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CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE
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in "a pelisse, trimmed with crimson velvet, that had a long train
and gold clasps," and she drove off in a carriage with friends.
"On arriving at the river Mein, we found my son energet-
ically skating. He flew like an arrow through the throng of
skaters; his cheeks were rosy from the fresh air, and his auburn
locks were denuded of their powder. On perceiving my crimson
pelisse, he immediately came up to the carriage, and looked at
me with a gracious smile. 'Well, what do you require? ' I said
to him. 'Mother, you are not cold in the carriage, so give me
your velvet mantle. ' 'But you do not wish to array yourself in
my cloak, do you? '-'Yes, certainly. '-There was I, taking off
my warm pelisse, which he donned; and throwing the train over
his arm, he sprang on the ice like a very son of the gods. Ah,
Bettina! if you had only seen him! Nothing could have been
finer. I clapped my hands with joy. All my life I shall see
him as he was then, proceeding from one archway and entering
through the other, the wind the while raising the train of the
pelisse, that had fallen from his arm. "
And she added that Bettina's mother was on the bank, and it
was her whom her son wished to please that day.
Have you not perceived in this simple tale told by the mother,
all the pride of a Latona? "He is a son of the gods! " These
were the words of a Roman senator's wife, of a Roman empress,
or Cornelia, rather than the utterance of a Frankfort citizen's
spouse! The feeling that then inspired this mother in regard to
her son, ultimately permeated the heart of the German nation.
Goethe is "the German fatherland. " In reading Bettina's letters,
we find ourselves, like her, studying Goethe through his mother;
and in so doing we discover his simple and more natural grand-
eur. Before the influence of court etiquette had distorted some
of his better qualities, we see in him the true sincerity of his
race. We wish his genius had been rather more influenced by
this saying of his mother, "There is nothing grander than when
the man is to be felt in the man. "
―
-
It is said that Goethe had but little affection for his mother;
that he was indifferent towards her, - not visiting her for years,
though he was only a distance of about forty miles from where
she lived. And on this point he has been accused of coldness
and egotism. But here, I think, there has been exaggeration.
Before denying any quality to Goethe it is necessary to think
twice. At first sight we imagine him to be cold; but this very
XXII-793


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CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE
coldness often conceals some underlying quality. A mother does
not continue to love and revere her son when he has been
guilty of a really serious wrong towards her. Goethe's mother
did not see anything wrongful in her son's conduct, and it does
not beseem us to be severer than she. This son loved his
mother in his own way; and though his conduct could not per-
haps be exactly regarded as the model of filial behavior, it cannot
be said that he was in any wise ungrateful. "Keep my mother's
heart warm," he would say in writing to Bettina.
"I
should like to be able to reward you for the care you take of
my mother. A chilling draught seemed to emanate from her sur-
roundings. Now that I know you are near her I feel comforted
— I feel warm. " The idea of a draught makes us smile. Fonte-
nelle could not have expressed himself better. I have sometimes
thought Goethe might be defined as a Fontenelle invested with
poetry.
At the time of his mother's death, Bettina wrote to him, allud-
ing to the cold disposition that was supposed to characterize him
- a disposition inimical to all grief: "It is said that you turn
away from all that is sad and irreparable: do not turn away from
the image of your dying mother; remember how loving and wise
she was up to the last moment, and how the poetic element pre-
dominated in her. " By this last touch, Bettina evinced her knowl-
edge of how to affect the great poet. Goethe responded in words.
replete with gratitude for the care she had shown his mother in
her old age. But from that day their relationship suffered by the
loss of the being who had forged the link between them. How-
ever, as I have already mentioned, Bettina was in love with
Goethe. We might ask what were the signs of this feeling. It
was not an ordinary affection; it was not even a passionate love,
which, like that of Dido, Juliet, or Virginia, burns and consumes
until the desire is satisfied. It was an ideal sentiment; better
than a love purely from the imagination, and yet dissimilar to
one entirely from the heart. I scarcely know how to explain
the feeling, and even Bettina herself could hardly define what
she felt. The fact is that, gifted with a vivid imagination,
exquisite poetical feeling, and a passionate love of nature, she
personified all her tastes and youthful inspirations in Goethe's
image, loving him with rapture as the incarnation of all her
dreams. Her love did not sadden her, but on the contrary,
rendered her happier. "I know a secret," she would say: "the
·
-


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CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE
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greatest happiness is when two beings are united, and the Divine
genius is with them. "
It generally sufficed her to be thus united in spirit. Goethe,
whose insight into life and human nature was as profound as his
knowledge of the ideal, had from the first understood the quality
of this love, and did not shun it, though at the same time he
avoided too close a contact. The privilege of the gods is, as we
all know, the possession of eternal youth: even at fifty-eight years
of age, Goethe would not have been able to endure every day with
impunity the innocent familiarities and enticements of Bettina.
But the girl lived far away. She wrote him letters, full of life,
brilliant with sensibility, coloring, sound, and manifold fancies.
These epistles interested him, and seemed to rejuvenate his mind.
A new being, full of grace, was revealing herself to the observa-
tion of his poetical and withal scientific mind. She opened for
his inspection "an unlooked-for book, full of delightful images
and charming depictions. " It seemed to him as much worth his
while reading this book as any other; especially as his own name
was to be found on every page, encircled with a halo of glory.
He called Bettina's letters "the gospel of nature. "
"Continue,"
he would say, "preaching your gospel of nature. " He felt that
he was the god-made man of that evangel. She recalled to his
mind (and his artistic talent needed it) the impressions and the
freshness of the past, all of which he had lost in his somewhat
artificial life. "All you tell me brings me back remembrances
of youth; it produces the effect of events gone by, which all of a
sudden we distinctly remember, though for a long time we may
have forgotten them. "
Goethe never lavished his attention on Bettina, although he
never once repulsed her. He would reply to her letters in a
sufficiently encouraging way for her to continue writing. There
was a strange scene the very first time Bettina met Goethe; and
from the way she describes the meeting, we perceive that she
does not write for the benefit of the cynical scoffer. Towards
the end of April, in 1807, she accompanied her sister and her
brother-in-law to Berlin, and they promised to return by the way
of Weimar. They were obliged to pass through the regiments
that were then occupying the land. On this journey Bettina was
arrayed in male attire, and sat on the box of the coach in order
to see farther; while at every halting-place she assisted in har-
nessing and unharnessing the horses. In the morning she would


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CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE
.
"
shoot off a pistol in the forests, and clamber up the trees like
a squirrel, for she was peculiarly agile (Goethe called her the
Little Mouse). One day, when in an uncommonly frolicsome
mood she had ascended into one of the Gothic sculptures of the
Cologne Cathedral, she commenced a letter in the following way
to Goethe's mother:-
-:
"Lady Counselor, how alarmed you would be to see me now,
seated in a Gothic rose. "
Somewhere else she says: "I prefer dancing to walking, and
I prefer flying to dancing. "
Bettina arrived at Weimar after passing several sleepless nights
on the box of the coach. She immediately called on Wieland,
who knew her family; and obtained from him a letter, intro-
ducing her to Goethe. On arriving at the house of the great
poet, she waited a few minutes before seeing him. Suddenly the
door opened, and Goethe appeared.
"He surveyed me solemnly and fixedly. I believe I stretched
out my hands towards him - I felt my strength failing me!
Goethe folded me to his heart, murmuring the while, 'Poor child!
have I frightened you? ' These were the first words he uttered,
and they entered my soul. He led me into his room, and made
me sit on the sofa before him. We were then both speechless.
He at last broke the silence. 'You will have read in the paper,'
he said, 'that a few days ago we sustained a great loss through
the death of the Duchess Amelia' (the Dowager Duchess of
Saxe-Weimar). 'Oh! ' I answered, 'I never read the papers. '-
'Indeed! I imagined that everything in relation to Weimar inter-
ested you. ' 'No, nothing interests me excepting yourself; more-
over, I am much too impatient to read a newspaper. '—'You are
a charming child. ' Then came a long pause. I was still exiled
on that fatal sofa, shy and trembling. You know it is impossible
for me to remain sitting like a well-bred person. Alas! mother"
(it was Goethe's mother to whom she was writing), "my conduct.
was utterly disgraceful. I at last exclaimed, 'I cannot remain on
this couch! ' and I arose suddenly. 'Well, do as you please,' he
replied. I threw my arms round his neck, and he drew me on
his knee, pressing me to his heart. "
In reading this scene, we must remember that it took place
in Germany, not in France! She remained long enough on his
shoulder to fall asleep; for she had been traveling for several
nights, and was exhausted with fatigue. Only on awakening did


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CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE
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she begin conversing a little. Goethe plucked a leaf off the vine
that clustered round his window, and said, "This leaf and your
cheek have the same freshness and the same bloom. " My readers
may be inclined to think this scene quite childish; but Goethe
soon divulged to her his most serious and intimate thoughts.
He became nearly emotional in speaking of Schiller, saying that
he had died two springs ago; and on Bettina interrupting him to
remark that she did not care for Schiller, he explained to her all
the beauties of this poetical nature,- so dissimilar to his own,
but one of infinite grandeur; a nature he himself had the gen-
erosity to fully appreciate.
The evening of the next day Bettina saw Goethe again at
Wieland's; and on her appearing to be jealous regarding a bunch
of violets he held, which she supposed had been given him by a
woman, he threw her the flowers, remarking, "Are you not con-
tent if I give them to you? " These first scenes at Weimar were
childlike and mystic, though from the very first marked by great
intensity; it would not have been wise to enact them every day.
At their second meeting, which took place at Wartburg after
an interval of a few months, Bettina could hardly speak, so deep
was her emotion. Goethe placed his hand on her lips and said,
"Speak with your eyes-I understand everything;" and when he
saw that the eyes of the charming child, "the dark, courageous
child," were full of tears, he closed them, adding wisely, "Let us
be calm-it beseems us both to be so! " But in recalling these
scenes, are you not tempted to exclaim, "What would Voltaire
have said? »


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
(1798-1865)
AINTINE, the author of the familiar classic 'Picciola,' was in
many respects a fortunate man. He was endowed with a
contagious optimism, which made him friends and brought
him success. From his earliest efforts in authorship, he won readers
by the cheering spirit of his pages and his refined sympathy with his
fellows. He had no long apprenticeship of failure. His first work,
entitled 'Bonheur de l'Étude,' brought him a prize from the French
Academy when he was only twenty-one. Two years later he received
a second prize from the Academy, for a dis-
course upon mutual instruction. A volume
of pleasing verse-'Poésies'-appeared in
1823, which was characterized by the fresh
romantic spirit, kept within bounds by clas-
sical influences.

Saintine was a contributor to many jour-
nals; among them the Revue de Paris, the
Siècle, the Constitutionnel, and La Revue
Contemporaine. He did some interesting
historical work, Histoire des Guerres
d'Italie'; and made a study of German
folk-lore, Mythologie du Rhin': but he
was best known for his stories. Seul,' one
of the most interesting, is the story, sim-
ply and vividly told, of Alexander Selkirk, the original of Defoe's
Robinson Crusoe.
But by far his most famous work was 'Picciola,' which brought
him more fame and more money than all the others. It has been re-
published more than forty times, and translated into many languages,
and is still a favorite everywhere. The Academy awarded it the
Montyon prize of three thousand francs, and decorated its author with
the cross of the Legion of Honor. The story is exquisitely told,-
of the rich and scholarly but blasé young nobleman, who, while a
State prisoner in the fortress of Fenestrella, finds a little plant spring-
ing between the paving-stones of his court, watches it, loves it, makes
it his companion, and is gradually regenerated by its revelation to
him of natural and divine law. Picciola the plant becomes to him
SAINTINE
-


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
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Picciola the ideal maiden of his heart and imagination. There is a
charming love tale too. Thérèse, a beautiful unselfish girl, is watch-
ing over her father, who is also a prisoner. Picciola is likely to
die unless the paving-stones pressing on her stem are removed. It
is Thérèse who takes charge of the Count's despairing petition to
Napoleon. After the gloom and suffering comes the happy ending.
In this book, Saintine's own love of nature is revealed in delicate
descriptive touches.
For a Parisian - he was born at Paris in 1798, and died there in
1865 he had an unusual sympathy with nature. His mind had a
healthy turn toward all that was alive and growing, and hence the
high moral tone and nobility of his work. He was a man whose vig-
orous appreciation of life was refined and strengthened by education.
He was acquainted with books, and versed in natural science; and
he wrote with scholarly finish as well as with spontaneity.
To read the touching story of Picciola makes it seem incongru-
ous to think of Saintine as a humorist. Yet with the pseudonym of
"Xavier he was a comic dramatist of great popularity. In collab-
oration with leading writers of vaudeville, he composed over two
hundred such works. Julien' and 'L'Ours et le Pacha,' witty vaude-
villes written with Eugène Scribe, were particularly brilliant successes.
In his old age Saintine gave up writing, and passed a peaceful
happy leisure, with abundant means and surrounded by friends.
―
FROM PICCIOLA ›
Copyright 1865, by Hurd & Houghton
[The Count of Charney, a rich, young, and intellectual nobleman, has
vainly and successively tried to find satisfaction in literature, science, meta-
physics, and dissipation. In disgust with existing social conditions, he con-
spires against the government of Napoleon, is arrested, and cast into the
fortress of Fenestrella. He is allowed neither books, pens, nor paper; and
is forced to exercise all his ingenuity to find the slightest diversion from his
hopeless thoughts. ]
Ο
NE day at the prescribed hour Charney was walking in the
court-yard; his head bowed, his arms crossed behind his
back, pacing slowly, as if he could so make the narrow
space which he was permitted to perambulate seem larger.
Spring announced its coming; a softer air dilated his lungs;
and to live free, and be master of the soil and of space, seemed
to him the goal of his desires.


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
He counted one by one the paving-stones of his little court,
- doubtless to verify the exactness of his former calculations,
for it was by no means the first time he had numbered them,—
when he perceived, there under his eyes, a little mound of earth
raised between two stones, and slightly opened at the top. He
stopped; his heart beat without his being able to tell why. But
all is hope or fear for a captive: in the most indifferent objects.
and the most insignificant events, he seeks some hidden cause
which speaks to him of deliverance.
Perhaps this slight derangement on the surface might be pro-
duced by some great work underground; perhaps a tunnel, which
would open and make a way for him to the fields and mountains.
Perhaps his friends or his former accomplices were mining to
reach him, and restore him to life and liberty.
He listened attentively, and fancied he heard a low, rumbling
noise under ground; he raised his head, and the tremulous air
bore to him the rapid stroke of the tocsin, and the continued roll
of drums along the ramparts, like a signal of war.
He started,
and with a trembling hand wiped from his forehead great drops
of sweat.
Was he to be free? Had France changed its master?
This dream was only a flash. Reflection destroyed the illus-
ion. He had no accomplices, and had never had friends. He
listened again: the same sounds struck his ear, but gave rise to
other thoughts. This stroke of the tocsin, and the roll of the
drum, were only the distant sound of a church bell that he heard
every day at the same hour, and the accustomed call to arms,
which need only excite emotion in a few straggling soldiers of
the citadel.
Charney smiled bitterly, and looked upon himself with pity,
when he thought that some insignificant animal-a mole who had
without doubt lost his way, or a field-mouse who had scratched
up the earth under his feet-had caused him to believe for
an instant in the affection of men and the overthrow of a great
empire.
In order to make his mind quite clear about it, however, he
stooped over the little mound and carefully removed some of the
particles of earth; and saw with astonishment that the wild agita-
tion which had overcome him for an instant had not even been
caused by a busy, burrowing, scratching animal, armed with


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12681
claws and teeth, but by a feeble specimen of vegetation with
scarcely strength to sprout, weak and languishing.
Raising himself, profoundly humiliated, he was about to crush
it with his heel, when a fresh breeze laden with the perfume of
honeysuckle and hawthorn was wafted to him, as if to implore
mercy for the poor plant, which perhaps one day would also have
perfume to give him.
Another thought came to him to arrest his destructive inten-
tion. How was it possible for that little plant-so tender, soft,
and fragile, that a touch might break it-to raise, separate, and
throw out earth dried and hardened by the sun, trodden under
foot by him, and almost cemented to the two blocks of granite
between which it was pressed?
He bent over it again, and examined it with renewed atten-
tion. He saw at its upper extremity a sort of a double fleshy
valve, which folded over the first leaves, preserved them from
the touch of anything that might injure them, and at the same
time enable them to pierce that earthy crust in search of air and
sun.
-
"Ah," said he to himself, "behold all the secret. It receives
from nature this principle of strength; like the young birds, who
before they are born are armed with a bill hard enough to
break the thick shell which confines them. Poor prisoner! thou
possessest at least the instruments which can aid thee to gain
thy freedom. "
He stood gazing at it a few moments, and no longer dreamed
of crushing it.
The next day, in taking his ordinary walk, he was striding
along in an absent-minded manner, and nearly trod on it by acci-
dent. He drew back quickly; and surprised at the interest with
which his new acquaintance inspired him, he paused to note its
progress.
The plant had grown, and the rays of the sun had caused it
to lose somewhat of its sickly pallor. He reflected upon the
power which that pale and slender stem possessed to absorb the
luminous essence with which to nourish and strengthen itself,
and to borrow from the prism the colors with which to clothe
itself, colors assigned beforehand to each one of its parts.
"Yes, its leaves, without doubt," thought he, "will be tinted.
with a different shade from its stem; and then its flowers, what
color will they be? Yellow, blue, red? Why, nourished by the
―


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
same sap as the stalk, do they not clothe themselves in the same
livery? How do they draw their azure and scarlet from the same
source where the other has only found a bright or sombre green?
So it is to be, however; for notwithstanding the confusion and
disorder of affairs here below, matter follows a regular though
blind march. Blind indeed," repeated he. "I need no other
proof of it than these two fleshy lobes which have facilitated its
egress from the earth, but which now, of no use in its preserva-
tion, nourish themselves still from its substance, and hang down,
wearying it by their weight: of what use are they? "
As he said this, day was declining, and the chilly spring even-
ing approached.
The two lobes rose slowly as he watched them,
apparently desiring to justify themselves against his reproach:
they drew closer together, and inclosed in their bosom-to pro-
tect it against the cold and the attacks of insects- the tender
and fragile foliage which was about to be deprived of the sun;
and which, thus sheltered and warmed, slept under the two wings
that the plant had just softly folded over it.
The man of science comprehended more fully this mute but
decided response, in observing that the outside of the vegetable
bivalve had been slightly cut by the nibbling of a snail the night
before, of which the traces still remained.
This strange colloquy between thought on one side and action.
on the other-between the man and the plant-was not to end
here. Charney had been too long occupied with metaphysical
discussions to surrender himself easily to a good reason.
"This is all very well," said he: "here as elsewhere a happy
concurrence of fortuitous circumstances has favored this feeble
creation. It was born armed with a lever to lift the soil, and
a buckler to protect its head,-two conditions necessary to its
existence: if it had happened that these had not been fulfilled,
the plant must have died, stifled in its germ, like myriads of
other individuals of its species whom Nature has no doubt cre-
ated, unfinished, imperfect, incapable of preserving and repro-
ducing themselves, and who have had but an hour of life on
earth. Who can calculate the number of false and impotent
combinations Nature has made, before succeeding in producing
one single specimen fitted to endure? A blind man may hit the
mark, but how many arrows must he lose before he attains this
result! For thousands of ages matter has been triturated by the
double movement of attraction and repulsion: is it then strange


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12683
that chance should so many times produce the right combinations?
I grant that this envelope can protect these first leaves; but will
it grow and enlarge so as to shelter and preserve also the other
leaves against the cold and the attacks of their enemies? Next
spring, when new foliage will be born as fragile and tender as
this, will it be here to protect it again? No. Nothing then has
been planned in all this; nothing is the result of intelligent
thought, but rather of a happy chance. "
Sir Count, Nature has more than one response with which to
refute your argument. Have patience, and observe that feeble
and isolated production, sent forth and thrown into the court of
your prison, perhaps less by a stroke of chance than by the be-
nevolent foresight of Providence. These excrescences, in which
you have divined a lever and a shield, had already rendered
other services to this feeble plant. After having served it as
envelope in the frozen ground through the winter, the right time
having arrived, they lent it their nourishing breast,-as it were
suckling it when, a simple germ, it had not yet roots with which
to seek moisture from the ground, or leaves to breathe the air
and the sun. You were right, Sir Count: these protecting wings
which have until now brooded so maternally over the young
plant, will not be developed with it,-they will fall; but not till
they have accomplished their task, and when their ward will have
gained strength sufficient to do without their aid. Do not be
anxious about its future! Nature watches over this as over its
sister plants; and as long as the north winds- the chilly fogs
and snowflakes-descend from the Alps, the new leaves yet in
the bud will find there a safe asylum; a dwelling arranged for
them, closed from the air by a cement of gum and resin which
will expand according to their need, only opening under a favor-
able sky and atmosphere. They will not come out without a
warm covering of fur,-a soft cottony down which will defend
them from the late frosts or any atmospheric caprices. Did ever
mother watch more lovingly over the preservation of her child?
Behold, Sir Count, what you might have known long since, if,
descending from the abstruse regions of human science, you had
deigned to lower your eyes to examine the simple works of God.
The further north your steps had turned, the more these common
marvels would have manifested themselves to you. Where the
danger is greater, there the cares of Providence are redoubled.


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
The philosopher had followed attentively all the progress and
the transformations of the plant. Again he had contended with
her by reasoning, and she had ever an answer for all his argu-
ments.
"Of what use are these prickly hairs that garnish thy stem ? »
said he. And the next day she showed them to him covered
with a slight hoar-frost, which,- thanks to them,- kept at a dis-
tance, had not chilled her tender skin.
"Of what use in the fine days will be your warm coat, wadded
with down? "
The fine days arrived: she cast off her winter cloak to adorn
herself with her spring toilet of green; and her new branches
sprang forth free from these silken envelopes, henceforward use-
less.
"But if the storm rages, the wind will bruise thee, and the
hail will cut thy leaves, too tender to resist it. "
The wind blew; and the young plant, too feeble yet to dare
to fight, bent to the earth, and was defended in yielding. The
hail came: and by a new manœuvre the leaves, rising along
the stem and shielding it, pressed against each other for mutual
protection, presenting only their under side to the blows of the
enemy, and opposed their solid ribs to the weight of the atmo-
spheric projectiles; in their union was their strength. This
time the plant had come forth from the combat not without
some slight mutilations; but alive and still strong, and ready to
expand before the rays of the sun, which would heal her wounds.
"Is chance then intelligent? " said Charney: "must I spirit-
ualize matter, or materialize mind? " And he did not cease
to interrogate his mute instructress; he delighted to watch her
growth, and mark her gradual metamorphoses.
One day, after he had contemplated it for a long time, he
was surprised to find that he had been lost in thought; that his
reveries had an unaccustomed tenderness, and that his happy
thoughts continued during his walk in the court. Raising his
head, he saw at the barred window of the great wall the "fly-
catcher," who seemed to be observing him. At first he blushed,
as if the man could read his thoughts; but then he smiled, for
he no longer despised him. Had he the right to do so? Was
not his mind also absorbed in the contemplation of one of the
lowest ranks of creation ?


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12685
"Who knows," said he, "but this Italian may have discovered
in a fly as much worthy of study as I in my plant? "
On returning to his chamber, that which first struck his eye
was this maxim of the fatalist, inscribed by him upon the wall
two months before:-
"CHANCE IS BLIND, AND IS THE SOLE AUTHOR OF CREATION »
He took a bit of charcoal and wrote underneath:
«PERHAPS ! »
-
ONE day soon after, at the appointed hour, Charney was at
his post near his plant, when he saw a heavy black cloud obscur-
ing the sun, hanging like a gray floating dome over the towers
of the fortress. Soon large drops of rain began to fall: he
started to go quickly under shelter, when hailstones mingled
with the rain pattered on the pavement of the court. La Povera,
whirled and twisted by the storm, seemed on the point of being
uprooted from the earth; her wet leaves, fretting one against the
other, trembling with the tossing of the wind, uttered as it were
plaintive murmurs and cries of distress.
―
Charney paused. He remembered the reproaches of Ludovic,
and looked eagerly around for some object with which to protect
his plant; he found nothing: the hailstones became larger and
fell more quickly, and threatened its destruction. He trembled
for her; -for her whom he had seen so lately resist so well the
violence of the wind and the hail; but now he loved his plant
too well to suffer it to run any risk of injury, for the sake of
getting the better of it in an argument.
Taking then a resolution worthy of a lover,-worthy of a
father, he drew near; he placed himself before his protégée,
and interposed himself as a wall between her and the wind; he
bent over her, serving as a shield against the shock of the hail:
and there, motionless, panting from his struggles with the storm,
from which he sheltered her,-protecting her with his hands,
with his body, with his head, with his love,- he waited till the
cloud had passed.
The storm was over. But might not a similar danger menace
it when he, its protector, was held from it by bolts and bars?
Moreover, the wife of Ludovic, followed by a large dog, sometimes


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
came into the court. This dog in his gambols might, with one
snap of his mouth or a stroke of his paw, destroy the darling of
the philosopher. Charney spent the rest of the day in meditating
upon a plan; and the next day prepared to put it in execution.
The small portion of wood allowed him was scarcely enough
for his comfort in this climate, where the evenings and mornings
are so chilly. What matter? has he not the warmth of his bed?
He can retire earlier and rise later. In this way, sparing his
wood, he soon amassed enough for his purpose. When Ludovic
questioned him about it, he said, "It is to build a palace for my
mistress. " The jailer winked his eye as if he understood; but he
did not.
During this time Charney split, shaped, and pointed his sticks,
laid together the most supple branches, preserved carefully the
flexible osier which was used to tie together his daily bundle of
fagots. Then he found the lining of his trunk to be of a coarse,
loosely woven fabric: this he detached, and drew from it the
coarsest and strongest threads. His materials thus prepared, he
set himself bravely to work as soon as the laws of the jail and
the scrupulous exactness of the jailer would allow.
Around his plant, between the pavement of the court, he
carefully inserted the sticks of various sizes. -making them firm
at their base by a cement, composed of earth gathered bit by bit
here and there in the interstices between the stones, and of plas-
ter and saltpetre purloined from the old moat of the castle. The
principal framework thus arranged, he interlaced it with light
twigs; thus making a sort of hurdle, capable in case of need of
protecting La Povera from any blow, or the approach of the dog.
He was greatly encouraged during this work to find that
Ludovic - who at the commencement, shaking his head with a
low grumbling sound of evil augury, had seemed uncertain
whether to allow him to continue his work- had now decided in
his favor: and sometimes, while quietly smoking his pipe, leaning
against the door at the entrance of the court, he would smilingly
watch the inexperienced worker; occasionally taking his pipe from
his mouth to give him some counsel, which Charney did not
always know how to profit by.
But inexpert as he was, his work progressed. In order to
complete it, he impoverished himself, by robbing his scanty bed of
straw with which to make a sort of matting, to use when needed
for the protection of his tender plant from the sharp gusts of


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12687
Alpine wind which threatened it on one side, or the midday rays.
of the sun reflected from the granite.
One evening the wind blew violently. Charney from his
window saw the court strewed with bits of straw and little twigs.
The matting of straw and the twigs had not been firmly enough
bound to resist the wind. He promised himself to repair the
misfortune the next day; but the next day, when he descended,
it was all rebuilt. A hand more skillful than his had firmly in-
terlaced the straw and the branches, and he knew well whom to
thank in his heart.
Thus, against all peril, thanks to him, thanks to them, the
plant was sheltered by rampart and roof; and Charney became
more and more warmly attached to it, watching with delight its
growth and development, as it unceasingly opened to him new
marvels for admiration.
Time gave firmness and solidity to the plant; the covering of
the stem, at first so delicate, gave from day to day assurance of
increasing fitness to endure: and the happy possessor of the plant
was seized with a curious and impatient desire to see it blossom.
At last then, he desired something: this man of a worn-out
heart and frozen brain-this man so priding himself in his intel-
lect stoops from the proud heights of science to be absorbed in
the contemplation of an herb of the field.
But do not hasten to accuse him of puerile weakness or of
lunacy. The celebrated Quaker, John Bertram, after having
passed long hours in examining the structure of a violet, deter-
mined to devote the powers of his mind to the study of the
vegetable wonders of nature; and so gained a place among the
masters of science.
If a philosopher of India became mad in seeking to explain
the phenomena of the sensitive-plant, perhaps Charney on the
contrary will learn from this plant true wisdom. Has he not
already found in it the charm which has the power to dissipate
his ennui and enlarge his prison?
"Oh, the flower! the flower! " said he; "that flower whose
beauty will expand only for my eyes, whose perfume will exhale
for me alone,-what form will it take? What shades will color
its petals? Without doubt it will offer me new problems to
solve, and throw a last challenge to my reason. Well, let it
come! Let my frail adversary show herself armed at all points;
I will not shrink from the contest. Perhaps only then shall I be


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
able to comprehend in her completeness that secret which her
imperfect formation has thus far hidden from me. But wilt thou
flower, wilt thou show thyself to me one day in all the glory
of thy beauty and its adornment, Picciola? ”
Picciola! that is the name by which he called her, when,
in the necessity of hearing a human voice, he conversed aloud
with the companion of his captivity, while lavishing upon her his
cares. "Povera Picciola! " (poor little one): such had been the
exclamation of Ludovic, moved with pity for the poor little thing,
when it had nearly died for want of water. Charney remem-
bered it.
"Picciola! Picciola! wilt thou flower soon? " repeated he,
while carefully opening the leaves at the extremities of the stems
to see if there was any promise of blossom. And this name, Pic-
ciola, was very pleasant to his ear; for it brought to his mind at
once the two beings who peopled his world,- his plant and his
jailer.
One morning, when at the hour of his daily promenade he
interrogated Picciola leaf by leaf, his eyes were suddenly arrested
by something peculiar in its appearance; his heart beat violently;
he laid his hand upon it, and the blood suffused his face. It was
a long time since he had experienced so keen an emotion. What
he saw was at the end of the main stem: a new excrescence,
green, silky, of a spherical form, covered with delicate scales.
placed one upon the other, like the slates upon the rounded dome
of a kiosk.
He cannot doubt,-it is the bud: the flower will soon be
here.
[Under the influence of Picciola, Charney softens to friendliness for his
fellow captive, the Italian Girhardi, and for the young daughter Thérèse, who
is voluntarily sharing his imprisonment. He learns too to appreciate the
gruff conscientiousness and genuine kindness of Ludovic, his jailer.
Picciola grows larger, and the paving-stones between which it is forcing
its way, lacerate its stem, and threaten its destruction. After a struggle with
his pride, Charney writes on a handkerchief a petition to Napoleon, which
Girhardi agrees to forward. At much risk to herself, Thérèse, after vainly
seeking Napoleon, who is on the field of Marengo, presents the petition to
Josephine. ]
While Josephine was giving her orders, an opening in the
crowd showed her Thérèse, imploring, restrained by strong arms,
yet resisting. At a gracious sign from the Empress, which every


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12689
one about her knew how to interpret, they released the captive,
who finding herself free sprang forward, threw herself panting
on her knees at the foot of the throne, and drawing quickly from
her bosom a handkerchief, which she waved in the air, cried,
“Madame, madame, a poor prisoner! "
Josephine could not understand the meaning of this handker-
chief offered to her.
"Do you wish to present a petition to me? " said she.
"This is it, madame, this is it: the petition of a poor pris-
oner. " And the tears sprang from the eyes of the supplicant,
while a smile of hope illuminated her countenance. The Empress
replied to her by another smile, gave her her hand, forced her
to rise, and bending towards her with a manner full of kindness,
said, "Come, come, my child, be reassured. He interests you
very much, then, this poor prisoner? "
Thérèse blushed and cast down her eyes.
"I have never spoken to him," replied she; "but he is so
unhappy! Read, madame! "
Josephine unfolded the handkerchief, moved to pity in think-
ing how much misery and privation this linen, so painfully writ-
ten upon with an artificial ink, bore witness to; then stopping at
the first line,-"But it is addressed to the Emperor. "
"What matters! are you not his wife? Read, read, madame,
in mercy read! it is so urgent! "
The combat was at its height. The Hungarian column, al-
though under fire from the artillery of Marmont, renewed its
forward movement. Zach and Desaix were face to face, and the
result of their encounter was to decide the salvation or the loss
of the army.
The cannon thundered on every side; the field of battle was
aflame; the shouts of the soldiers, mingled with the clang and
roar of battle, caused an agitation of the air as if a tempest was
raging.
The Empress read that which follows:-
Sire:
Two stones less in the court of my prison will not shake the
foundations of your empire, and such is the only favor that I ask of
your Majesty. It is not for myself that I ask your protection; but in
this desert of stones, where I am expiating my offenses against you,
one single being has brought some solace to my pain,- one single
being has thrown some charm upon my life. It is a plant, Sire, which
XXII-794


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
has spontaneously sprung up between the pavements of the court
where I am permitted sometimes to breathe the air and see the sky.
Accuse me not of delirium or folly. This flower has been for me
an object of study so sweet and so consoling! My eyes fixed upon
this plant have been opened to the truth; to it I owe reason, repose,
life perhaps. I love it as you love glory.
At this moment my poor plant is dying for want of space in
the ground; it is dying, and I cannot succor it; - the commandant
of Fenestrella would send my complaint to the governor of Turin, and
when they have decided, my plant will be dead. Therefore, Sire, I
address you: you who by one word can do all, can save my plant.
Permit the lifting of these two stones, which weigh upon me as upon
it. Save it from destruction save me from despair! Give the order:
it is the life of my plant that I ask of you. I implore, I entreat you
upon my bended knees, and I swear to you that on my heart shall
be inscribed the record of your goodness.
Why should it die? It has, I acknowledge, lightened the punish-
ment that your powerful hand has inflicted upon me; but it has also
humbled my pride, and brings me now, a suppliant, to your feet.
From the height of your double throne look down upon us.
Can you
comprehend what ties may bind a man to a plant, in this isolation
which leaves for a man only a vegetable existence? No, you cannot
know; and may God guard you from ever knowing what effect im-
prisonment may produce upon the firmest and proudest spirit. I do
not complain of my captivity: I support it with resignation; prolong
it, let it continue through my life: but mercy for my plant!
Remember, Sire, that this mercy that I implore of your Majesty is
in vain if it is not granted immediately-even to-day. You may hold
the sword suspended for a time over the head of the condemned one.
and raise it at last to grant him pardon. But nature follows other
laws than the justice of man: two days more, and even the Emperor
Napoleon can do nothing for the flower of the captive of Fenestrella.
CHARNEY.
-
On the evening of that day, Josephine and Napoleon, after
the official dinner at which they had been present, were in one
of the apartments that had been prepared for them in the Hôtel
de Ville of Alessandria: the one dictating letters to his secretary,
pacing the room, and rubbing his hands with an air of satisfaction;
the other before a lofty mirror, admiring with naïve coquetry
the elegance of her robes, and the splendor of the jewels with
which she was adorned.
When the secretary was dismissed, Napoleon seated himself;
and leaning both his elbows upon a table covered with crimson


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JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12691
velvet fringed with gold, rested his head on his hands, and fell
into a revery,- the subject of which was far from painful, judg-
ing from the expression of his face.
But Josephine soon wearied of the silence which ensued. He
had already once that day treated her rudely in the matter of
the petition; and aware that she had been maladroit in too great
precipitation, she resolved to choose the moment more wisely
next time. She believed that now the right time had come: and
seating herself on the other side of the table opposite her hus-
band, she too leaned upon her elbows, and like him affected an
air of abstraction; soon their eyes met with a smile.
"What are you thinking of? " said Josephine to him, with a
caressing tone and look.
"I am thinking," said he, "that the diadem is very becoming
to you, and that it would be a great pity if I had neglected to
place one in your jewel casket. "
The smile of Josephine gradually faded; while that of Napo-
leon became more decided, for he loved to combat the painful
apprehensions which always took possession of her when she
contemplated the height to which they had lately risen. Noble
woman! it was not for herself that she trembled.
"Are you not better pleased to see me Emperor than Gen-
eral? " pursued he.
"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. "


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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?