Jacques-Henri Bernardin de Saint Pierre was born at Havre on
January 19, 1737. Like many boys that are natives of seaports,
he was anxious to become a sailor; but a single voyage cured
him of his desire for a seafaring life, although not of his
love for travel. For some years afterwards he was a rolling
stone, sometimes soldier and sometimes engineer, visiting one
European country after another. In 1771 he obtained a
government appointment in Mauritius, a spot which was the
subject of his first book (see TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE, Vol.
XIX), and which was afterwards made the scene of "Paul and
Virginia." In his "Nature Studies," 1783, he showed an
enthusiasm for nature that contrasted vividly with the
artificiality of most eighteenth-century writers; but his fame
was not established until he had set all the ladies of France
weeping with his "Paul and Virginia," perhaps the most
sentimental book ever written. It was published in 1787, and
although it does not cause in modern readers the tearful
raptures that it provoked on its first appearance, its fame
has survived as the most notable work of a romantic and
nature-loving sentimentalist with remarkable powers of
narration. Saint Pierre died on January 21, 1814.
_I.--The Home Among the Rocks_
On the eastern declivity of the mountain which rises behind Port Louis,
in the Isle of France, are still to be seen, on a spot of ground
formerly cultivated, the ruins of two little cottages. They are situated
almost in the midst of a basin formed by enormous rocks, with only one
opening, from which you may look upon Port Louis and the sea.
I took pleasure in retiring to this place, where one can at once enjoy
an unbounded prospect and profound solitude. One day, as I was sitting
near the cottages, an elderly man approached me. His hair was completely
white, his aspect simple and majestic. I saluted him, and he sat down
beside me.
"Can you inform me, father," I asked, "to whom these two cottages
belonged?"
"My son," replied he, "these ruins were inhabited by two families, which
there found the means of true happiness. But who will deign to take an
interest in the history, however affecting, of a few obscure
individuals?"
"Father," I replied, "relate to me, I beseech you, what you know of
them; and be assured that there is no man, however depraved by
prejudices, but loves to hear of the felicity which nature and virtue
bestow."
Upon this the old man related what follows.
In the year 1735 there came to this spot a young widow named Madame de
la Tour. She was of a noble Norman family; but her husband was of
obscure birth. She had married him portionless, and against the will of
her relations, and they had journeyed here to seek their fortune. The
husband soon died, and his widow found herself destitute of every
possession except a single negro woman. She resolved to seek a
subsistence by cultivating a small plot of ground, and this was the spot
that she chose.
Providence had one blessing in store for Madame de la Tour--the blessing
of a friend. Inhabiting this spot was a sprightly and sensible woman of
Brittany, named Margaret. She, like madame, had suffered from the
sorrows of love; she had fled to the colonies, and had here established
herself with her baby and an old negro, whom she had purchased with a
poor, borrowed purse.
When Madame de la Tour had unfolded to Margaret her former condition and
her present wants the good woman was moved with compassion; she tendered
to the stranger a shelter in her cottage and her friendship. I knew them
both, and went to offer them my assistance. The territory in the
rock-basin, amounting to about twenty acres, I divided equally between
them. Margaret's cottage was on the boundary of her own domain, and
close at hand I built another cottage for Madame de la Tour. Scarcely
had I completed it when a daughter was born to madame. She was called
Virginia; the infant son of Margaret bore the name of Paul.
The two friends, so dear to each other in spite of their difference in
rank, spun cotton for a livelihood. They seldom visited Port Louis, for
fear of the contempt with which they were treated on account of the
coarseness of their dress. But if they were exposed to a little
suffering when abroad, they returned home with so much more additional
satisfaction. They found there cleanliness and freedom, blessings which
they owed entirely to their own industry, and to servants animated with
zeal and affection. As for themselves, they had but one will, one
interest, one table. They had everything in common.
Their mutual love redoubled at the sight of their two children. Nothing
was to be compared with the attachment which the babes showed for each
other. If Paul complained, they brought Virginia to him; at the sight of
her he was pacified. If Virginia suffered, Paul lamented; but Virginia
was wont to conceal her pain, that her sufferings might not distress
him. All their study was to please and assist each other. They had been
taught no religion but that which instructs us to love one another; and
they raised toward heaven innocent hands and pure hearts, filled with
the love of their parents. Thus passed their early infancy, like a
beautiful dawn, which seems to promise a still more beautiful day.
Madame de la Tour had moments of uneasiness during her daughter's
childhood; sometimes she used to say to me: "If I should die what would
become of Virginia, dowerless as she is?" She had an aunt in France, a
woman of quality, rich, old, and a devotee, to whom she had written at
the time of Virginia's birth. Not until 1746--eleven years later--did a
reply reach her. Her aunt told her that she merited her condition for
having married an adventurer; that the untimely death of her husband was
a just chastisement of God; that she had done well not to dishonour her
country by returning to France; and that after all she was in an
excellent country, where everybody made fortunes except the idle.
She added, however, that in spite of all this she had strongly
recommended her to the governor of the island, M. de la Bourdonaye. But,
conformably to a custom too prevalent, in feigning to pity she had
calumniated her; and, consequently, madame was received by the governor
with the greatest coolness.
Returning to the plantation with a bitter heart, madame read the letter
tearfully to all the family. Margaret clasped her to her arms; Virginia,
weeping, kissed her hands; Paul stamped with rage; the servants hearing
the noise, ran in to comfort her.
Such marks of affection soon dissipated madame's anguish.
"Oh, my children!" she cried. "Misfortune only attacks me from afar;
happiness is ever around me!"
_II--Nature's Children_
As the years went on, Paul and Virginia grew up together in purity and
contentment. Every succeeding day was to them a day of happiness. They
were strangers to the torments of envy and ambition. By living in
solitude, so far from degenerating into savages, they had become more
humane. If the scandalous history of society did not supply them with
topics of discourse, nature filled their hearts with transports of
wonder and delight. They contemplated with rapture the power of that
Providence which, by aid of their hands, had diffused amid these barren
rocks abundance, beauty, and simple and unceasing pleasures.
When the weather was fine, the families went on Sundays to mass at the
church of Pamplemousses. When mass was over, they ministered to the sick
or gave comfort to the distressed. From these visits Virginia often
returned with her eyes bathed in tears, but her heart overflowing with
joy, for she had been blessed with an opportunity of doing good.
Paul and Virginia had no clocks nor almanacs nor books of history or
philosophy; the periods of their lives were regulated by those of
nature. They knew the hour of the day by the shadow of the trees; the
seasons by the times when the trees bore flowers or fruits; and years by
the number of the harvests.
"It is dinner-time," Virginia would say to the family; "the shadows of
the banana-trees are at their feet." Or, "Night approaches, for the
tamarinds are closing their leaves."
When asked about her age and that of Paul, "My brother," she would
answer, "is the same age with the great coconut-tree of the fountain,
and I the same age with the small one. The mango-trees have yielded
their fruit twelve times, and the orange-trees have opened their
blossoms twenty-four times since I came into the world."
Thus did these two children of nature advance in life; hitherto no care
had wrinkled their foreheads, no intemperance had corrupted their blood,
no unhappy passion had depraved their hearts; love, innocence, piety
were daily unfolding the beauties of their souls in graces ineffable, in
their features, their attitude, and their movements.
Nevertheless, in time Virginia felt herself disturbed by a strange
malady. Serenity no longer sat upon her forehead, nor smiles upon her
lips. She withdrew herself from her innocent amusements, from her sweet
occupations, and from the society of her family.
Sometimes, at the sight of Paul, she ran up to him playfully, when all
of a sudden an unaccountable embarrassment seized her; a lively red
coloured her cheeks, and her eyes no longer dared to fix themselves on
his.
Meanwhile Margaret said to Madame de la Tour, "Why should we not marry
our children? Their passion for each other is extreme, although my son
is not sensible of it."
"Not yet," answered madame; "they are too young, and too poor. But if we
send Paul to India for a short time, commerce will supply him with the
means of buying some slaves. On his return we will marry him to
Virginia, for I am certain that no one can make my daughter so happy as
your son Paul. Let us consult our neighbour about it."
So they discussed the matter with me, and I approved of their plan. But
when I opened the business to Paul, I was astonished when he replied,
"Why would you have me quit my family for a visionary project of
fortune? If we wish to engage in trade, cannot we do so by carrying our
superfluities to the city, without any necessity for my rambling to
India? What if any accident should befall my family during my absence,
more especially Virginia, who even now is suffering? Ah, no! I could
never make up my mind to quit them."
I durst not hint to him that Virginia was lovesick, and that the voyage
had been projected that the two might be separated until they had grown
a little older.
_III.--Virginia's Departure_
Just at this time a letter came to Madame de la Tour from her aunt, who
had just recovered from a dangerous illness, and whose obdurate heart
had been softened by the fear of death. She requested her niece to
return to France; or, if the state of her health prevented her from
undertaking the voyage, to send Virginia thither, on whom she intended
to bestow a good education, a place at court, and a bequest of all her
possessions. The return of her favour, she added, depended entirely on
compliance with these injunctions.
The letter filled the family with utter consternation.
"Can you leave us?" Margaret asked, in deep anxiety.
"No," replied madame, "I will never leave you. With you I have lived,
and with you I mean to die."
At these words tears of joy bedewed the cheeks of the whole household,
and the most joyous of all, although she gave the least testimony to her
pleasure, was Virginia.
But next morning they were surprised to receive a visit from the
governor. He, too, had heard from madame's aunt. "Surely," he said, "you
cannot without injustice deprive your young and beautiful daughter of so
great an inheritance." Taking madame aside, he told her that a vessel
was on the point of sailing, and that a lady who was related to him
would take care of her daughter. He then placed upon the table a large
bag of piastres, which one of his slaves had brought. "This," he said,
"is what your aunt has sent to make the preparations for the voyage."
After the governor had left, madame urged her daughter to go. But wealth
had no temptations for Virginia. She thought only of her family, and of
her love for Paul. "Oh, I shall never have resolution to quit you!" she
cried.
But in the evening came her father confessor, sent by the governor. "My
children," said he as he entered, "there is wealth in store for you now,
thanks to Heaven. You have at length the means of gratifying your
benevolent feeling by ministering to the unhappy. We must obey the will
of Providence," he continued, turning to Virginia. "It is a sacrifice, I
grant, but it is the command of the Almighty."
Virginia, with downcast eyes and trembling voice, replied, "If it is the
command of God that I should go, God's will be done." And burst into
tears.
I was with the family at supper that evening. Little was eaten, and
nobody uttered a syllable.
After supper Virginia rose first, and went out. Paul quickly followed
her. The rest of us went out soon afterwards, and we sat down under the
banana-trees. Paul and Virginia were not far off, and we heard every
word they said.
"You are going to leave us," began Paul, "for the sake of a relation
whom you have never seen!"
"Alas!" replied Virginia. "Had I been allowed to follow my own
inclinations, I should have remained here all my days. But my mother
wishes me to go. My confessor says it is the will of God that I should
go."
"Ah!" said Paul. "And do you say nothing of the attractions of wealth?
You will soon find another on whom you can bestow the name of brother
among your equals--one who has riches and high birth, which I cannot
offer you. But whither can you go to be more happy than where you are?
Cruel girl! How will our mothers bear this separation? What will become
of me? Oh, since a new destiny attracts you, since you seek fortune in
far countries, let me at least go with you! I will follow you as your
slave."
Paul's voice was stifled with sobs. "It is for your sake that I go!"
cried Virginia tearfully. "You have laboured daily to support us. By my
wealth I shall seek to repay the good you have done to us all. And would
I choose any brother but thee! Oh, Paul, Paul, you are far dearer to me
than a brother!"
At these words he clasped her in his arms. "I shall go with her. Nothing
shall shake my resolution!" he declared, in a terrible voice.
We ran towards them, and Paul turned savagely on Madame de la Tour. "Do
you act the part of a mother," he cried, "you who separate brother and
sister? Pitiless woman! May the ocean never give her back to your arms!"
His eyes sparkled; sweat ran down his countenance.
"Oh, my friend," cried Virginia to him in terror, "I swear by all that
could ever unite two unhappy beings that if I remain here I will only
live for you; and if I depart, I will one day return to be yours!"
His head drooped; a torrent of tears gushed from his eyes.
"Come to-night to my home, my friend," I said. "We will talk this matter
over to-morrow."
"I cannot let her go!" cried madame, in distraction.
Paul accompanied me in silence. After a restless night he arose at
daybreak, and returned to his own home.
Virginia had gone! The vessel had sailed at daybreak, and she was on
board.
By intricate paths Paul climbed to the summit of a rock cone, from which
a vast area of sea was visible. From here he perceived the vessel that
bore away Virginia; and here I found him in the evening, his head
leaning against the rock, his eyes fixed on the ground.
When I had persuaded him to return home, he bitterly reproached madame
with having so cruelly deceived him. She told us that a breeze had
sprung up in the early morning, and that the governor himself, his
officers, and the confessor has come and carried Virginia off in spite
of all their tears and protests, the governor declaring that it was for
their good that she was thus hurried away.
Paul wandered miserably among all the spots that had been Virginia's
favourites. He looked at her goats, and at the birds that came
fluttering to be fed by the hand of her who had gone. He watched the dog
vainly searching, following the scent up and down. He cherished little
things that had been hers--the last nosegay she had worn, the coconut
cup out of which she was accustomed to drink.
At length he began to labour in the plantation again. He also besought
me to teach him reading and writing, so that he might correspond with
Virginia; and geography and history, that he might learn the situation
and character of the country whither she had gone.
We heard a report that Virginia had reached France in safety; but for
two years we heard no other news of her.
_IV.--Virginia's Return_
When at length a letter arrived from Virginia it appeared that she had
written several times before, but as she had received no replies, she
feared that her great-aunt had intercepted her former letters.
She had been placed in a convent school, and although she lived in the
midst of riches, she had not the disposal of a single farthing. She was
not allowed to mention her mother's name, and was bidden to forget the
land of savages where she was born; but she would sooner forget herself.
To Paul she sent some flower-seeds in a small purse, on which were
embroidered the letters "P" and "V" formed of hair that he knew to be
Virginia's.
But reports were current that gave him great uneasiness. The people of
the vessel that had brought the letter asserted that Virginia was about
to be married to a great nobleman; some even declared that the wedding
was already over.
But soon afterwards his disquietude ceased at the news that Virginia was
about to return.
On the morning of December 24, 1752, Paul saw a signal indicating that a
vessel was descried at sea, and he hastened to the city. A pilot went
out to reconnoitre her according to the custom of the port; he came back
in the evening with the news that the vessel was the Saint Gerard, and
that her captain hoped to bring her to anchor off Port Louis on the
following afternoon. Virginia was on board, and sent by the pilot a
letter to her mother which Paul, after kissing it with transport,
carried hurriedly to the plantation.
Virginia wrote that her great-aunt had tried to force her into marriage,
had disinherited her on her refusal, and had sent her back to the
island. Her only wish now was once more to see and embrace her dear
family.
Paul, in his excitement, rushed to tell me the news, although it was
late at night. As we walked together we were overtaken by a breathless
negro.
"A vessel from France has just cast anchor under Amber Island," he said.
"She is firing distress guns, for the sea is very heavy."
"That will be Virginia's vessel," I said. "Let us go that way to meet
her."
The heat was stifling, and the flashes of lightning that illumined the
dense darkness revealed masses of thick clouds lowering over the island.
In the distance we heard the boom of the distress-gun. We quickened our
pace without saying a word, not daring to communicate our anxiety to
each other.
When we reached the coast by Amber Island, we found several planters
gathered round a fire, discussing whether the vessel could enter the
channel in the morning and find safety.
Soon after dawn the governor arrived with a detachment of soldiers, who
immediately fired a volley. Close at hand came the answering boom of the
ship's gun; in the dim light we could see her masts and yards, and hear
the voices of the sailors. She had passed through the channel, and was
secure--save from the hurricane.
But the hurricane came. Black clouds with copper edging hung in the
zenith; seabirds made their way, screaming, to shelter in the island.
Then fearful noises as of torrents were heard from the sea; the mists of
the morning were swept away and the storm was upon us.
The vessel was now in deadly peril, and ere long what we had feared took
place. The cables on her bows snapped, and she was dashed upon the rocks
half a cable's length from the shore. A cry of grief burst from every
breast.
Paul was about to fling himself into the sea, when I seized him by the
arm.
"Oh. let me go to her rescue," he cried, "or let me die!"
I tied a rope round his waist, and he advanced toward the ship,
sometimes walking, sometimes swimming. He hoped to get on board the
vessel, for the sea in its irregular movements left her almost dry. But
presently it returned with redoubled fury, and the unhappy Paul was
hurled back upon the shore, bleeding, bruised, and senseless.
The ship was now going to pieces, and the despairing crew were flinging
themselves into the sea. On the stern gallery stood Virginia, stretching
out her arms towards the lover who sought to save her. When he was
thrust back she waved her hand towards us, as if bidding us an eternal
farewell.
One sailor remained with her, striving to persuade her to undress and
try to swim ashore. With a dignified gesture she repelled him. Then a
prodigious mountain of water swept towards the vessel. The sailor sprang
off, and was carried ashore. Virginia vanished from our sight.
We found her body on the beach of a bay near at hand, whither much of
the wreckage had been carried. Her eyes were closed, but her countenance
showed perfect calm; only the pale violet of death blended itself upon
her cheeks with the rose of modesty. One of her hands was firmly closed.
I disengaged from it, with much difficulty, a little casket; within the
casket was a portrait of Paul--a gift from him which she had promised
never to part with while she lived.
Paul was taken home stretched on a palanquin. His coming brought a ray
of comfort to the unhappy mothers; the tears, which had been till then
restrained through excess of sorrow, now began to flow, and, nature
being thus relieved, all the three bereaved ones fell into a lethargic
repose.
It was three weeks ere Paul was sufficiently recovered to walk. For day
after day, when his strength was restored, he wandered among the places
endeared to him by memories of Virginia. His eyes grew hollow, his
colour faded, his health gradually but visibly declined. I strove to
mitigate his feelings by giving him change of scene, by taking him to
the busy inhabited parts of the island. My efforts proving quite
ineffectual, I tried to console him by reminding him that Virginia had
gained eternal happiness.
"Since death is a blessing, and Virginia is happy," he replied
mournfully, "I will die, also, that I may again be united to her."
Thus, the consolation I sought to administer only aggravated his
despair.
Paul died two months after his beloved Virginia, whose name was ever on
his lips to the last. Margaret survived her son only by a week, and
Madame de la Tour, who had borne all her terrible losses with a
greatness of soul beyond belief, lived but another month.
By the side of Virginia, at the foot of the bamboos near the church of
Pamplemousses, Paul was laid to rest. Close at hand the two mothers were
buried. No marble is raised over their humble graves, no inscriptions
record their virtues, but in the hearts of those who loved them, they
have left a memory that time can never efface.
With these words the old man, tears flowing from his eyes, arose and
went away.
* * * * *