Chapter 15

We were on a visit to the castle of Chillon, guests of the bailli of Vevay. After dinner the whole party walked on the ramparts, and our youngest son slipped and fell into the deep water. Julie plunged in after him. Both were rescued; the child was soon brought round, but Julie's state was critical. When she had recovered a little, she was taken back to Clarens. The doctor told her she had but three days to live. She spent those three days in perfect cheerfulness and tranquillity of spirit, conversing with Madame D'Orbe, the pastor, and myself, expressing her content that her life should end at a time when she had attained complete happiness. On the fourth morning we found her lifeless.

During the three days she wrote a letter, which I enclose. Fulfil her last requests. There yet remains much for you to do on earth.

FROM JULIE TO SAINT PREUX

All is changed, my dear friend; let us suffer the change without a murmur. It was not well for us that we should rejoin each other.

For it was an illusion that my love for you was cured; now, in the presence of death, I know that I still love you. I avow this without shame, for I have done my duty. My virtue is without stain, my love without remorse.

Come back to Clarens; train my children, comfort their noble father, lead him into the light of Christian faith. Claire, like yourself, is about to lose the half of her life; let each of you preserve the other half by a union that in these latter days I have often wished to bring about.

Adieu, sweet friend, adieu!

* * * * *

BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE

Paul and Virginia

Jacques-Henri Bernardin de Saint Pierre was born at Havre on January 19, 1737. Like many boys that are natives of seaports, he was anxious to become a sailor; but a single voyage cured him of his desire for a seafaring life, although not of his love for travel. For some years afterwards he was a rolling stone, sometimes soldier and sometimes engineer, visiting one European country after another. In 1771 he obtained a government appointment in Mauritius, a spot which was the subject of his first book (see TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE, Vol. XIX), and which was afterwards made the scene of "Paul and Virginia." In his "Nature Studies," 1783, he showed an enthusiasm for nature that contrasted vividly with the artificiality of most eighteenth-century writers; but his fame was not established until he had set all the ladies of France weeping with his "Paul and Virginia," perhaps the most sentimental book ever written. It was published in 1787, and although it does not cause in modern readers the tearful raptures that it provoked on its first appearance, its fame has survived as the most notable work of a romantic and nature-loving sentimentalist with remarkable powers of narration. Saint Pierre died on January 21, 1814.

_I.--The Home Among the Rocks_

On the eastern declivity of the mountain which rises behind Port Louis, in the Isle of France, are still to be seen, on a spot of ground formerly cultivated, the ruins of two little cottages. They are situated almost in the midst of a basin formed by enormous rocks, with only one opening, from which you may look upon Port Louis and the sea.

I took pleasure in retiring to this place, where one can at once enjoy an unbounded prospect and profound solitude. One day, as I was sitting near the cottages, an elderly man approached me. His hair was completely white, his aspect simple and majestic. I saluted him, and he sat down beside me.

"Can you inform me, father," I asked, "to whom these two cottages belonged?"

"My son," replied he, "these ruins were inhabited by two families, which there found the means of true happiness. But who will deign to take an interest in the history, however affecting, of a few obscure individuals?"

"Father," I replied, "relate to me, I beseech you, what you know of them; and be assured that there is no man, however depraved by prejudices, but loves to hear of the felicity which nature and virtue bestow."

Upon this the old man related what follows.

In the year 1735 there came to this spot a young widow named Madame de la Tour. She was of a noble Norman family; but her husband was of obscure birth. She had married him portionless, and against the will of her relations, and they had journeyed here to seek their fortune. The husband soon died, and his widow found herself destitute of every possession except a single negro woman. She resolved to seek a subsistence by cultivating a small plot of ground, and this was the spot that she chose.

Providence had one blessing in store for Madame de la Tour--the blessing of a friend. Inhabiting this spot was a sprightly and sensible woman of Brittany, named Margaret. She, like madame, had suffered from the sorrows of love; she had fled to the colonies, and had here established herself with her baby and an old negro, whom she had purchased with a poor, borrowed purse.

When Madame de la Tour had unfolded to Margaret her former condition and her present wants the good woman was moved with compassion; she tendered to the stranger a shelter in her cottage and her friendship. I knew them both, and went to offer them my assistance. The territory in the rock-basin, amounting to about twenty acres, I divided equally between them. Margaret's cottage was on the boundary of her own domain, and close at hand I built another cottage for Madame de la Tour. Scarcely had I completed it when a daughter was born to madame. She was called Virginia; the infant son of Margaret bore the name of Paul.

The two friends, so dear to each other in spite of their difference in rank, spun cotton for a livelihood. They seldom visited Port Louis, for fear of the contempt with which they were treated on account of the coarseness of their dress. But if they were exposed to a little suffering when abroad, they returned home with so much more additional satisfaction. They found there cleanliness and freedom, blessings which they owed entirely to their own industry, and to servants animated with zeal and affection. As for themselves, they had but one will, one interest, one table. They had everything in common.

Their mutual love redoubled at the sight of their two children. Nothing was to be compared with the attachment which the babes showed for each other. If Paul complained, they brought Virginia to him; at the sight of her he was pacified. If Virginia suffered, Paul lamented; but Virginia was wont to conceal her pain, that her sufferings might not distress him. All their study was to please and assist each other. They had been taught no religion but that which instructs us to love one another; and they raised toward heaven innocent hands and pure hearts, filled with the love of their parents. Thus passed their early infancy, like a beautiful dawn, which seems to promise a still more beautiful day.

Madame de la Tour had moments of uneasiness during her daughter's childhood; sometimes she used to say to me: "If I should die what would become of Virginia, dowerless as she is?" She had an aunt in France, a woman of quality, rich, old, and a devotee, to whom she had written at the time of Virginia's birth. Not until 1746--eleven years later--did a reply reach her. Her aunt told her that she merited her condition for having married an adventurer; that the untimely death of her husband was a just chastisement of God; that she had done well not to dishonour her country by returning to France; and that after all she was in an excellent country, where everybody made fortunes except the idle.

She added, however, that in spite of all this she had strongly recommended her to the governor of the island, M. de la Bourdonaye. But, conformably to a custom too prevalent, in feigning to pity she had calumniated her; and, consequently, madame was received by the governor with the greatest coolness.

Returning to the plantation with a bitter heart, madame read the letter tearfully to all the family. Margaret clasped her to her arms; Virginia, weeping, kissed her hands; Paul stamped with rage; the servants hearing the noise, ran in to comfort her.

Such marks of affection soon dissipated madame's anguish.

"Oh, my children!" she cried. "Misfortune only attacks me from afar; happiness is ever around me!"

_II--Nature's Children_

As the years went on, Paul and Virginia grew up together in purity and contentment. Every succeeding day was to them a day of happiness. They were strangers to the torments of envy and ambition. By living in solitude, so far from degenerating into savages, they had become more humane. If the scandalous history of society did not supply them with topics of discourse, nature filled their hearts with transports of wonder and delight. They contemplated with rapture the power of that Providence which, by aid of their hands, had diffused amid these barren rocks abundance, beauty, and simple and unceasing pleasures.

When the weather was fine, the families went on Sundays to mass at the church of Pamplemousses. When mass was over, they ministered to the sick or gave comfort to the distressed. From these visits Virginia often returned with her eyes bathed in tears, but her heart overflowing with joy, for she had been blessed with an opportunity of doing good.

Paul and Virginia had no clocks nor almanacs nor books of history or philosophy; the periods of their lives were regulated by those of nature. They knew the hour of the day by the shadow of the trees; the seasons by the times when the trees bore flowers or fruits; and years by the number of the harvests.

"It is dinner-time," Virginia would say to the family; "the shadows of the banana-trees are at their feet." Or, "Night approaches, for the tamarinds are closing their leaves."

When asked about her age and that of Paul, "My brother," she would answer, "is the same age with the great coconut-tree of the fountain, and I the same age with the small one. The mango-trees have yielded their fruit twelve times, and the orange-trees have opened their blossoms twenty-four times since I came into the world."

Thus did these two children of nature advance in life; hitherto no care had wrinkled their foreheads, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no unhappy passion had depraved their hearts; love, innocence, piety were daily unfolding the beauties of their souls in graces ineffable, in their features, their attitude, and their movements.

Nevertheless, in time Virginia felt herself disturbed by a strange malady. Serenity no longer sat upon her forehead, nor smiles upon her lips. She withdrew herself from her innocent amusements, from her sweet occupations, and from the society of her family.

Sometimes, at the sight of Paul, she ran up to him playfully, when all of a sudden an unaccountable embarrassment seized her; a lively red coloured her cheeks, and her eyes no longer dared to fix themselves on his.

Meanwhile Margaret said to Madame de la Tour, "Why should we not marry our children? Their passion for each other is extreme, although my son is not sensible of it."

"Not yet," answered madame; "they are too young, and too poor. But if we send Paul to India for a short time, commerce will supply him with the means of buying some slaves. On his return we will marry him to Virginia, for I am certain that no one can make my daughter so happy as your son Paul. Let us consult our neighbour about it."

So they discussed the matter with me, and I approved of their plan. But when I opened the business to Paul, I was astonished when he replied, "Why would you have me quit my family for a visionary project of fortune? If we wish to engage in trade, cannot we do so by carrying our superfluities to the city, without any necessity for my rambling to India? What if any accident should befall my family during my absence, more especially Virginia, who even now is suffering? Ah, no! I could never make up my mind to quit them."

I durst not hint to him that Virginia was lovesick, and that the voyage had been projected that the two might be separated until they had grown a little older.

_III.--Virginia's Departure_

Just at this time a letter came to Madame de la Tour from her aunt, who had just recovered from a dangerous illness, and whose obdurate heart had been softened by the fear of death. She requested her niece to return to France; or, if the state of her health prevented her from undertaking the voyage, to send Virginia thither, on whom she intended to bestow a good education, a place at court, and a bequest of all her possessions. The return of her favour, she added, depended entirely on compliance with these injunctions.

The letter filled the family with utter consternation.

"Can you leave us?" Margaret asked, in deep anxiety.

"No," replied madame, "I will never leave you. With you I have lived, and with you I mean to die."

At these words tears of joy bedewed the cheeks of the whole household, and the most joyous of all, although she gave the least testimony to her pleasure, was Virginia.

But next morning they were surprised to receive a visit from the governor. He, too, had heard from madame's aunt. "Surely," he said, "you cannot without injustice deprive your young and beautiful daughter of so great an inheritance." Taking madame aside, he told her that a vessel was on the point of sailing, and that a lady who was related to him would take care of her daughter. He then placed upon the table a large bag of piastres, which one of his slaves had brought. "This," he said, "is what your aunt has sent to make the preparations for the voyage."

After the governor had left, madame urged her daughter to go. But wealth had no temptations for Virginia. She thought only of her family, and of her love for Paul. "Oh, I shall never have resolution to quit you!" she cried.

But in the evening came her father confessor, sent by the governor. "My children," said he as he entered, "there is wealth in store for you now, thanks to Heaven. You have at length the means of gratifying your benevolent feeling by ministering to the unhappy. We must obey the will of Providence," he continued, turning to Virginia. "It is a sacrifice, I grant, but it is the command of the Almighty."

Virginia, with downcast eyes and trembling voice, replied, "If it is the command of God that I should go, God's will be done." And burst into tears.

I was with the family at supper that evening. Little was eaten, and nobody uttered a syllable.

After supper Virginia rose first, and went out. Paul quickly followed her. The rest of us went out soon afterwards, and we sat down under the banana-trees. Paul and Virginia were not far off, and we heard every word they said.

"You are going to leave us," began Paul, "for the sake of a relation whom you have never seen!"

"Alas!" replied Virginia. "Had I been allowed to follow my own inclinations, I should have remained here all my days. But my mother wishes me to go. My confessor says it is the will of God that I should go."

"Ah!" said Paul. "And do you say nothing of the attractions of wealth? You will soon find another on whom you can bestow the name of brother among your equals--one who has riches and high birth, which I cannot offer you. But whither can you go to be more happy than where you are? Cruel girl! How will our mothers bear this separation? What will become of me? Oh, since a new destiny attracts you, since you seek fortune in far countries, let me at least go with you! I will follow you as your slave."

Paul's voice was stifled with sobs. "It is for your sake that I go!" cried Virginia tearfully. "You have laboured daily to support us. By my wealth I shall seek to repay the good you have done to us all. And would I choose any brother but thee! Oh, Paul, Paul, you are far dearer to me than a brother!"

At these words he clasped her in his arms. "I shall go with her. Nothing shall shake my resolution!" he declared, in a terrible voice.

We ran towards them, and Paul turned savagely on Madame de la Tour. "Do you act the part of a mother," he cried, "you who separate brother and sister? Pitiless woman! May the ocean never give her back to your arms!" His eyes sparkled; sweat ran down his countenance.

"Oh, my friend," cried Virginia to him in terror, "I swear by all that could ever unite two unhappy beings that if I remain here I will only live for you; and if I depart, I will one day return to be yours!"

His head drooped; a torrent of tears gushed from his eyes.

"Come to-night to my home, my friend," I said. "We will talk this matter over to-morrow."

"I cannot let her go!" cried madame, in distraction.

Paul accompanied me in silence. After a restless night he arose at daybreak, and returned to his own home.

Virginia had gone! The vessel had sailed at daybreak, and she was on board.

By intricate paths Paul climbed to the summit of a rock cone, from which a vast area of sea was visible. From here he perceived the vessel that bore away Virginia; and here I found him in the evening, his head leaning against the rock, his eyes fixed on the ground.

When I had persuaded him to return home, he bitterly reproached madame with having so cruelly deceived him. She told us that a breeze had sprung up in the early morning, and that the governor himself, his officers, and the confessor has come and carried Virginia off in spite of all their tears and protests, the governor declaring that it was for their good that she was thus hurried away.

Paul wandered miserably among all the spots that had been Virginia's favourites. He looked at her goats, and at the birds that came fluttering to be fed by the hand of her who had gone. He watched the dog vainly searching, following the scent up and down. He cherished little things that had been hers--the last nosegay she had worn, the coconut cup out of which she was accustomed to drink.

At length he began to labour in the plantation again. He also besought me to teach him reading and writing, so that he might correspond with Virginia; and geography and history, that he might learn the situation and character of the country whither she had gone.

We heard a report that Virginia had reached France in safety; but for two years we heard no other news of her.

_IV.--Virginia's Return_

When at length a letter arrived from Virginia it appeared that she had written several times before, but as she had received no replies, she feared that her great-aunt had intercepted her former letters.

She had been placed in a convent school, and although she lived in the midst of riches, she had not the disposal of a single farthing. She was not allowed to mention her mother's name, and was bidden to forget the land of savages where she was born; but she would sooner forget herself.

To Paul she sent some flower-seeds in a small purse, on which were embroidered the letters "P" and "V" formed of hair that he knew to be Virginia's.

But reports were current that gave him great uneasiness. The people of the vessel that had brought the letter asserted that Virginia was about to be married to a great nobleman; some even declared that the wedding was already over.

But soon afterwards his disquietude ceased at the news that Virginia was about to return.

On the morning of December 24, 1752, Paul saw a signal indicating that a vessel was descried at sea, and he hastened to the city. A pilot went out to reconnoitre her according to the custom of the port; he came back in the evening with the news that the vessel was the Saint Gerard, and that her captain hoped to bring her to anchor off Port Louis on the following afternoon. Virginia was on board, and sent by the pilot a letter to her mother which Paul, after kissing it with transport, carried hurriedly to the plantation.

Virginia wrote that her great-aunt had tried to force her into marriage, had disinherited her on her refusal, and had sent her back to the island. Her only wish now was once more to see and embrace her dear family.

Paul, in his excitement, rushed to tell me the news, although it was late at night. As we walked together we were overtaken by a breathless negro.

"A vessel from France has just cast anchor under Amber Island," he said. "She is firing distress guns, for the sea is very heavy."

"That will be Virginia's vessel," I said. "Let us go that way to meet her."

The heat was stifling, and the flashes of lightning that illumined the dense darkness revealed masses of thick clouds lowering over the island. In the distance we heard the boom of the distress-gun. We quickened our pace without saying a word, not daring to communicate our anxiety to each other.

When we reached the coast by Amber Island, we found several planters gathered round a fire, discussing whether the vessel could enter the channel in the morning and find safety.

Soon after dawn the governor arrived with a detachment of soldiers, who immediately fired a volley. Close at hand came the answering boom of the ship's gun; in the dim light we could see her masts and yards, and hear the voices of the sailors. She had passed through the channel, and was secure--save from the hurricane.

But the hurricane came. Black clouds with copper edging hung in the zenith; seabirds made their way, screaming, to shelter in the island. Then fearful noises as of torrents were heard from the sea; the mists of the morning were swept away and the storm was upon us.

The vessel was now in deadly peril, and ere long what we had feared took place. The cables on her bows snapped, and she was dashed upon the rocks half a cable's length from the shore. A cry of grief burst from every breast.

Paul was about to fling himself into the sea, when I seized him by the arm.

"Oh. let me go to her rescue," he cried, "or let me die!"

I tied a rope round his waist, and he advanced toward the ship, sometimes walking, sometimes swimming. He hoped to get on board the vessel, for the sea in its irregular movements left her almost dry. But presently it returned with redoubled fury, and the unhappy Paul was hurled back upon the shore, bleeding, bruised, and senseless.

The ship was now going to pieces, and the despairing crew were flinging themselves into the sea. On the stern gallery stood Virginia, stretching out her arms towards the lover who sought to save her. When he was thrust back she waved her hand towards us, as if bidding us an eternal farewell.

One sailor remained with her, striving to persuade her to undress and try to swim ashore. With a dignified gesture she repelled him. Then a prodigious mountain of water swept towards the vessel. The sailor sprang off, and was carried ashore. Virginia vanished from our sight.

We found her body on the beach of a bay near at hand, whither much of the wreckage had been carried. Her eyes were closed, but her countenance showed perfect calm; only the pale violet of death blended itself upon her cheeks with the rose of modesty. One of her hands was firmly closed. I disengaged from it, with much difficulty, a little casket; within the casket was a portrait of Paul--a gift from him which she had promised never to part with while she lived.

Paul was taken home stretched on a palanquin. His coming brought a ray of comfort to the unhappy mothers; the tears, which had been till then restrained through excess of sorrow, now began to flow, and, nature being thus relieved, all the three bereaved ones fell into a lethargic repose.