No More Learning

" 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? »


## p. 12678 (#92) ###########################################

12678
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
-


## p. 12679 (#93) ###########################################

JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
12679
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.


## p. 12680 (#94) ###########################################

12680
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


## p. 12681 (#95) ###########################################

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
―


## p. 12682 (#96) ###########################################

12682
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


## p. 12683 (#97) ###########################################

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.


## p. 12684 (#98) ###########################################

12684
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 ?


## p. 12685 (#99) ###########################################

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


## p. 12686 (#100) ##########################################

12686
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


## p. 12687 (#101) ##########################################

JOSEPH XAVIER BONIFACE SAINTINE
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


## p. 12688 (#102) ##########################################

12688
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


## p. 12689 (#103) ##########################################

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? 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


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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 »


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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!
―――――――――――――


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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


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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
-


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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


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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.