrow. She took Paul and Virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, cried,
'You are the cause of my affliction, and yet my only source of delight!
Yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me from a distance, but
surely I am surrounded by happiness.' Paul and Virginia did not understand
this reflection; but, when they saw that she was calm, they smiled, and
continued to caress her. Thus tranquillity was restored, and what had
passed proved but a transient storm, which serves to give fresh verdure to
a beautiful spring.
"Although Madame de la Tour appeared calm in the presence of her family,
she sometimes communicated to me the feelings that preyed upon her mind,
and soon after this period gave me the following sonnet:--
SONNET
TO DISAPPOINTMENT.
Pale Disappointment! at thy freezing name
Chill fears in every shivering vein I prove;
My sinking pulse almost forgets to move,
And life almost forsakes my languid frame:
Yet thee, relentless nymph! no more I blame:
Why do my thoughts 'midst vain illusions rove?
Why gild the charms of friendship and of love
With the warm glow of fancy's purple flame?
When ruffling winds have some bright fane o'erthrown,
Which shone on painted clouds, or seem'd to shine,
Shall the fond gazer dream for him alone
Those clouds were stable, and at fate repine?
I feel alas! the fault is all my own,
And, ah! the cruel punishment is mine!
"The amiable disposition of those children unfolded itself daily. On a
Sunday, their mothers having gone at break of day to mass, at the church of
the Shaddock Grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the
plantains which shaded their habitation. She appeared almost wasted to a
skeleton, and had no other garment than a shred of coarse cloth thrown
across her loins. She flung herself at Virginia's feet, who was preparing
the family breakfast, and cried, 'My good young lady, have pity on a poor
slave. For a whole month I have wandered amongst these mountains, half dead
with hunger, and often pursued by the hunters and their dogs. I fled from
my master, a rich planter of the Black River, who has used me as you see;'
and she showed her body marked by deep scars from the lashes she had
received. She added, 'I was going to drown myself; but hearing you lived
here, I said to myself, since there are still some good white people in
this country, I need not die yet.'
"Virginia answered with emotion, 'Take courage, Unfortunate creature! here
is food,' and she gave her the breakfast she had prepared, which the poor
slave in a few minutes devoured. When her hunger was appeased, Virginia
said to her, 'Unhappy woman! will you let me go and ask forgiveness for you
of your master? Surely the sight of you will touch him with pity.--Will you
show me the way?'--'Angel of heaven!' answered the poor negro woman, 'I
will follow you where you please.' Virginia called her brother, and begged
him to accompany her. The slave led the way, by winding and difficult
paths, through the woods, over mountains which they climbed with
difficulty, and across rivers, through which they were obliged to wade. At
length they reached the foot of a precipice upon the borders of the Black
River. There they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by extensive
plantations, and a great number of slaves employed at their various
labours. Their master was walking amongst them with a pipe in his mouth,
and a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin figure, of a brown complexion;
his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined together.
Virginia, holding Paul by the hand, drew near, and with much emotion begged
him, for the love of God, to pardon his poor slave, who stood trembling a
few paces behind. The man at first paid little attention to the children,
who, he saw, were meanly dressed. But when he observed the elegance of
Virginia's form, and the profusion of her beautiful light tresses, which
had escaped from beneath her blue cap; when he heard the soft tone of her
voice, which trembled, as well as her own frame, while she implored his
compassion; he took the pipe from his mouth, and lifting up his stick,
swore, with a terrible oath, that he pardoned his slave, not for the love
of Heaven, but of her who asked his forgiveness. Virginia made a sign to
the slave to approach her master, and instantly sprung away, followed by
Paul.
"They climbed up the precipice they had descended; and, having gained the
summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue,
hunger, and thirst. They had left their cottage fasting, and had walked
five leagues since break of day. Paul said to Virginia, 'My dear sister, it
is past noon, and I am sure you are thirsty and hungry; we shall find no
dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the
poor slave for some food.'--'Oh no,' answered Virginia; 'he frightens me
too much. Remember what mamma sometimes says, the bread of the wicked is
like stones in the mouth.'--'What shall we do then?' said Paul: 'these
trees produce no fruit; and I shall not be able to find even a tamarind or
a lemon to refresh you.' Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when they
heard the dashing of waters which fell from a neighbouring rock. They ran
thither, and having quenched their thirst at this crystal spring, they
gathered a few cresses which grew on the border of the stream. While they
were wandering in the woods in search of more solid nourishment, Virginia
spied a young palm tree. The kind of cabbage which is found at the top of
this tree, enfolded within its leaves, forms an excellent sustenance; but,
although the stalk of the tree was not thicker than a man's leg, it was
above sixty feet in height. The wood of this tree is composed of fine
filaments; but the bark is so hard that it turns the edge of the hatchet,
and Paul was not even furnished with a knife. At length he thought of
setting fire to the palm tree, but a new difficulty occurred, he had no
steel with which to strike fire; and, although the whole island is covered
with rocks, I do not believe it is possible to find a flint. Necessity,
however, is fertile in expedients, and the most useful inventions have
arisen from men placed in the most destitute situations. Paul determined to
kindle a fire in the manner of the negroes. With the sharp end of a stone
he made a small hole in the branch of a tree that was quite dry, which he
held between his feet; he then sharpened another dry branch of a different
sort of wood, and afterwards placing the piece of pointed wood in the small
hole of the branch which he held with his feet, and turning it rapidly
between his hands, in a few minutes smoke and sparks of fire issued from
the points of contact. Paul then heaped together dried grass and branches,
and set fire to the palm tree, which soon fell to the ground. The fire was
useful to him in stripping off the long, thick and pointed leaves, within
which the cabbage was enclosed.
"Paul and Virginia ate part of the cabbage raw, and part dressed upon the
ashes, which they found equally palatable. They made this frugal repast
with delight, from the remembrance of the benevolent action they had
performed in the morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of
that uneasiness which their long absence would give their mothers. Virginia
often recurred to this subject: but Paul, who felt his strength renewed by
their meal, assured her that it would not be long before they reached home.
"After dinner they recollected that they had no guide, and that they were
ignorant of the way. Paul, whose spirit was not subdued by difficulties,
said to Virginia, 'The sun shines full upon our huts at noon: we must pass
as we did this morning, over that mountain with its three points, which you
see yonder. Come, let us go.' This mountain is called the Three Peaks. Paul
and Virginia descended the precipice of the Black River, on the northern
side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a large stream.
"Great part of this island is so little known, even now, that many of its
rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. The river, on the banks
of which our travellers stood, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. The noise
of the water frightened Virginia, and she durst not wade through the
stream: Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus loaded over
the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, careless of the
tumultuous noise of its waters. 'Do not be afraid,' cried he to Virginia;
'I feel very strong with you. If the inhabitant of the Black River had
refused you the pardon of his slave, I would have fought with
him.'--'What!' answered Virginia, 'with that great wicked man? To what have
I exposed you! Gracious heaven! How difficult it is to do good! and it is
so easy to do wrong.'
"When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue his journey,
carrying his sister, and believed he was able to climb in that way the
mountain of the Three Peaks, which was still at the distance of half a
league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his
burden, and to rest himself by her side. Virginia then said to him, 'My
dear brother the sun is going down: you have still some strength left, but
mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone to ease the
fears of our mothers.'--'Oh, no,' said Paul, 'I will not leave you. If
night surprises us in this wood, I will light a fire, and bring down
another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage; and I will form a covering of
the leaves to shelter you.' In the mean time, Virginia being a little
rested, pulled from the trunk of an old tree, which hung over the bank of
the river, some long leaves of hart's tongue, which grew near its root.
With those leaves she made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her
feet, that were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths; for, in her
eager desire to do good, she had forgot to put on her shoes. Feeling her
feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she broke off a branch of
bamboo, and continued her walk leaning with one hand on the staff, and with
the other on Paul.
"They walked on slowly through the woods, but from the height of the trees,
and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost sight of the mountain of
the Tree Peaks, by which they had directed their course, and even of the
sun, which was now setting. At length they wandered without perceiving it,
from the beaten path in which they had hitherto walked, and found
themselves in a labyrinth of trees and rocks, which appeared to have no
opening. Paul made Virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards,
half frantic, in search of a path which might lead them out of this thick
wood; but all his researches were in vain. He climbed to the top of a tree,
from whence he hoped at least to discern the mountain of the Three Peaks;
but all he could perceive around him were the tops of trees, some of which
were gilded by the last beams of the setting sun. Already the shadows of
the mountains were spread over the forests in the valleys. The wind ceased,
as it usually does, at the evening hour. The most profound silence reigned
in those awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the
stags, who came to repose in that unfrequented spot. Paul, in the hope that
some hunter would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able, 'Come,
come to the help of Virginia.' But the echoes of the forests alone answered
his call, and repeated again and again, 'Virginia--Virginia.' Paul at
length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation, and
reflected how they might best contrive to pass the night in that desert.
But he could find neither a fountain, a palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry
wood to kindle a fire. He then felt, by experience, the sense of his own
weakness, and began to weep. Virginia said to him, 'Do not weep, my dear
brother, or I shall die with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow, and
of all that our mothers suffer at this moment. I find we ought to do
nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh, I have been
very imprudent!' and she began to shed tears. She then said to Paul, 'Let
us pray to God, my dear brother, and he will hear us.'
"Scarcely had they finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a
dog. 'It is the dog of some hunter,' said Paul, 'who comes here at night to
lay in wait for the stags.'
"Soon after the dog barked again with more violence. 'Surely,' said
Virginia, 'it is Fidele, our own dog; yes, I know his voice. Are we then so
near home? at the foot of our own mountain? a moment after Fidele was at
their feet, barking, howling, crying, and devouring them with his caresses.
Before they had recovered their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards
them. At the sight of this good old negro, who wept with joy, they began to
weep too, without being able to utter one word. When Domingo had recovered
himself a little, 'Oh, my dear children,' cried he, 'how miserable have you
made your mothers! How much were they astonished when they returned from
mass, where I went with them, and not finding you! Mary, who was at work at
a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran backwards
and forwards about the plantation, not knowing where to look for you. At
last I took some of your old clothes, and showing them to Fidele, the poor
animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your path; and
conducted me, continually wagging his tail, to the Black River. It was
there a planter told me that you had brought back a negro woman, his slave,
and that he had granted you her pardon. But what pardon! he showed her to
me with her feet chained to a block of wood, and an iron collar with three
hooks fastened round her neck.