Chapter 7

"Although you do not descry my hermitage, which is situated in the midst of a forest, among that immense variety of objects which this elevated spot presents, the grounds are disposed with particular beauty, at least to one who, like me, loves rather the seclusion of a home scene, than great and extensive prospects. The river which glides before my door passes in a straight line across the woods, and appears like a long canal shaded by trees of all kinds. There are black date plum trees, what we here call the narrow-leaved dodonea, olive wood, gum trees, and the cinnamon tree; while in some parts the cabbage trees raise their naked columns more than a hundred feet high, crowned at their summits with clustering leaves, and towering above the wood like one forest piled upon another. Lianas, of various foliage, intertwining among the woods, form arcades of flowers, and verdant canopies; those trees, for the most part, shed aromatic odours of a nature so powerful, that the garments of a traveller, who has passed through the forest, retain for several hours the delicious fragrance. In the season when those trees produce their lavish blossoms, they appear as if covered with snow. One of the principal ornaments of our woods is the calbassia, a tree not only distinguished for its beautiful tint of verdure; but for other properties, which Madame de la Tour has described in the following sonnet, written at one of her first visits to my hermitage:

SONNET

TO THE CALBASSIA TREE

Sublime Calbassia, luxuriant tree! How soft the gloom thy bright-lined foliage throws, While from thy pulp a healing balsam flows, Whose power the suffering wretch from pain can free! My pensive footsteps ever turn to thee! Since oft, while musing on my lasting woes, Beneath thy flowery white bells I repose, Symbol of friendship dost thou seem to me; For thus has friendship cast her soothing shade O'er my unsheltered bosom's keen distress: Thus sought to heal the wounds which love has made, And temper bleeding sorrow's sharp excess! Ah! not in vain she lends her balmy aid: The agonies she cannot cure, are less!

"Towards the end of summer various kinds of foreign birds hasten, impelled by an inexplicable instinct, from unknown regions, and across immense oceans, to gather the profuse grains of this island; and the brilliancy of their expanded plumage forms a contrast to the trees embrowned by the sun. Such, among others, are various kinds of paroquets, the blue pigeon, called here the pigeon of Holland, and the wandering and majestic white bird of the Tropic, which Madame de la Tour thus apostrophised:--

SONNET

TO THE WHITE BIRD OF THE TROPIC.

Bird of the Tropic! thou, who lov'st to stray Where thy long pinions sweep the sultry line, Or mark'st the bounds which torrid beams confine By thy averted course, that shuns the ray Oblique, enamour'd of sublimer day: Oft on yon cliff thy folded plumes recline, And drop those snowy feathers Indians twine To crown the warrior's brow with honours gay. O'er Trackless oceans what impels thy wing? Does no soft instinct in thy soul prevail? No sweet affection to thy bosom cling, And bid thee oft thy absent nest bewail? Yet thou again to that dear spot canst spring But I my long lost home no more shall hail!

"The domestic inhabitants of our forests, monkeys, sport upon the dark branches of the trees, from which they are distinguished by their gray and greenish skin, and their black visages. Some hang suspended by the tail, and balance themselves in air; others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young in their arms. The murderous gun has never affrighted those peaceful children of nature. You sometimes hear the warblings of unknown birds from the southern countries, repeated at a distance by the echoes of the forest. The river, which runs in foaming cataracts over a bed of rocks, reflects here and there, upon its limpid waters, venerable masses of woody shade, together with the sport of its happy inhabitants. About a thousand paces from thence the river precipitates itself over several piles of rocks, and forms, in its fall, a sheet of water smooth as crystal, but which breaks at the bottom into frothy surges. Innumerable confused sounds issue from those tumultuous waters, which, scattered by the winds of the forest, sometimes sink, sometimes swell, and send forth a hollow tone like the deep bells of a cathedral. The air, for ever renewed by the circulation of the waters, fans the banks of that river with freshness, and leaves a degree of verdure, notwithstanding the summer heats, rarely found in this island, even upon the summits of the mountains.

"At some distance is a rock, placed far enough from the cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened by the noise of its waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment of their view, their coolness, and their murmurs. Thither, amidst the heats of summer, Madame de la Tour, Margaret, Virginia, Paul, and myself sometimes repaired, and dined beneath the shadow of the rock. Virginia, who always directed her most ordinary actions to the good of others, never ate of any fruit without planting the seed or kernel in the ground. 'From this,' said she, 'trees will come, which will give their fruit to some traveller, or at least to some bird.' One day having eaten of the papaw fruit, at the foot of that rock she planted the seeds. Soon after several papaws sprung up, amongst which was one that yielded fruit. This tree had risen but a little from the ground at the time of Virginia's departure; but its growth being rapid, in the space of two years it had gained twenty feet of height, and the upper part of its stem was encircled with several layers of ripe fruit. Paul having wandered to that spot, was delighted to see that this lofty tree had arisen from the small seed planted by his beloved friend; but that emotion instantly gave place to a deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. The objects which we see habitually do not remind us of the rapidity of life; they decline insensibly with ourselves; but those which we behold again, after having for some years lost sight of them, impress us powerfully with the idea of that swiftness with which the tide of our days flows on. Paul was no less overwhelmed and affected at the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded with fruit, than is the traveller, when, after a long absence from his own country, he finds not his contemporaries, but their children, whom he left at the breast, and whom he sees are become fathers of families. Paul sometimes thought of hewing down the tree, which recalled too sensibly the distracted image of that length of time which had clasped since the departure of Virginia. Sometimes, contemplating it as a monument of her benevolence, he kissed its trunk, and apostrophised it in terms of the most passionate regret; and, indeed I have myself gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration than upon the triumphal arches of Rome.

"At the foot of this papaw I was always sure to meet with Paul when he came into our neighbourhood. One day, when I found him absorbed in melancholy, we had a conversation, which I will relate to you, if I do not weary you by my long digressions; perhaps pardonable to my age and my last friendships.

"Paul said to me, 'I am very unhappy. Mademoiselle de la Tour has now been gone two years and two months; and we have heard no tidings of her for eight months and two weeks. She is rich, and I am poor. She has forgotten me. I have a great mind to follow her. I will go to France; I will serve the king; make a fortune; and then Mademoiselle de la Tour's aunt will bestow her niece upon me when I shall have become a great lord.

"'But, my dear friend,' I answered, 'have you not told me that you are not of noble birth?'

"'My mother has told me so,' said Paul. 'As for myself I know not what noble birth means.'

"'Obscure birth,' I replied, 'in France shuts out all access to great employments; nor can you even be received among any distinguished body of men.'

"'How unfortunate I am!' resumed Paul; 'every thing repulses me. I am condemned to waste my wretched life in labour, far from Virginia.' And he heaved a deep sigh.

"'Since her relation,' he added, 'will only give her in marriage to some one with a great name, by the aid of study we become wise and celebrated. I will fly then to study; I will acquire sciences; I will serve my country usefully by my attainments; I shall be independent; I shall become renowned; and my glory will belong only to myself.'

"'My son! talents are still more rare than birth or riches, and are undoubtedly an inestimable good, of which nothing can deprive us, and which every where conciliate public esteem. But they cost dear: they are generally allied to exquisite sensibility, which renders their possessor miserable. But you tell me that you would serve mankind. He who, from the soil which he cultivates, draws forth one additional sheaf of corn, serves mankind more than he who presents them with a book.'

"'Oh! she then,' exclaimed Paul, 'who planted this papaw tree, made a present to the inhabitants of the forest more dear and more useful than if she had given them a library.' And seizing the tree in his arms, he kissed it with transport.

"'Ah! I desire glory only,' he resumed, 'to confer it upon Virginia, and render her dear to the whole universe. But you, who know so much, tell me if we shall ever be married. I wish I was at least learned enough to look into futurity. Virginia must come back. What need has she of a rich relation? she was so happy in those huts, so beautiful, and so well dressed, with a red handkerchief or flowers round her head! Return, Virginia! Leave your palaces, your splendour! Return to these rocks, to the shade of our woods and our cocoa trees! Alas! you are, perhaps, unhappy!' And he began to weep. 'My father! conceal nothing from me. If you cannot tell me whether I shall marry Virginia or no, tell me, at least, if she still loves me amidst those great lords who speak to the king, and go to see her.'

"'Oh! my dear friend,' I answered, 'I am sure that she loves you, for several reasons; but, above all, because she is virtuous.' At those words he threw himself upon my neck in a transport of joy.

"'But what,' said he, 'do you understand by virtue?'

"'My son! to you, who support your family by your labour, it need not be defined. Virtue is an effort which we make for the good of others, and with the intention of pleasing God.'

"'Oh! how virtuous then,' cried he, 'is Virginia! Virtue made her seek for riches, that she might practise benevolence. Virtue led her to forsake this island, and virtue will bring her back.' The idea of her near return fired his imagination, and his inquietudes suddenly vanished. Virginia, he was persuaded, had not written, because she would soon arrive. It took so little time to come from Europe with a fair wind! Then he enumerated the vessels which had made a passage of four thousand five hundred leagues in less than three months; and perhaps the vessel in which Virginia had embarked might not be longer than two. Ship builders were now so ingenious, and sailors so expert! He then told me of the arrangements he would make for her reception, of the new habitation he would build for her, of the pleasures and surprises which each day should bring along with it when she was his wife? His wife! That hope was ecstasy. 'At least, my dear father,' said he, 'you shall then do nothing more than you please. Virginia being rich, we shall have a number of negroes, who will labour for you. You shall always live with us, and have no other care than to amuse and rejoice yourself:' and, his heart throbbing with delight, he flew to communicate those exquisite sensations to his family.

"In a short time, however, the most cruel apprehensions succeeded those enchanting hopes. Violent passions ever throw the soul into opposite extremes. Paul returned to my dwelling absorbed in melancholy, and said to me, 'I hear nothing from Virginia. Had she left Europe she would have informed me of her departure. Ah! the reports which I have heard concerning her are but too well founded. Her aunt has married her to some great lord. She, like others, has been undone by the love of riches. In those books which paint women so well, virtue is but a subject of romance. Had Virginia been virtuous, she would not have forsaken her mother and me, and, while I pass life in thinking of her, forgotten me. While I am wretched, she is happy. Ah! that thought distracts me: labour becomes painful, and society irksome. Would to heaven that war were declared in India! I would go there and die.'

"'My son,' I answered, 'that courage which, prompts us to court death is but the courage of a moment, and is often excited by the vain hopes of posthumous fame. There is a species of courage more necessary, and more rare, which makes us support, without witness, and without applause, the various vexations of life; and that is, patience. Leaning not upon the opinions of others, but upon the will of God, patience is the courage of virtue.'

"'Ah!' cried he,' I am then without virtue! Every thing overwhelms and distracts me.'

"'Equal, constant, and invariable virtue,' I replied, 'belongs not to man.' In the midst of so many passions, by which we are agitated, our reason is disordered and obscured: but there is an ever-burning lamp, at which we can rekindle its flame; and that is, literature.

"'Literature, my dear son, is the gift of Heaven; a ray of that wisdom which governs the universe; and which man, inspired by celestial intelligence, has drawn down to earth. Like the sun, it enlightens, it rejoices, it warms with a divine flame, and seems, in some sort, like the element of fire, to bend all nature to our use. By the aid of literature, we bring around us all things, all places, men, and times. By its aid we calm the passions, suppress vice, and excite virtue. Literature is the daughter of heaven, who has descended upon earth to soften and to charm all human evils.

"'Have recourse to your books, then, my son. The sages who have written before our days, are travellers who have preceded us in the paths of misfortune; who stretch out a friendly hand towards us, and invite us to join their society, when every thing else abandons us. A good book is a good friend.'

"'Ah!' cried Paul, 'I stood in no need of books when Virginia was here, and she had studied as little as me: but when she looked at me, and called me her friend, it was impossible for me to be unhappy.'

"'Undoubtedly,' said I, 'there is no friend so agreeable as a mistress by whom we are beloved. There is in the gay graces of a woman a charm that dispels the dark phantoms of reflection. Upon her face sits soft attraction and tender confidence. What joy is not heightened in which she shares? What brow is not unbent by her smiles? What anger can resist her tears? Virginia will return with more philosophy than you, and will be surprised not to find the garden finished: she who thought of its establishments amidst the persecutions of her aunt, and far from her mother and from you.'

"The idea of Virginia's speedy return reanimated her lover's courage, and he resumed his pastoral occupations; happy amidst his toils, in the reflection that they would find a termination so dear to the wishes of his heart.

"The 24th of December, 1774, at break of day, Paul, when he arose, perceived a white flag hoisted upon the Mountain of Discovery, which was the signal of a vessel descried at sea. He flew to the town, in order to learn if this vessel brought any tidings of Virginia, and waited till the return of the pilot, who had gone as usual to visit the ship. The pilot brought the governor information that the vessel was the Saint Geran, of seven hundred tons, commanded by a captain of the name of Aubin; that the ship was now four leagues out at sea, and would anchor at Port Louis the following afternoon, if the wind was favourable: at present there was a calm. The pilot then remitted to the governor a number of letters from France, amongst which was one addressed to Madame de la Tour in the hand-writing of Virginia. Paul seized upon the letter, kissed it with transport, placed it in his bosom, and flew to the plantation. No sooner did he perceive from a distance the family, who were waiting his return upon the Farewell Rock, than he waved the letter in the air, without having the power to speak; and instantly the whole family crowded round Madame de la Tour to hear it read. Virginia informed her mother that she had suffered much ill treatment from her aunt, who, after having in vain urged her to marry against her inclination, had disinherited her; and at length sent her back at such a season of the year, that she must probably reach the Mauritius at the very period of the hurricanes. In vain, she added, she had endeavoured to soften her aunt, by representing what she owed to her mother, and to the habits of her early years: she had been treated as a romantic girl, whose head was turned by novels. At present she said she could think of nothing but the transport of again seeing and embracing her beloved family, and that she would have satisfied this dearest wish of her heart that very day, if the captain would have permitted her to embark in the pilot's boat; but that he had opposed her going, on account of the distance from the shore, and of a swell in the ocean, notwithstanding it was a calm.

"Scarcely was the letter finished, when the whole family, transported with joy repeated, 'Virginia is arrived!' and mistresses and servants embraced each other. Madame de la Tour said to Paul, 'My son, go and inform our neighbour of Virginia's arrival.' Domingo immediately lighted a torch, and he and Paul bent their way towards my plantation.

"It was about ten at night, and I was going to extinguish my lamp, when I perceived through the palisades of my hut a light in the woods. I arose, and had just dressed myself when Paul, half wild, and panting for breath, sprung on my neck, crying, 'Come along, come along. Virginia is arrived! Let us go to the Port: the vessel will anchor at break of day.'

"We instantly set off. As we were traversing the woods of the Sloping Mountain, and were already on the road which leads from the Shaddock Grove to the Port, I heard some one walking behind us. When the person, who was a negro, and who advanced with hasty steps, had reached us, I inquired from whence he came, and whither he was going with such expedition. He answered, 'I come from that part of the island called Golden Dust, and am sent to the Port, to inform the governor, that a ship from France has anchored upon the island of Amber, and fires guns of distress, for the sea is very stormy.' Having said this, the man left us, and pursued his journey.

"'Let us go,' said I to Paul, 'towards that part of the island, and meet Virginia. It is only three leagues from hence.' Accordingly we bent our course thither. The heat was suffocating. The moon had risen, and it was encompassed by three large black circles. A dismal darkness shrouded the sky; but the frequent flakes of lightning discovered long chains of thick clouds, gloomy, low hung, and heaped together over the middle of the island, after having rolled with great rapidity from the ocean, although we felt not a breath of wind upon the land. As we walked along we thought we heard peals of thunder; but, after listening more attentively, we found they were the sound of distant cannon repeated by the echoes. Those sounds, joined to the tempestuous aspect of the heavens, made me shudder. I had little doubt that they were signals of distress from a ship in danger. In half an hour the firing ceased, and I felt the silence more appalling than the dismal sounds which had preceded.

"We hastened on without uttering a word, or daring to communicate our apprehensions. At midnight we arrived on the sea shore at that part of the island. The billows broke against the beach with a horrible noise, covering the rocks and the strand with their foam of a dazzling whiteness, and blended with sparks of fire. By their phosphoric gleams we distinguished, notwithstanding the darkness, the canoes of the fishermen, which they had drawn far upon the sand.

"Near the shore, at the entrance of a wood, we saw a fire, round which several of the inhabitants were assembled. Thither we repaired, in order to repose ourselves till morning. One of the circle related, that in the afternoon he had seen a vessel driven towards the island by the currents; that the night had hid it from his view; and that two hours after sun-set he had heard the firing of guns in distress; but that the sea was so tempestuous, no boat could venture out; that a short time after, he thought he perceived the glimmering of the watch-lights on board the vessel, which he feared, by its having approached so near the coast, had steered between the main land and the little island of Amber, mistaking it for the point of Endeavour, near which the vessels pass in order to gain Port Louis. If this was the case, which, however, he could not affirm, the ship he apprehended was in great danger. Another islander then informed us, that he had frequently crossed the channel which separates the isle of Amber from the coast, and which he had sounded; that the anchorage was good, and that the ship would there be in as great security as if it were in harbour. A third islander declared it was impossible for the ship to enter that channel, which was scarcely navigable for a boat. He asserted that he had seen the vessel at anchor beyond the isle of Amber; so that if the wind arose in the morning, it could either put to sea or gain the harbour. Different opinions were stated upon this subject, which, while those indolent Creoles calmly discussed, Paul and I observed a profound silence. We remained on this spot till break of day, when the weather was too hazy to admit of our distinguishing any object at sea, which was covered with fog. All we could descry was a dark cloud, which they told us was the isle of Amber, at the distance of a quarter of a league from the coast. We could only discern on this gloomy day the point of the beach where we stood, and the peaks of some mountains in the interior part of the island, rising occasionally from amidst the clouds which hung around them.