when the weather became dreadfully tempestuous. Day after day brought
news of vessels foundered, or driven on shore, and the coast was
strewed with wrecks. Intelligence was received of the looked-for ship
having been seen dismasted in a violent storm, and the greatest fears
were entertained for her safety.
Annette never left the side of Eugene's mother. She watched every
change of her countenance with painful solicitude, and endeavoured to
cheer her with hopes, while her own mind was racked by anxiety. She
tasked her efforts to be gay; but it was a forced and unnatural
gayety: a sigh from the mother would completely check it; and when she
could no longer restrain the rising tears, she would hurry away and
pour out her agony in secret. Every anxious look, every anxious
inquiry of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face
appeared, was an arrow to her soul. She considered every
disappointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart sickened
under the careworn expression of the maternal eye. At length this
suspense became insupportable. She left the village and hastened to
Honfleur, hoping every hour, every moment, to receive some tidings of
her lover. She paced the pier, and wearied the seamen of the port with
her inquiries. She made a daily pilgrimage to the chapel of Our Lady
of Grace; hung votive garlands on the wall, and passed hours either
kneeling before the altar, or looking out from the brow of the hill
upon the angry sea.
At length word was brought that the long-wished-for vessel was in
sight. She was seen standing into the mouth of the Seine, shattered
and crippled, bearing marks of having been sadly tempest-tost. There
was a general joy diffused by her return; and there was not a brighter
eye, nor a lighter heart, than Annette's, in the little port of
Honfleur. The ship came to anchor in the river, and shortly after a
boat put off for the shore. The populace crowded down to the
pier-head, to welcome it. Annette stood blushing, and smiling, and
trembling, and weeping; for a thousand painfully-pleasing emotions
agitated her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and reconciliation
about to take place.
Her heart throbbed to pour itself out, and atone to her gallant lover
for all its errors. At one moment she would place herself in a
conspicuous situation, where she might catch his view at once, and
surprise him by her welcome; but the next moment a doubt would come
across her mind, and she would shrink among the throng, trembling and
faint, and gasping with her emotions. Her agitation increased as the
boat drew near, until it became distressing; and it was almost a
relief to her when she perceived that her lover was not there. She
presumed that some accident had detained him on board of the ship; and
she felt that the delay would enable her to gather more
self-possession for the meeting. As the boat neared the shore, many
inquiries were made, and laconic answers returned.
At length Annette heard some inquiries after her lover. Her heart
palpitated--there was a moment's pause: the reply was brief, but
awful. He had been washed from the deck, with two of the crew, in the
midst of a stormy night, when it was impossible to render any
assistance. A piercing shriek broke from among the crowd; and Annette
had nearly fallen into the waves.
The sudden revulsion of feelings after such a transient gleam of
happiness, was too much for her harassed frame. She was carried home
senseless. Her life was for some time despaired of, and it was months
before she recovered her health; but she never had perfectly recovered
her mind: it still remained unsettled with respect to her lover's
fate.
"The subject," continued my informant, "is never mentioned in her
hearing; but she sometimes speaks of it herself, and it seems as
though there were some vague train of impressions in her mind, in
which hope and fear are strangely mingled--some imperfect idea of her
lover's shipwreck, and yet some expectation of his return.
"Her parents have tried every means to cheer her, and to banish these
gloomy images from her thoughts. They assemble round her the young
companions in whose society she used to delight; and they will work,
and chat, and sing, and laugh, as formerly; but she will sit silently
among them, and will sometimes weep in the midst of their gayety; and,
if spoken to, will make no reply, but look up with streaming eyes, and
sing a dismal little song, which she has learned somewhere, about a
shipwreck. It makes every one's heart ache to see her in this way, for
she used to be the happiest creature in the village.
"She passes the greater part of the time with Eugene's mother; whose
only consolation is her society, and who dotes on her with a mother's
tenderness. She is the only one that has perfect influence over
Annette in every mood. The poor girl seems, as formerly, to make an
effort to be cheerful in her company; but will sometimes gaze upon her
with the most piteous look, and then kiss her gray hairs, and fall on
her neck and weep.
"She is not always melancholy, however; she has occasional intervals,
when she will be bright and animated for days together; but there is a
degree of wildness attending these fits of gayety, that prevents their
yielding any satisfaction to her friends. At such times she will
arrange her room, which is all covered with pictures of ships and
legends of saints; and will wreathe a white chaplet, as if for a
wedding, and prepare wedding ornaments. She will listen anxiously at
the door, and look frequently out at the window, as if expecting some
one's arrival. It is supposed that at such times she is looking for
her lover's return; but, as no one touches upon the theme, nor
mentions his name in her presence, the current of her thoughts is mere
matter of conjecture. Now and then she will make a pilgrimage to the
chapel of Notre Dame de Grace; where she will pray for hours at the
altar, and decorate the images with wreaths that she had woven; or
will wave her handkerchief from the terrace, as you have seen, if
there is any vessel in the distance."
Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now elapsed without effacing
from her mind this singular taint of insanity; still her friends hoped
it might gradually wear away. They had at one time removed her to a
distant part of the country, in hopes that absence from the scenes
connected with her story might have a salutary effect; but, when her
periodical melancholy returned, she became more restless and wretched
than usual, and, secretly escaping from her friends, set out on foot,
without knowing the road, on one of her pilgrimages to the chapel.
This little story entirely drew my attention from the gay scene of the
fête, and fixed it upon the beautiful Annette. While she was yet
standing on the terrace, the vesper-bell was rung from the
neighbouring chapel. She listened for a moment, and then drawing a
small rosary from her bosom, walked in that direction. Several of the
peasantry followed her in silence; and I felt too much interested, not
to do the same.
The chapel, as I said before, is in the midst of a grove, on the high
promontory. The inside is hung round with little models of ships, and
rude paintings of wrecks and perils at sea, and providential
deliverances--the votive offerings of captains and crews that have
been saved. On entering, Annette paused for a moment before a picture
of the virgin, which, I observed, had recently been decorated with a
wreath of artificial flowers. When she reached the middle of the
chapel she knelt down, and those who followed her involuntarily did
the same at a little distance. The evening sun shone softly through
the checkered grove into one window of the chapel. A perfect stillness
reigned within; and this stillness was the more impressive contrasted
with the distant sound of music and merriment from the fair. I could
not take my eyes off from the poor suppliant; her lips moved as she
told her beads, but her prayers were breathed in silence. It might
have been mere fancy excited by the scene, that, as she raised her
eyes to heaven, I thought they had an expression truly seraphic. But I
am easily affected by female beauty, and there was something in this
mixture of love, devotion, and partial insanity, that was
inexpressibly touching.
As the poor girl left the chapel, there was a sweet serenity in her
looks; and I was told that she would return home, and in all
probability be calm and cheerful for days, and even weeks; in which
time it was supposed that hope predominated in her mental malady; and
that, when the dark side of her mind, as her friends call it, was
about to turn up, it would be known by her neglecting her distaff or
her lace, singing plaintive songs, and weeping in silence.
She passed on from the chapel without noticing the fête, but smiling
and speaking to many as she passed. I followed her with my eye as she
descended the winding road towards Honfleur, leaning on her father's
arm. "Heaven," thought I, "has ever its store of balms for the hurt
mind and wounded spirit, and may in time rear up this broken flower to
be once more the pride and joy of the valley. The very delusion in
which the poor girl walks, may be one of those mists kindly diffused
by Providence over the regions of thought, when they become too
fruitful of misery. The veil may gradually be raised which obscures
the horizon of her mind, as she is enabled steadily and calmly to
contemplate the sorrows at present hidden in mercy from her view."
On my return from Paris, about a year afterwards, I turned off from
the beaten route at Rouen, to revisit some of the most striking scenes
of Lower Normandy. Having passed through the lovely country of the
Pays d'Auge, I reached Honfleur on a fine afternoon, intending to
cross to Havre the next morning, and embark for England. As I had no
better way of passing the evening, I strolled up the hill to enjoy the
fine prospect from the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace; and while there,
I thought of inquiring after the fate of poor Annette Delarbre. The
priest who had told me her story was officiating at vespers, after
which I accosted him, and learnt from him the remaining circumstances.
He told me that from the time I had seen her at the chapel, her
disorder took a sudden turn for the worse, and her health rapidly
declined. Her cheerful intervals became shorter and less frequent, and
attended with more incoherency. She grew languid, silent, and moody in
her melancholy; her form was wasted, her looks pale and disconsolate,
and it was feared she would never recover. She became impatient of all
sounds of gayety, and was never so contented as when Eugene's mother
was near her. The good woman watched over her with patient, yearning
solicitude; and in seeking to beguile her sorrows, would half forget
her own. Sometimes, as she sat looking upon her pallid face, the tears
would fill her eyes, which, when Annette perceived, she would
anxiously wipe them away, and tell her not to grieve, for that Eugene
would soon return; and then she would affect a forced gayety, as in
former times, and sing a lively air; but a sudden recollection would
come over her, and she would burst into tears, hang on the poor
mother's neck, and entreat her not to curse her for having destroyed
her son.
Just at this time, to the astonishment of every one, news was received
of Eugene; who, it appeared, was still living. When almost drowned, he
had fortunately seized upon a spar which had been washed from the
ship's deck. Finding himself nearly exhausted, he had fastened himself
to it, and floated for a day and night, until all sense had left him.
On recovering, he had found himself on board a vessel bound to India,
but so ill as not to move without assistance. His health had continued
precarious throughout the voyage; on arriving in India, he had
experienced many vicissitudes, and had been transferred from ship to
ship, and hospital to hospital. His constitution had enabled him to
struggle through every hardship; and he was now in a distant port,
waiting only for the sailing of a ship to return home.
Great caution was necessary in imparting these tidings to the mother,
and even then she was nearly overcome by the transports of her joy.
But how to impart them to Annette, was a matter of still greater
perplexity. Her state of mind had been so morbid; she had been subject
to such violent changes, and the cause of her derangement had been of
such an inconsolable and hopeless kind, that her friends had always
forborne to tamper with her feelings. They had never even hinted at
the subject of her griefs, nor encouraged the theme when she adverted
to it, but had passed it over in silence, hoping that time would
gradually wear the traces of it from her recollection, or, at least,
would render them less painful. They now felt at a loss how to
undeceive her even in her misery, lest the sudden recurrence of
happiness might confirm the estrangement of her reason, or might
overpower her enfeebled frame. They ventured, however, to probe those
wounds which they formerly did not dare to touch, for they now had the
balm to pour into them. They led the conversation to those topics
which they had hitherto shunned, and endeavoured to ascertain the
current of her thoughts in those varying moods that had formerly
perplexed them. They found, however, that her mind was even more
affected than they had imagined. All her ideas were confused and
wandering. Her bright and cheerful moods, which now grew seldomer than
ever, were all the effects of mental delusion. At such times she had
no recollection of her lover's having been in danger, but was only
anticipating his arrival. "When the winter has passed away," said she,
"and the trees put on their blossoms, and the swallow comes back over
the sea, he will return." When she was drooping and desponding, it was
in vain to remind her of what she had said in her gayer moments, and
to assure her that Eugene would indeed return shortly. She wept on in
silence, and appeared insensible to their words. But at times her
agitation became violent, when she would upbraid herself with having
driven Eugene from his mother, and brought sorrow on her gray hairs.
Her mind admitted but one leading idea at a time, which nothing could
divert or efface; or if they ever succeeded in interrupting the
current of her fancy, it only became the more incoherent, and
increased the feverishness that preyed upon both mind and body. Her
friends felt more alarm for her than ever, for they feared that her
senses were irrecoverably gone, and her constitution completely
undermined.
In the mean time, Eugene returned to the village. He was violently
affected, when the story of Annette was told him. With bitterness of
heart he upbraided his own rashness and infatuation that had hurried
him away from her, and accused himself as the author of all her woes.
His mother would describe to him all the anguish and remorse of poor
Annette; the tenderness with which she clung to her, and endeavoured,
even in the midst of her insanity, to console her for the loss of her
son, and the touching expressions of affection that were mingled with
her most incoherent wanderings of thought, until his feelings would be
wound up to agony, and he would entreat her to desist from the
recital. They did not dare as yet to bring him into Annette's sight;
but he was permitted to see her when she was sleeping. The tears
streamed down his sunburnt cheeks, as he contemplated the ravages
which grief and malady had made; and his heart swelled almost to
breaking, as he beheld round her neck the very braid of hair which she
once gave him in token of girlish affection, and which he had returned
to her in anger.
At length the physician that attended her determined to adventure upon
an experiment, to take advantage of one of those cheerful moods when
her mind was visited by hope, and to endeavour to engraft, as it were,
the reality upon the delusions of her fancy. These moods had now
become very rare, for nature was sinking under the continual pressure
of her mental malady, and the principle of reaction was daily growing
weaker. Every effort was tried to bring on a cheerful interval of the
kind. Several of her most favourite companions were kept continually
about her; they chatted gayly, they laughed, and sang, and danced; but
Annette reclined with languid frame and hollow eye, and took no part
in their gayety. At length the winter was gone; the trees put forth
their leaves; the swallows began to build in the eaves of the house,
and the robin and wren piped all day beneath the window. Annette's
spirits gradually revived. She began to deck her person with unusual
care; and bringing forth a basket of artificial flowers, she went to
work to wreathe a bridal chaplet of white roses. Her companions asked
her why she prepared the chaplet. "What!" said she with a smile, "have
you not noticed the trees putting on their wedding dresses of
blossoms? Has not the swallow flown back over the sea? Do you not know
that the time is come for Eugene to return? that he will be home
to-morrow, and that on Sunday we are to be married?"
Her words were repeated to the physician, and he seized on them at
once. He directed that her idea should be encouraged and acted upon.
Her words were echoed through the house. Every one talked of the
return of Eugene, as a matter of course; they congratulated her upon
her approaching happiness, and assisted her in her preparations. The
next morning, the same theme was resumed. She was dressed out to
receive her lover. Every bosom fluttered with anxiety. A cabriolet
drove into the village. "Eugene is coming!" was the cry. She saw him
alight at the door, and rushed with a shriek into his arms.
Her friends trembled for the result of this critical experiment; but
she did not sink under it, for her fancy had prepared her for his
return. She was as one in a dream, to whom a tide of unlooked-for
prosperity, that would have overwhelmed his waking reason, seems but
the natural current of circumstances. Her conversation, however,
showed that her senses were wandering. There was an absolute
forgetfulness of all past sorrow--a wild and feverish gayety, that at
times was incoherent.
The next morning, she awoke languid and exhausted. All the occurrences
of the preceding day had passed away from her mind, as though they had
been the mere illusions of her fancy. She rose melancholy and
abstracted, and, as she dressed herself, was heard to sing one of her
plaintive ballads. When she entered the parlour, her eyes were swoln
with weeping. She heard Eugene's voice without, and started. She
passed her hand across her forehead, and stood musing, like one
endeavouring to recall a dream. Eugene entered the room, and advanced
towards her; she looked at him with an eager, searching look, murmured
some indistinct words, and before he could reach her, sank upon the
floor.
She relapsed into a wild and unsettled state of mind; but now that the
first shock was over, the physician ordered that Eugene should keep
continually in her sight. Sometimes she did not know him; at other
times she would talk to him as if he were going to sea, and would
implore him not to part from her in anger; and when he was not
present, she would speak of him as if buried in the ocean, and would
sit, with clasped hands, looking upon the ground, the picture of
despair. As the agitation of her feelings subsided, and her frame
recovered from the shock which it had received, she became more placid
and coherent. Eugene kept almost continually near her. He formed the
real object round which her scattered ideas once more gathered, and
which linked them once more with the realities of life. But her
changeful disorder now appeared to take a new turn. She became languid
and inert, and would sit for hours silent, and almost in a state of
lethargy. If roused from this stupor, it seemed as if her mind would
make some attempts to follow up a train of thought, but would soon
become confused. She would regard every one that approached her with
an anxious and inquiring eye, that seemed continually to disappoint
itself. Sometimes, as her lover sat holding her hand, she would look
pensively in his face without saying a word, until his heart was
overcome; and after these transient fits of intellectual exertion, she
would sink again into lethargy.
By degrees, this stupor increased; her mind appeared to have subsided
into a stagnant and almost death-like calm. For the greater part of
the time, her eyes were closed; her face almost as fixed and
passionless as that of a corpse. She no longer took any notice of
surrounding objects. There was an awfulness in this tranquillity, that
filled her friends with apprehensions. The physician ordered that she
should be kept perfectly quiet; or that, if she evinced any agitation,
she should be gently lulled, like a child, by some favourite tune.
She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to breathe, and
apparently sinking into the sleep of death. Her chamber was profoundly
still. The attendants moved about it with noiseless tread; every thing
was communicated by signs and whispers. Her lover sat by her side,
watching her with painful anxiety, and fearing that every breath which
stole from her pale lips would be the last.
At length she heaved a deep sigh; and, from some convulsive motions,
appeared to be troubled in her sleep. Her agitation increased,
accompanied by an indistinct moaning. One of her companions,
remembering the physician's instructions, endeavoured to lull her by
singing, in a low voice, a tender little air, which was a particular
favourite of Annette's. Probably it had some connexion in her mind
with her own story; for every fond girl has some ditty of the kind,
linked in her thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances.
As she sang, the agitation of Annette subsided. A streak of faint
colour came into her cheeks; her eyelids became swoln with rising
tears, which trembled there for a moment, and then, stealing forth,
coursed down her pallid cheek. When the song was ended, she opened her
eyes and looked about her, as one awakening in a strange place.
"Oh, Eugene! Eugene!" said she, "it seems as if I have had a long and
dismal dream; what has happened, and what has been the matter with
me?"
The questions were embarrassing; and before they could be answered,
the physician, who was in the next room, entered. She took him by the
hand, looked up in his face, and made the same inquiry. He endeavoured
to put her off with some evasive answer;--"No, no!" cried she, "I know
I have been ill, and I have been dreaming strangely. I thought Eugene
had left us--and that he had gone to sea--and that--and that he was
drowned!--But he _has_ been to sea!" added she, earnestly, as
recollection kept flashing upon her, "and he has been wrecked--and we
were all so wretched--and he came home again one bright
morning--and--Oh!" said she, pressing her hand against her forehead,
with a sickly smile, "I see how it is; all has not been right here: I
begin to recollect--but it is all past now--Eugene is here! and his
mother is happy--and we shall never--never part again--shall we,
Eugene?"
She sunk back in her chair, exhausted; the tears streamed down her
cheeks. Her companions hovered round her, not knowing what to make of
this sudden dawn of reason. Her lover sobbed aloud. She opened her
eyes again, and looked upon them with an air of the sweetest
acknowledgment. "You are all so good to me!" said she, faintly.
The physician drew the father aside. "Your daughter's mind is
restored," said he; "she is sensible that she has been deranged; she
is growing conscious of the past, and conscious of the present. All
that now remains is to keep her calm and quiet until her health is
re-established, and then let her be married in God's name!"
"The wedding took place," continued the good priest, "but a short time
since; they were here at the last fête during their honeymoon, and a
handsomer and happier couple was not to be seen as they danced under
yonder trees. The young man, his wife, and mother, now live on a fine
farm at Pont l'Eveque; and that model of a ship which you see yonder,
with white flowers wreathed round it, is Annette's offering of thanks
to Our Lady of Grace, for having listened to her prayers, and
protected her lover in the hour of peril."