No More Learning

"Certainly as Emperor you have the right to grant mercy,
and I have a favor to ask of you. "
Now it was on the face of the husband that the smile faded,
to brighten on the face of the wife. Knitting his brows, he pre-
pared to be firm, fearing that the influence which Josephine exer-
cised upon his heart might lead him into some foolish weakness.
"Again, Josephine! You have promised me not to attempt in
this way again to interrupt the course of justice. Do you think
that the right to exercise mercy is granted us only to satisfy the
caprices of our hearts? No: we ought to use it only to soften.
the too rigorous punishment of the law, or to repair the errors
of the tribunal. Always to extend the hand of forgiveness to
only to augment their number and their inso-
one's enemies is
lence. "
"Nevertheless, Sire," replied Josephine, with difficulty restrain-
ing a burst of laughter, "you will accord me the favor that I
implore of your Majesty. "
"I doubt it. "


## p. 12692 (#106) ##########################################

12692
JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
"And I do not doubt it. First and before all, I demand the
removal of two oppressors! Yes, Sire, let them be displaced; let
them be driven out, forced away, if necessary! "
And speaking thus, she covered her mouth with her handker-
chief; for, seeing the astonished face of Napoleon, she could no
longer restrain her mirth.
"How? you urge me to punish! you, Josephine! And who
are the guilty ones? "
"Two paving-stones, Sire, which are in the way in a court-
yard. "
And the laughter so long restrained broke forth in a merry
peal.
He rose quickly, and crossing his arms behind him, regarded
her with an air of doubt and surprise.
"How? what do you mean? Two paving-stones! Are you
jesting? "
"No," said she; and rising, she approached him, and with
her graceful Creole nonchalance leaning her two clasped hands
on his shoulder, said: "On these two stones depends a precious
existence. Listen to me, Sire; I invoke all your good-will while
I speak. "
She then recounted to him the whole story of the petition,
and all that she had learned from the young girl concerning the
prisoner (whose name however she did not mention), and of the
devotion of the poor child; and in speaking of the prisoner, of
his flower, and the love which he bore it, the words flowed from
her lips gracious, tender, caressing, full of charm and of that elo-
quence in which her heart so naturally expressed itself.
In listening, the Emperor smiled; and the smile was born of
admiration of his wife.
AT LAST Charney said adieu to the priest and the colonel.
One day, when he least expected it, the prison doors opened for
him.
On his return from Austerlitz, Napoleon, importuned by Jo-
sephine (who in her turn probably yielded to the importunities
of another interceding for the prisoner of Fenestrella), caused an
account to be rendered to him of the seizure made by the offi-
cers in their visit of search. They brought to the Emperor the
cambric manuscripts, until then deposited in the archives of the
Minister of Justice. He read them over carefully, and declared


## p. 12693 (#107) ##########################################

JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12693
loudly that the Count of Charney was a madman; but a harm-
less one.
"He who can so abase his thoughts as to be absorbed in a
weed," said he, "may make an excellent botanist, but not a con-
spirator. I grant his pardon. Let his estates be restored to him;
and let him cultivate them himself, if such is his good pleasure. "
Charney, in his turn, left Fenestrella; but he did not go
alone. Could he be separated from his first, his constant friend?
After having her transplanted into a large case of good earth,
he took Picciola in triumph with him; his Picciola,- Picciola to
whom he owed reason; Picciola to whom he owed his life; Picciola
from whose bosom he had drawn consoling faith; Picciola through
whom he had learned friendship and love; Picciola, finally,
through whom he was to be restored to liberty!
As he was about to cross the drawbridge, a large rough hand
was extended towards him.
Signor Count," said Ludovic, trying to conceal his emotion,
"give me your hand: now we can be friends, since you are go-
ing, since you leave us; since we shall see you no more thank
God. "
«<
-
Charney interrupted him: "We shall see each other again,
my dear Ludovic! Ludovic, my friend! "
And after having embraced him and pressed his hand again
and again, he left the citadel.
He had crossed the esplanade, left behind him the hill on
which the fortress is built, crossed the bridge over the Clusone,
and turned into the road to Suza, when a voice from the ram-
parts reached him, crying "Adieu, Signor Count! adieu, Picciola! »
Six months after, one sunny day in spring, a rich equipage
drew up at the gates of the prison of Fenestrella. A traveler
alighted and inquired for Ludovic Ritti.
It was his former captive who came to pay a visit to his
friend the jailer. A young lady leaned lovingly on the arm of
the traveler. That young lady was Thérèse Girhardi, Countess
of Charney.
Together they visited the court, and the chamber where once
abode ennui, skepticism, disillusion.
Of all the despairing sentences which had been inscribed upon
the white walls, one alone remained: -
«LEARNING, WIT, BEAUTY, YOUTH, FORTUNE-ALL ARE POWERLESS
TO GIVE HAPPINESS »


## p. 12694 (#108) ##########################################

12694
JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
Thérèse added:
«-WITHOUT LOVE»
The kiss which Charney pressed upon her brow gave con-
firmation to the truth of what she had written.
Before leaving the count asked Ludovic to be godfather to
his first child, as he had been to Picciola. Then saying farewell,
the husband and wife returned to Turin, where Girhardi awaited
them in his country-seat of La Colline.
There, near the house, in a rich parterre, brightened and
warmed by the rays of the rising sun, Charney had ordered his
plant to be placed,- alone, that no other might interfere with its
development. By his order, no hand but his might touch it or
care for it. He alone would watch over it: it was an employ-
ment, a duty, a debt imposed upon him by his gratitude.
How rapidly the days flowed by! Surrounded by extensive
grounds, on the borders of a beautiful river, under a genial sky,
Charney tasted the wine of this world's happiness. Time added.
a new charm, new strength, to all these ties; for habit, like the
ivy of our walls, cements and consolidates that which it cannot
destroy. The friendship of Girhardi, the love of Thérèse, the
blessings of all who lived under his roof,—nothing was wanting
to his happiness; and yet that happiness was to be made still
greater. Charney became a father.
Oh, then his heart overflowed with felicity. His tenderness
for his daughter seemed to redouble that which he felt for his
wife. He was never weary of gazing upon and adoring them
both.
To be separated a moment from them was pain.
Ludovic arrived to fulfill his promise. He wished to visit
his first godchild, that of the prison. But alas! in the midst of
these transports of love, of the prosperity and happiness with
which La Colline abounded, the source of all these joys, of all
this happiness, La Povera Picciola, was dead,-dead for want of
care!
―――――――――――――


## p. 12695 (#109) ##########################################

12695
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
(1737-1814)
NE of the most beautiful works in romantic literature is
'Paul and Virginia,' by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. Upon
this short tale rests his literary fame. In bulk, its few score
pages are not one twentieth of his collected writings; yet while the
others are almost forgotten, this has become a classic. Its success
oddly illustrates the fallibility of educated opinion. When composed
in 1784, the author read it before a brilliant assemblage at Madame
Necker's. As he proceeded, they yawned; one by one they deserted
the room; only some of the ladies present
wept. This chilling reception caused him
to throw it aside, and very nearly to burn
it. In 1788, when he was indúced to pub-
lish this apparent trifle, it quickly passed
through more than three hundred editions,
and was translated into every civilized
language. Themes for dramas, romances,
pictures, and statues were drawn from it;
new-born children were named after its
young lovers. Napoleon slept with a copy
under his pillow during the Italian campaign,
"as Homer under that of Alexander "; and
Joseph Bonaparte settled a pension of six
thousand francs on the author. Perhaps
with Robinson Crusoe' and 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' it has been among
the novels that have enjoyed the greatest immediate and lasting
popularity. Strangely, too, Robinson Crusoe had so profoundly in-
fluenced Saint-Pierre as a boy, that after several vain trips to find
a desert isle, he made various attempts for the rest of his life to
describe it; one of which resulted in this book.

SAINT-PIERRE
The precision with which it satisfied contemporary longings and
tastes was the secret of its wide circulation. Externally it continued
the tradition of Richardson, who had launched the novel of senti-
ment in 'Clarissa Harlowe,' and after whom the doctrine had been
evolved that a love story should be of necessity pathetic and end
unhappily; and it fell into line directly with the sense of the beauty
of nature, and the desire for escape from social conventionalities,
recently aroused by Rousseau. But fundamentally it was the work of


## p. 12696 (#110) ##########################################

12696
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
a poet who selected, as the form to body forth his thought, prose
instead of verse; but a prose of finely chosen, richly set words, warm
with imaginative life and color. Prior to its publication, the popular
ideas and ideals then current, while powerfully presented in prose,
had failed to reach any worthy expression in poetry. Yet a desire
existed that would fly to welcome such a contribution. 'Paul and
Virginia,' a poem in so many essentials, answered at least the pur-
pose of poetry to its generation; hence its enthusiastic reception.
The sorrows of the two young lovers, whose isolated existence
sprang from misfortune and was ended by it; the loveliness of their
lifelong devotion through childish pleasures and youthful dreams;
the luxuriant verdure of their environment, whose rich tropical splen-
dor made the milder French landscape seem pale and wan,— these
poetic elements, deeply as they still move us, yet more profoundly
affected its contemporaries of all classes. Its pathos gripped their
hearts; its gorgeous scenery fired their imaginations. Marie Antoi-
nette, masquerading as shepherdess at Laucret, as farmeress at the
Trianon, saw in it a vista of peaceful retirement, dear also to the
aristocracy about her; the people, a realm devoid of prince, tyrant, or
law; all were stirred at its narration of naïve, perfect love, piteously
frustrated. In this modern analogue of the Greek pastoral 'Daph-
nis and Chloe,' Saint-Pierre succeeded in being, as he wished, "the
Theocritus and Virgil of the tropics. " He has written the first novel
where the background is as important as the characters themselves,
and dowered the world of fiction with two types of perennial interest.
Curiously enough, his life is at utter variance with the spirit
of his work. Instead of being suave, contented, and tolerant, he
was restless and ambitious, in constant vicissitude from his wayward
temper. Born at Havre in 1737, he studied engineering, and went to
serve in Malta, but was discharged for insubordination. With a few
francs, eked out by the bounty of those with whom he lodged, he
traveled to Russia, where his handsome mien won him a position in
the army.
Failure to interest Catherine in a scheme of Siberian
colonization, however, caused his resignation; after which, disgusted
with foreign favors, he returned to besiege the home government
with petitions and memoirs. These brought finally an appointment
to Madagascar. The expedition there he abandoned, upon learning
that its object was the barter of negroes at the Isle of France. His
'Voyage to the Isle of France' (1773), and his 'Studies of Nature'
(1784-88), a medley of the social philosophy of his friend Rousseau,
and his own crude, pseudo-scientific theories, made him famous.
Louis XVI. created him supervisor of the Jardin des Plantes as Buf-
fon's successor. While the Revolution stripped him of his honors
and position, it made him a professor at the École Normale. After
-


## p. 12697 (#111) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12697
enjoying the uninterrupted favor of Napoleon and King Joseph, he
died in 1814 at Eragny-sur-Oise, where was his country-seat.
Aside from the composition of Paul and Virginia,' Saint-Pierre
occupies an important position in the history of literature as a great
colorist in words. A minute, sensitive observer of nature, he felt
the need of a picturesque vocabulary in French, and this he supplied.
and handled so effectually that his forest vistas and storm scenes
have individualized themselves indelibly on the memory; a rare thing
in literature. An ingenious savant has calculated that his palette
employs fifty-four distinctly named shades of color; certain it is, his
influence upon Châteaubriand, Lamartine, George Sand, Alfred de
Vigny, Alfred de Musset, and Pierre Loti has been decided. Unfor-
tunately his pupils' fame has overshadowed his own; but notwith-
standing, he is by right of priority the father of descriptive writing
of nature in France during the nineteenth century.
THE HOME IN MARTINIQUE
From 'Paul and Virginia. Copyright 1867, by Hurd & Houghton
IN
N THE rainy season the two families met together in the cot-
tage, and employed themselves in weaving mats of grass and
baskets of bamboo. Rakes, spades, and hatchets were ranged
along the walls in the most perfect order; and near these instru-
ments of agriculture were placed its products,- sacks of rice,
sheaves of corn, and baskets of plantains. Some degree of lux-
ury is usually united with plenty; and Virginia was taught by
her mother and Margaret to prepare sherbet and cordials from
the juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon, and the citron.
When night came, they all supped together by the light of
a lamp: after which Madame de la Tour or Margaret told stories
of travelers lost during the night in forests of Europe infested
by banditti; or of some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tem-
pest upon the rocks of a desert island. To these recitals their
children listened with eager sensibility, and earnestly begged
that Heaven would grant they might one day have the joy of
showing their hospitality toward such unfortunate persons. At
length the two families would separate and retire to rest, impa-
tient to meet again the next morning. Sometimes they were
lulled to repose by the beating rains which fell in torrents upon
the roofs of their cottages; and sometimes by the hollow winds,
which brought to their ear the distant murmur of the waves


## p. 12698 (#112) ##########################################

12698
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
breaking upon the shore. They blessed God for their own
safety, of which their feeling became stronger from the idea of
remote danger.
Madame de la Tour occasionally read aloud some affecting
history of the Old or New Testament. Her auditors reasoned
but little upon these sacred books, for their theology consisted
in sentiment, like that of Nature; and their morality in action,
like that of the gospel. Those families had no particular days
devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness. Every day was to
them a holiday, and all which surrounded them one holy tem-
ple, where they forever adored an Infinite Intelligence, Almighty,
and the friend of human kind. A sentiment of confidence in his
supreme power filled their minds with consolation for the past,
with fortitude for the present, and with hope for the future.
Behold how these women, compelled by misfortune to return to
a state of nature, had unfolded in their own bosoms, and in
those of their children, the feelings which Nature gives us, our
best support under evil.
But as clouds sometimes arise which cast a gloom over the
best-regulated tempers, whenever any member of this little soci-
ety appeared sad the rest gathered around, endeavoring to ban-
ish painful thoughts rather by sentiment than by arguments.
Each used in this their especial character. Margaret exerted her
gayety, Madame de la Tour employed her mild theology, Virginia
her tender caresses, Paul his cordial frankness. Even Mary and
Domingo hastened to offer their succor, and to weep with those
that wept. Thus weak plants are interwoven in order to resist
the tempests.
During the fine season they went every Sunday to the church
of the Shaddock Grove, the steeple of which you see yonder
upon the plain. Rich planters used to come to church in their
palanquins; these several times sought the acquaintance of fami
lies so bound up in each other, and would have invited them to
parties of pleasure. But they always declined such overtures
with respectful politeness; persuaded that the powerful seek the
weak only to feed their own complacency, and that the weak can-
not please them without flattering them, whether they are good
or evil. On the other hand, they avoided with equal care too
intimate an acquaintance with the small planters, who are as a
class jealous, calumniating, and gross. They thus acquired with
some the character of being timid, and with others of being


## p. 12699 (#113) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12699
proud; but their reserve was accompanied with so much obliging
politeness, above all toward the unfortunate, that they insensibly
acquired the respect of the rich and the confidence of the poor.
After service the poor often came to require some kind office
at their hands. Perhaps it was a person troubled in mind who
sought their advice, or a child led them to its sick mother in
the neighborhood. They always took with them remedies for the
ordinary diseases of the country, which they administered in that
soothing manner which stamps so much value upon the small-
est favors. Above all, they succeeded in banishing the disorders
of the mind, which are so intolerable in solitude and under the
infirmities of a weakened frame. Madame de la Tour spoke
with such sublime confidence of the Divinity, that the sick, while
listening to her, believed that he was present. Virginia often
returned home with her eyes wet with tears, and her heart
overflowing with delight, at having had an opportunity of doing
good. After these visits of charity, they sometimes prolonged
their walk by the valley of the Sloping Mountain, till they
reached my dwelling, where I used to prepare dinner for them
upon the banks of the little river which glides near my cottage.
I procured for these occasions some bottles of old wine, in order
to heighten the gayety of our Indian repast by the more genial
productions of Europe. At other times we met upon the sea-
shore, at the mouth of other little rivers, which are here scarcely
larger than brooks. We brought from the plantation our vegeta-
ble provisions, to which we added such as the sea furnished in
great variety. We caught on these shores the mullet, the roach,
and the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs, oysters, and all other
kinds of shell-fish. In this way we often enjoyed the most tran-
quil pleasures in situations the most frightful. Sometimes, seated
upon a rock under the shade of the velvet sunflower-tree, we
saw the enormous waves of the Indian Ocean break beneath our
feet with a tremendous noise. Paul, who could swim like a fish,
would advance on the reefs to meet the coming billows; then,
at their near approach, would run back to the beach, closely
pursued by the foaming breakers, which threw themselves with
a roaring noise far on the sands. But Virginia at this sight
uttered piercing cries, and said that such sports frightened her
too much.
Our repasts were succeeded by the songs and dances of the
two young people. Virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life,


## p. 12700 (#114) ##########################################

12700
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
and the misery of those who were impelled by avarice to cross
the furious ocean, rather than cultivate the earth and enjoy its
peaceful bounties. Sometimes she performed a pantomime with
Paul, in the manner of the negroes. The first language of man
is pantomime; it is known to all nations, and is so natural and
so expressive that the children of the European inhabitants
catch it with facility from the negroes. Virginia, recalling from
among the histories which her mother had read to her those
which had affected her most, represented the principal events
in them with beautiful simplicity. Sometimes at the sound of
Domingo's tamtam she appeared upon the greensward, bearing a
pitcher upon her head, and advanced with a timid step toward
the source of a neighboring fountain to draw water. Domingo
and Mary, who personated the Shepherds of Midian, forbade her
to approach, and repulsed her sternly. Upon this Paul flew to
her succor, beat away the shepherds, filled Virginia's pitcher,
and placing it upon her head, bound her brows at the same time
with a wreath of the red flowers of the Madagascar periwinkle,
which served to heighten the delicacy of her complexion. Then,
joining their sports, I took upon me the part of Raguel, and
bestowed upon Paul my daughter Zephora in marriage.
Another time she represented Ruth, accompanying Naomi who
returns poor and widowed to her own country, where she finds
herself a stranger after her long absence. Domingo and Mary
personated the reapers. Virginia followed their steps, pretend-
ing to glean here and there a few ears of corn. She was inter-
rogated by Paul with the gravity of a patriarch, and answered
with a faltering voice his questions. Soon, touched with com-
passion, he granted an asylum to innocence and hospitality to
misfortune. He filled Virginia's lap with all kinds of food; and
leading her toward us as before the old men of the city, declared
his purpose to take her in marriage. At this scene, Madame de
la Tour, recalling her widowhood and the desolate situation in
which she had been left by her relations, succeeded by the kind
reception she had met with from Margaret, and now by the
soothing hope of a happy union between their children, could not
forbear weeping; and these mixed recollections of good and evil
caused us all to join in her tears of sorrow and of joy.
These dramas were performed with such an air of reality,
that you might have fancied yourself transported to the plains.
of Syria or of Palestine. We were not unfurnished with either


## p. 12701 (#115) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12701
decorations, lights, or an orchestra, suitable to the representation.
The scene was generally placed in an opening of the forest,
where such parts of the wood as were penetrable formed around
us numerous arcades of foliage, beneath which we were shel-
tered from the heat during the whole day; but when the sun de-
scended toward the horizon, its rays, broken by the trunks of the
trees, diverged among the shadows of the forest in strong lines
of light, which produced the most sublime effect. Sometimes
the whole of its broad disk appeared at the end of an avenue,
spreading one dazzling mass of brightness. The foliage of the
trees, illuminated from beneath by its saffron beams, glowed
with the lustre of the topaz and the emerald. Their brown and
mossy trunks appeared changed into columns of antique bronze;
and the birds, which had retired in silence to their leafy shades
to pass the night, surprised to see the radiance of a second morn-
ing, hailed the star of day with innumerable carols.
Night soon overtook us during those rural entertainments;
but the purity of the air, and the mildness of the climate, ad-
mitted of our sleeping in the woods secure from the injuries of
the weather, and no less secure from the molestation of robbers.
At our return the following day to our respective habitations,
we found them exactly in the same state in which they had been
left. In this island, which then had no commerce, there was so
much simplicity and good faith that the doors of several houses
were without a key, and a lock was an object of curiosity to
many of the natives.
There were, however, some days in the year celebrated by
Paul and Virginia in a more peculiar manner; these were the
birthdays of their mothers. Virginia never failed the day before
to prepare some wheaten cakes, which she distributed among a
few poor white families born on the island, who had never eaten
European bread; and who, uncared for by the blacks, forced to
live in the woods on tapioca roots, had not for the sustaining of
their poverty either the stupidity which attends slavery or the
courage which springs from education. These cakes were all the
gifts that Virginia could offer to ease their condition; but she
gave them in so delicate a manner that they were worth vastly
more. In the first place Paul was commissioned to take the
cakes himself to these families, and get their promise to come
and spend the next day at Madame de la Tour's and Margaret's.
They might then be seen coming: a mother of a family, perhaps,


## p. 12702 (#116) ##########################################

12702
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
with two or three thin, yellow, miserable-looking daughters, so
timid that they dared not lift their eyes from the ground. Vir-
ginia soon put them at their ease. She brought them refresh-
ments, the excellence of which she endeavored to heighten by
relating some particular circumstance which in her own estimation
greatly improved them: this drink had been prepared by Mar-
garet; this other by her mother; her brother had himself picked
this fruit from the top of the tree. She would get Paul to dance
with them, nor would she leave them till she saw that they
were happy. She wished them to partake of the joy of her own
family.
"We are happy," she would say, "only when we are
seeking the happiness of others. " When they left, she would
have them carry away some little thing that appeared to please
them; enforcing their acceptance of it by some delicate pretext,
that she might not appear to know that they were in want. If
she remarked that their clothes were much tattered, she obtained
her mother's permission to give them some of her own, and then
sent Paul to leave them secretly at their cottage doors. She fol-
lowed thus the example of God, concealing the benefactor and
revealing only the benefit.
You Europeans, whose minds are imbued from infancy with
prejudices at variance with happiness, cannot imagine all the
instruction and pleasure which Nature has to give. Your soul,
confined to a little round of human knowledge, soon reaches the
limit of its artificial enjoyment; but Nature and the heart are
inexhaustible.
Paul and Virginia had neither clock nor almanac, nor books
of chronology, history, or philosophy. The periods of their lives
were regulated by those of nature. They knew the hours of
the day by the shadows of the trees, the seasons by the times
when those trees bore flowers or fruit, and the years by the
number of their harvests. These soothing images diffused an in-
expressible charm over their conversation. "It is time to dine,"
Virginia would say to the family: "the shadows of the plantain-
trees are at their roots;" or, "Night approaches: the tamarinds
close their leaves. " "When will you come to see us? " some of
her companions in the neighborhood would inquire. "At the
time of the sugar-canes," Virginia would answer. "Your visit
will be then still more delightful," her young acquaintances
would reply. When she was asked what was her own age, and
that of Paul, "My brother," said she, "is as old as the great


## p. 12703 (#117) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12703
cocoa-tree of the fountain; and I am as old as the little cocoa-
tree. The mangoes have borne fruit twelve times, and the
orange-trees have flowered four-and-twenty times, since I came.
into the world. " Their lives seemed linked to the trees like
those of fauns or dryads. They knew no other historic epochs
than that of the lives of their mothers, no other chronology than
that of their orchards, and no other philosophy than that of
doing good and resigning themselves to the will of God.
After all, what need had these young people of riches or
learning after our sort? Even their necessities and their ignor-
ance added to their happiness. No day passed in which they did
not do one another some service or give some knowledge; and
while there might be some errors in this last, yet man in a sim-
ple state has no dangerous ones to fear.
Thus grew those children of Nature. No care had troubled
their peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no mis-
placed passion had depraved their hearts. Love, innocence, and
piety were each day unfolding the beauty of their souls, disclos-
ing matchless grace in their features, their attitudes, and their
motions. Still in the morning of life, they had all its blooming
freshness; and surely such in the garden of Eden appeared our
first parents, when, coming from the hands of God, they first
saw, approached, and conversed together, like brother and sister.
Virginia was gentle, modest, and confiding as Eve; and Paul,
like Adam, united the figure of manhood with the simplicity of
a child.
THE SHIPWRECK
From 'Paul and Virginia. Copyright 1867, by Hurd & Houghton
I
NDEED, everything presaged the near approach of the hurricane.
The clouds in the zenith were of a frightful blackness, and
their edges copper-colored. The air resounded with the cries
of the tropic birds,- frigate-birds, cutwaters, and a multitude of
other marine birds, which, notwithstanding the fogginess of the
atmosphere, came from all points of the horizon, seeking shelter
on the island.
About nine in the morning, we heard in the direction of the
ocean the most terrific noise, like the sound of thunder mingled
with that of torrents rushing down the steeps of lofty mountains.


## p. 12704 (#118) ##########################################

12704
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
Every one exclaimed, "There is the hurricane! " and in an in-
stant a furious gust of wind dispelled the fog which covered
the Isle of Amber and its channel. The Saint Géran was pre-
sented to our view,- her deck crowded with people, her yards.
and topmast lowered to the deck, her flag at half-mast; she was
moored by four cables at the bow and one at the stern, anchored
between the Isle of Amber and the mainland,-within that belt
of reefs which encircles the Isle of France, and which she had
passed through in a place where no vessel had ever passed be-
fore. She presented her front to the waves, which rolled in
from the open sea; and as each billow rushed into the narrow
strait, her prow was so lifted that the keel could be seen,— the
stern plunging into the sea, disappearing from view as if it were
swallowed by the surges. In this position, driven by the wind
and waves toward the land, it was equally impossible for her to
return through the passage by which she had entered, or by cut-
ting her cables to strand herself upon the beach, from which she
was separated by sand-banks and reefs of rock. Every billow
which broke upon the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of
the bay, throwing up the shingle to the distance of fifty feet
on the land; then rushing back, laid bare its sandy bed, rolling
down the stones with a harsh and frightful sound.
The sea,
swollen by the violence of the wind, rose higher every moment;
and the whole channel between this island and the Isle of
Amber was one vast sheet of white foam full of yawning black
depths. Heaps of this foam more than six feet high were piled
up at the lower part of the bay, and the wind which swept the
surface carried masses of it over the steep sea bank on to the
land to the distance of half a league. These innumerable white
flakes, driven horizontally even to the foot of the mountains,
looked like snow issuing from the bosom of the sea. The hori-
zon showed all the signs of a long tempest; the sky and the
water seemed blended together. Dense, horrifying clouds swept
across the zenith with the swiftness of birds, while others
seemed motionless as rocks. Not a spot of blue sky could be
seen in the whole firmament; a wan olive light alone made visi-
ble the earth, the sea, and the skies.
In the violent rolling of the vessel, what we all dreaded hap-
pened. The cables which held her bow broke; and then, held
only by a single hawser, she was dashed upon the rocks at half
a cable's length from the shore. One cry of horror burst from


## p. 12705 (#119) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12705
«<
«<
us all. Paul rushed forward to throw himself into the sea, when
I seized him by the arm. "My son," said I,
would you per-
ish? " "Let me go to save her," cried he, or let me die! "
Seeing that despair had deprived him of reason, Domingo and I,
in order to preserve him, fastened a long cord around his waist
and held it fast by the end. Paul precipitated himself toward
the vessel, sometimes swimming, sometimes walking on the
rocks. Sometimes he had hopes of reaching it; for the sea, by
the reflux of its waves, left it at times almost dry, so that one
could walk around it; but immediately returning with renewed
fury, buried it beneath mountains of water, raising it again upon
its keel and throwing the unfortunate Paul far upon the shore,
his legs bleeding, his breast torn and wounded, and himself
half dead. When the youth had scarcely recovered the use of
his senses, he would arise and return with new ardor toward the
vessel, whose joints the sea was now opening by the terrible
blows of its waves.
The crew, despairing then of safety, precipitated themselves
in crowds into the sea upon yards, planks, hen-coops, tables, and
barrels. At this moment we saw an object worthy of infinite
pity: a young girl in the gallery of the stern of the Saint-Géran,
stretching out her arms toward him who made so many efforts
to join her. It was Virginia. She had recognized her lover by
his intrepidity. The sight of this lovely girl exposed to such
horrible danger filled us with grief and despair. As for Vir-
ginia, with a noble and dignified bearing, she waved her hand to
us as if bidding us an eternal adieu. All the sailors had thrown
themselves into the sea except one who remained upon the deck,
who was naked, and strong as Hercules. He approached Vir
ginia with respect; we saw him kneeling at her feet, and attempt
to force her to throw off her clothes; but she repulsed him with
dignity and turned away her head. Then were heard redoubled
cries from the spectators, "Save her! save her! do not leave
her! " But at that moment a mountain of water of frightful size
was compressed between the Isle of Amber and the coast, and
advanced roaring toward the vessel, which it menaced with its
black flanks and foaming summit. At this terrible sight the
sailor flung himself alone into the sea; and Virginia, seeing
death inevitable, with one hand held her robe about her, press-
ing the other upon her heart, and raising upward her serene
eyes, seemed an angel ready to take her flight to the skies.
XXII-795


## p. 12706 (#120) ##########################################

12706
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
Oh, day of horror! alas! all was engulfed. The wave threw
some of the spectators, whom an impulse of humanity had
prompted to advance toward Virginia, far up on the beach, as
well as the sailor who had wished to save her in swimming.
This man, who had escaped from almost certain death, kneeled
on the sand, saying, "O my God, thou hast saved my life, but
I would have given it gladly for that noble young lady. " Do-
mingo and I drew the unfortunate Paul from the waves sense-
less, the blood flowing from his mouth and ears. The governor
put him in the hands of the surgeons, while we searched along
the shore, hoping that the sea might have thrown up the body
of Virginia. But the wind having suddenly changed, as it often
does in hurricanes, we had the grief of feeling that we could
not even bestow upon the unfortunate girl the last rites of sep-
ulture. We retired from the spot, overwhelmed with consterna-
tion; our minds wholly occupied by a single loss, although in the
shipwreck so many had perished. Many went away doubting,
after witnessing such a terrible fate for this virtuous girl, whether
there was a Providence; for there are evils so terrible and un-
merited that even the faith of the wise is shaken.
In the mean time Paul, who had begun to return to conscious-
ness, had been carried into a neighboring house, till he was in
a fit state to be taken to his own home. Thither I bent my
way with Domingo, to prepare Virginia's mother and her friend.
for the disastrous event. When we were at the entrance of the
valley of the river of Fan Palms, some negroes informed us that
the sea had thrown many pieces of the wreck into the opposite
bay. We descended to it, and one of the first objects I saw
upon the beach was the body of Virginia; it was half covered.
with sand, and lay in the attitude in which we had seen her
perish. Her features were not changed; her eyes were closed,
but her brow still retained its expression of serenity, and on her
cheeks the livid hue of death blended with the blush of virgin
modesty. One hand still held her robe; and the other, which
was pressed upon her heart, was firmly closed and stiffened.
With difficulty I disengaged from its grasp a small case: how
great was my emotion when I saw that it was the picture of
St. Paul, which she had promised never to part with while she
lived. At the sight of this last evidence of the constancy and
love of the unfortunate girl I wept bitterly. As for Domingo,
he beat his breast and pierced the air with his cries of grief.


## p. 12707 (#121) ##########################################

BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
12707
We carried the body of Virginia to a fisherman's hut, and gave
it in charge to some poor Malabar women to wash away the
sand.
While they were performing this sad office, we ascended the
hill with trembling steps to the plantation. We found Madame
de la Tour and Margaret in prayer, awaiting news from the ves-
sel. As soon as Madame de la Tour saw me, she cried, "Where
is my daughter-my dear daughter- my child? " My silence
and my tears leaving her no doubt as to her misfortune, she
was instantly seized with a convulsive stopping of the breath and
agonizing pain, and her voice was no longer heard but in sighs
and sobs. Margaret cried, "Where is my son? I do not see my
son! " and fainted. We ran to her assistance, and I assured her
that Paul was living, and cared for by the governor.
As soon
as she recovered consciousness, she devoted herself to the care
of her friend, who was roused from one fainting fit only to fall
into another. Madame de la Tour passed the whole night in the
most cruel sufferings, which caused me to feel that there is no
grief like a mother's grief. When she returned to consciousness
she turned a sad fixed look toward heaven. In vain her friend
and I pressed her hand in ours; in vain we called her by the
tenderest names. She appeared wholly insensible to these testi-
monials of our affection, and no sound issued from her oppressed
bosom but deep hollow moans.
In the morning Paul was brought home in a palanquin; he
had recovered the use of his reason, but was unable to utter a
word. His interview with his mother and Madame de la Tour,
which I had dreaded, produced a better effect than all my cares.
A ray of consolation appeared on the countenances of these two
unfortunate mothers. They pressed close to him, clasped him in
their arms, and kissed him; and their tears, which had been held
back by their excessive grief, began to flow. Paul mingled his
tears with theirs; and nature having thus found relief in these
three unfortunate creatures, a long stupor succeeded the convuls-
ive expression of their grief, and afforded them a lethargic re-
pose, resembling in truth that of death.
M. de la Bourdonnais sent privately to inform me that the
corpse of Virginia had been by his order carried to the town,
from whence it would be transferred to the church of Shaddock
Grove. I immediately went down to Port Louis, where I found
a multitude assembled from all parts of the island in order to


## p. 12708 (#122) ##########################################

12708
BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE
be present at the funeral, as if the island had lost in her that
which was most dear. The vessels in the harbor had their yards
crossed and their flags at half-mast, and they fired guns at short
intervals. A body of grenadiers led the funeral procession, with
their muskets reversed, and the drums covered with crape giving
only muffled, mournful sounds. Dejection was depicted on the
countenances of these warriors, who had so often faced death in
battle without a change of countenance. Eight young ladies of
the principal families of the island, dressed in white, carrying
palm branches in their hands, bore the body of their young com-
panion covered with flowers. They were followed by a choir of
children chanting hymns. After them came the governor, his
staff, and all the principal inhabitants of the island, and an im
mense crowd of people.
This was what had been ordered by the administration to do
honor to the virtues of Virginia. But when the corpse arrived
at the foot of this mountain, in sight of those cottages of which
she had been so long the joy, and that her death filled now with
despair, all the funeral pomp was interrupted; the hymns and
chants ceased, and nothing was heard throughout the plain but
sighs and sobs. Then many young girls from the neighboring
habitations were seen running to touch the coffin of Virginia
with handkerchiefs, chaplets, and crowns of flowers, invoking her
as a saint. Mothers asked of Heaven a daughter like Virginia;
lovers, a heart as faithful; the poor, a friend as tender; slaves,
a mistress as good.


## p. 12709 (#123) ##########################################

12709
DUKE OF SAINT-SIMON
(LOUIS DE ROUVROY)
(1675-1755)
s LOUIS XVIII. was leaving chapel one Sunday, he was stopped
by his favorite and efficient general, the Duke of Saint-
Simon, a descendant of the annalist.
«Sire,” he said, "I have a favor to ask of your Majesty. "
"M. de Saint-Simon, I know your recent and valuable services: you
may ask what you please. "
"Sire, it is a matter of grace to a prisoner in the Bastille. "
"You jest, I think, M. de Saint-Simon. "
"About the Bastille, yes, Sire; but not about the original manu-
scripts of the Duke de Saint-Simon seized in 1760, and your Majesty's
prisoners of State at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. "
"I know of them, M. de Saint-Simon, and you shall have these
manuscripts. I give you my word for it. "
This conversation occurred in 1819, when Louis de Rouvroy, the
famous Duke of Saint-Simon, had been dead for over sixty years.
His vast collection of memoirs,— which Sainte-Beuve says "forms the
greatest and most valuable body of memoirs existing up to the pres-
ent," which he had bequeathed by will explicitly to his cousin, the
Bishop of Metz, had been all that time in the hands of government
officials. A vigorous wrangle over their possession had followed the
duke's death in 1755, and for six years they were in the possession of
a notary. The Bishop of Metz died in 1760 without having obtained
them; and by most people they were forgotten and left unmolested
at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which was first in an obscure
upper room "almost under the roofs" of the old Louvre, and later
moved to different parts of the city.
The existence of this astonishing mass of historical material had
not been entirely ignored. Marmontel and Duclos obtained access to
it, and gleaned many extracts for their own histories. Voltaire had
read it, in part at least. Much of it had been read aloud to Madame
du Deffand, as she sat old and blind in her arm-chair. Brilliant gos-
sip herself, she wrote enthusiastically to her friend Horace Walpole
of this unrivaled gossip of an earlier generation.


## p. 12710 (#124) ##########################################

12710
SAINT-SIMON
Even after receiving the King's authorization, General de Saint-
Simon had great difficulty in obtaining his ancestor's valuable papers;
and at first only four of the eleven portfolios comprising the memoirs
were grudgingly yielded to him. We know just how they looked,
those leather portfolios fourteen inches long by nine and a half
wide, with the Saint-Simon coat of arms in gilt on the outside. They
are still in existence, with their closely written folio pages headed
by the inscription in capitals, 'Mémoires de Saint-Simon. ' There was
no division into chapters or books, but the several thousand pages
form one continuous narrative.
A garbled three-volume edition of extracts had appeared in 1789;
but it was not until 1829 that a reliable edition, revised and arranged
in chapters, appeared in forty volumes. It created a stir. The critics
fell upon its erratic French, its solecisms, its unconscionable digres-
sions; but all readers admitted the charm of the vivid narrative and
keen description. "He wrote like the Devil for posterity," said Châ-
teaubriand. In various abridged and unabridged forms it has been
popular ever since, and widely read and quoted by the French na-
tion. No other work affords such a revelation of life at the court of
Louis XIV. , and during the succeeding regency. Macaulay found
material in it for more than one of his historical sketches.
Louis de Rouvroy, Vidame de la Ferté, and later Duke of Saint-
Simon and peer of France, was born in Paris, January 16th, 1675, of
an ancient family which claimed descent from Charlemagne. His
father, as a young page of Louis XIII. , had gained royal favor,
chiefly by adroitness in helping the King to change horses without
dismounting. The King enriched him, made him duke and peer, and
in return received his lifelong devotion. Louis, born when his father
was sixty-nine, the only child of a young second wife, had Louis XIII.
and Marie Thérèse as sponsors, and was early introduced to the court
where most of his life was passed. He tells us that he was not a
studious boy, but fond of history; and that if he had been allowed
to read all he wished of it, he might have made some figure in the
world. "
«<
At nineteen he entered a company of the musketeers, and served
honorably in several campaigns; witnessing the siege of Namur, and
active in the battle of Neerwinden. But with his lifelong propensity
to consider himself slighted, he resented his lack of advancement,
and retired from the army after five years. The jealous courtier
had a strongly domestic side, as is shown in his devotion to his
mother and in grateful tributes to his wife. His marriage in 1695
to a beautiful blonde, eldest daughter of the Marshal de Lorges, was
purely a marriage of convenance, but proved a delightful exception to
the usual family intrigues of the period. He soon grew to love his


## p. 12711 (#125) ##########################################

SAINT-SIMON
12711
―――
wife: "She exceeded all that was promised of her, and all that I
myself had hoped. "
He received Jesuit training in youth, and was always a strict
Catholic; retiring once a year to the monastery of La Trappe for a
period of prayer and meditation, and to confess and receive absolution
from his dear friend, the Abbé de La Trappe. Then feeling himself
morally purged for the time being, he returned to his usual life with
apparently never a thought of changing his conduct or avoiding the
faults he had just confessed. Like his fellow courtiers who could
quarrel over questions of precedence at the communion table, he
made no clear distinction as to the relative value of religious feeling
and religious observances.
He was primarily a courtier, and frankly self-seeking; but too
tactless to win royal favor. Louis XIV. never cordially liked him,
but he maintained a place at court chiefly through the friendship of
the princes. The early death of the dauphin- previously Duke of
Burgundy - he felt as most disastrous to his fortunes. But he allied
himself to the Duke of Orléans, and was of the council of the Re-
gency. He did his best to reform the profligate prince, and in return
was offered the position as governor of young Louis XV. , or that of
Guard of the Seals, both of which he refused. He had entered upon
public life very young, and most of his early associates who were
older died before him. So did his wife and eldest son. Left to him-
self, he fell into debt. Finally it was intimated to him that his pres-
ence was no longer desired at court; and he went away to spend his
remaining years either at his country seat, La Ferté, or at his hotel
in Paris, and to busy himself in revising his memoirs.
In writing these, Saint-Simon had found the greatest interest of his
life. He was only nineteen when, while serving upon one of his Ger-
man campaigns, he began the work that was to extend over nearly
thirty years, from 1694 to 1723. Memoirs had a peculiar fascina-
tion for him; and after reading those of Marshal de Bassompierre, he
decided to keep a close account of people and events. He was too
shrewd not to realize that no sincere expression would be possible if
his enterprise were known; so throughout his long life he accom-
plished his daily record in secret. He wrote for a posterity whom he
wished to have know the truth. Even Voltaire thought it unpatriotic
to dim the glory of Versailles by showing what was base in its royal
inmates. But Saint-Simon was no idealist. He considered himself a
philosopher, a statesman, a historian; but he hardly merits these
titles. Like La Bruyère, this "little duke with his cruel, piercing.
unsatisfied eyes," was pre-eminently a portrait painter.