Clermont/Chapter 14
CHAP. IV.
Ah where is now each image gay
The hand of Fairy fancy wove,
The painted spring, elizium gay
The babbling rill, the cultur'd grove.
Her night was restless and unhappy.
"Ah, (sighed she) how differently did I imagine it would have ended." Pale, trembling, dejected, the very reverse of what she had been the preceding morning, she descended to the breakfast parlour, where her melancholy was, if possible, increased by observing the Countess's, who either from sympathy for her, or from a return of her secret uneasiness, or perhaps from a mixture of both, appeared languid and dejected. She tried, however, to appear cheerful but the efforts she made for that purpose were too faint to succeed, and unable either to beguile her own sadness, or that of her young companion, the day wore heavily away. As they sat, at its decline, by an open window in one of the parlours, and beheld the sun sinking behind the western hills, a deep and involuntary sigh heaved the bosom of Madeline, at reflecting, how very different her feelings were now, from what they had been on the same hour the preceding evening.
The Countess interpreted her sigh, and taking her hand, pressed it between her's. "My dear Madeline! (she exclaimed) my sweet girl, it grieves my heart to see you thus depressed. Your present disappointment, I allow, is great; but reflect, and let the reflection compose your mind: how much greater it would have been, how much more poignantly you must have felt it, had you married de Sevignie, and then, when too late, found him to be the worthless character you are now apprehensive he is.
"Few there are, my dear Madeline, whose situations, however bad, might not be rendered worse; we should therefore try not to deserve an augmentation of calamity, by bearing that inflicted with resignation.
"Why calamity is the prevalent lot of humanity—why our virtuous hopes are so often overthrown—why the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; both reason and religion teaches us will be explained hereafter; in the mean time, let no disappointment, no vicissitudes, however painful and unmerited we may consider them, ever tempt us to doubt, or to arraign the goodness and wisdom of that Being, from whose hand proceeds alike the cup of good and evil.
"Think not, (she continued) as too many perhaps might do, that I preach what I do not practise; or, that my lessons are those of a woman, who herself, untried by disappointment, can exhort others to that submission which she never knew the difficulty of acquiring. This, believe me my dear Madeline, is not the case; I know what it is: when we extend our hand for the rose to gather the thorns—when we open our bosom to hope, to admit despair—when we bask in the sunshine, to be surprised by the storm, and have it burst with fury o'er our unsheltered heads."
"Oh, from every adverse storm may you be sheltered!" exclaimed Madeline, with uplifted eyes.
As she spoke, Father Bertrand, confessor to the Countess, and officiating priest to her household, stopped before the window: he belonged to the community which has been already mentioned, and frequently rambled at the close of day from his convent, to the wild solitudes of the wood surrounding the chateau. He was upwards of sixty, and one of those interesting figures which cannot be viewed by sensibility without pity and veneration; his noble height still gave an idea of what his form had been, when unbent by infirmity; and that form, like a fine ruin, excited the involuntary sigh of regret for the devastations time had made upon it. His hairs were white, and thinly scattered over a forehead, more deeply indented by care than age; and the sad, the solemn expression of his countenance, denoted his being a son of sorrow, and proved his thoughts were continually bent upon another world, where alone he could receive consolation for the miseries of this.
"How fares the good ladies of the castle this evening," cried he, leaning upon his staff, as he stopped before the window.
"Why not so well, father, (replied the Countess) but that we might be better; here we are, like two philosophers descanting upon the vanities of life; and when women talk philosophy, the world says, they must either be indisposed or out of temper."
"Well, I shan't pretend to contradict what the world says, (cried the good man, smiling) nor since so well employed shall I longer interrupt you, ladies."
The Countess asked him to come in and take some refreshment, but he refused, and after chatting a little longer, rambled away to the wildest parts of the wood.
"The story of Father Bertrand, (said the Countess, as he retired) is a striking proof to all that know it, that we should never be too eager in the pursuit of our wishes. As it is short, and rather applicable to what we have been talking about, I will relate it.—
"He was son to a gentleman of good family, but still better fortune, who lived in the vicinity of this chateau: the large patrimony he was to inherit, made his parents anxious to give him such an education as should teach him to enjoy it with moderation and elegance.
"After learning every thing he could learn in his native country, he was sent abroad to improve himself by visiting various courts, and acquiring that knowledge of men and manners, which is so requisite for those destined to mix in the great world, and which in a fixed residence it is almost impossible to obtain. In the course of his travels he paid a visit to England; and here, in a small town in that kingdom, he became acquainted with a young lady, who at an early age was left an orphan and a dependant on an old capricious aunt, whose only motive for keeping her in the family, was, that on her she could vent that spleen and ill-nature which no one else would bear from her. The fair orphan and Bertrand frequently met each other at different houses; and the beauty of her person, the soft dejection of her manner, and the patient sweetness with which she bore her situation, soon gained a complete conquest over his heart; nor did hers retain its liberty.
"The declaration of his attachment Bertrand would have accompanied by an offer of his hand, had not duty and respect to his parents prevented his taking such a step without their knowledge and approbation: he wrote to them for their consent; but instead of receiving it, he received a pressing entreaty to return home immediately; and also an acknowledgment from them at the same time, that they could not bear the idea of his marrying a foreigner and a protestant, as was the lady he paid his addresses to. Bertrand did not attempt to write again, or disregard their entreaty; his duty to them, and his consideration for his own happiness, prompted him to return home without delay, for he knew their hearts, and was convinced, when he once pleaded his cause in person, he would not be refused: calming the disquietude of Caroline by this assurance, and pledging to her vows of unalterable love and fidelity, he embarked for his native country, and as he expected, succeeded in his suit. It was then the depth of winter, and his parents dreading his undertaking a voyage in that inclement season, conjured him to defer, till the ensuing spring, going to England for Caroline, whose marriage they insisted on having celebrated in their own house, from an idea, that if their son was married according to the forms of her church, (which they knew would be the case if his nuptials took place in her country) some heavy calamity would befall him in consequence of that circumstance.
"But the wishes of Bertrand were too impetuous to comply with theirs; he rallied their fears, opposed their arguments, and returned, without delay, to England. The friends of Caroline; for her friends increased when fortune began to smile, now tried to detain her and her lover in England, as his parents had tried to detain him in France, till a more favourable season, but they tried in vain; the youthful pair dreaded no dangers, or rather overlooked the idea of any, in their impatience to quit a place which retarded the wishes of one, and brought continually to the mind of the other, a thousand cruel slights and mortifications. They accordingly embarked, elated with hope and expectation; the ship was bound to Normandy, near whose coast Bertrand had some friends settled, who promised, on his landing there, to accompany him to his father's house, in order to be present at his wedding; the weather continued favourable till they had nearly reached their destined port, when it suddenly changed, as if to mock their hopes, and teach the heart of man no certain felicity can be expected in this life. The sailors endeavoured to make for the shore, but in vain, the storm raged with violence, and after tossing about a considerable time the ship at length bulged upon a rock; the long-boat was immediately thrown out, though from the fury of the waves it afforded but little chance of deliverance: this chance, however, was eagerly seized—Bertrand calling upon every Saint in heaven to preserve her, bore the fainting Caroline into it, the sailors crowded in numbers after them, and it almost directly upset. The shock of that moment separated Bertrand and Caroline for ever in this world,—the waves cast him upon a rock, from whence, almost lifeless, he was taken up by some fisherman and conveyed to a hut; here his friends, whom the expectation of his arrival had drawn to the coast, discovered him. Their care, their assiduity, soon restored his senses—but with what horrors was that restoration accompanied,—the deepest moans, the most piercing, the most frantic cries, were all, for a long time, he had the power of uttering: he then insisted on being taken to the waterside, and here attention alone prevented his committing an act of desperation, by plunging himself amidst the waves which had entombed his love! one day and one night, he sought her on the "sea beat shore;" the second morning her body was discovered on the strand; but how altered, by the cloaths alone it was known to be that of the Caroline he had lost. Kneeling on the earth, Bertrand solemnly vowed, by the chaste spirit of her o'er whose remains he wept, never to know another earthly love, but to devote the remainder of his days to heaven. His friends conveyed him and the body to his parents, who endeavoured to prevail on him to cancel his vow, but in vain, and as soon as the necessary formalities could be gone through, he took the religious habit.
"His parents, disappointed in their hopes relative to him—their hopes of seeing a little smiling race of his prattling about them, pined away, and were soon laid beside the bones of her, who had been the innocent cause of their trouble.
"Bertrand then gave up the house of his forefathers, and the greatest part of the fortune appertaining to it, to a near and distant relation; by this time the turbulence of his grief had abated, and he soon after became, by his benevolence and strict, but unostentatious piety, one of the most respected members of the community he had entered into: his story interested me, and on the death of the old monk, who had been my confessor and chaplain, I appointed him to those offices. But though time and reason have meliorated his sorrows, there are periods when all their violence is revived.
"When the rough winds of winter howl round his habitation, and bend the tall trees of the mountains by which it is surrounded, 'tis then the remembrance of past events swells his heart with agony; 'tis then he thinks he hears the plaintive voice of Caroline mingled in the blast, and fancies he beholds her shivering spirit stalking through the gloom, and beckoning him away.
"The wedding garments, which the pride and fondness of his mother prepared for his intended bride; the picture, which, on their parting in England, she gave him, he still treasures, as the hermit would treasure the relics of a saint. I have beheld them—I have wept over them—I have exclaimed within myself, as I have gazed on these mementos of lost happiness—'Oh, children of the dust! what folly to place your hopes, your wishes, on a world whose changes are so sudden; whose happiness, even while it appears in our view, even while we stretch out our arms to enfold it, flies never to return.'
"Oh, Madeline! as Bertrand has shown me the ornaments designed for his Caroline, and told me their hapless tale, while the big tear of tender recollection and poignant regret has rolled down his cheek, I could only quiet the strong emotions of my heart, by saying, like the holy man himself:
'Father of heaven! thy decrees must surely be for the wisest purposes, else thou wouldst not thus afflict thy creatures; thy will, therefore, not our's, be done.' The sorrows of Bertrand (resumed the Countess, after pausing a minute) were heightened, by thinking himself accessary to them, in consequence of not regarding either the supplications of his parents or friends for postponing his voyage till a more settled season: so true is it, that those who yield to impetuous passions, will sooner or later have reason to repent doing so."
The mind of Madeline was insensibly calmed, and drawn from its own cares by the discourse of the Countess; for the precept of wisdom, the tale of instruction is ever pleasing to the children of virtue.
But with that quick transition of feeling, so peculiar to the youthful mind, she felt, with returning composure, a kind of distaste to a world, which daily experience convinced her teemed with calamity.
Soon after the Countess had concluded her little narrative, she requested Madeline to take her lute—a request, which Madeline attempted not to refuse. In the present state of her mind sad or solemn strains were alone congenial to her feelings, and she selected a hymn to the Supreme Being, celebrating his goodness, and the happiness prepared for those hereafter, who patiently support the trials of this life. Just depressed by a conviction of its sufferings, Madeline derived a kind of divine consolation from words, which gave so consoling an assurance of their being rewarded. At first her voice was weak, and her touch faint and tremulous; but by degrees, as if animated by the subject, her voice regained its strength, and her hand its steadiness; and high on the swelling notes her soul seemed ascending to that heaven, whose glories appeared opening to her view, when a deep sigh, or rather sob, suddenly startled her. Her hand involuntarily rested on the strings, o'er which it was lightly sweeping, and she cast an eager glance towards the Countess. How great was her surprise—her consternation, to see her fallen back, pale, and weeping in her chair. The lute instantly dropped from Madeline, and starting up, she instinctively flung her arms round her benefactress, exclaiming, "Good heavens! Madam, what is the matter." Then, without waiting for a reply, she was flying from the room for assistance, when the voice of the Countess made her stop.
"Return, my dear, (said she, raising herself on her chair) I am now better. It was only my spirits were overcome. Your solemn strains awoke in my mind recollections of the most painful nature; the hymn you were playing was a favourite of my lord's. The evening preceding the illness which terminated his life, as pale and languid he sat by me in this very room, he requested me to play it for him; his words, his looks, while he listened, as afterwards considered by me, have since convinced me that he knew his end was approaching, and that he fixed on this hymn as a kind of requiem for his departing spirit. In that light I have ever since regarded it."
Madeline shuddered; she thought there was a ghastly paleness in the countenance of the Countess. "Oh, Madam! (said she), why did you not prevent my playing it?"
"Because, my love, (replied the Countess) though it pains, it also pleases me. I am now better (she continued), and will retire to the chapel for a little time."
"Ah! Madam, (said Madeline), permit me to accompany you tonight, for perhaps you may be again taken ill." "No, my love, (cried the Countess), there is no danger of my being so. I thank you for your kind solicitude about me, but I cannot let you come with me; my composure I know will be perfectly restored by visiting the chapel. Tell Floretta, therefore, to bring me my scarf."—Madeline obeyed, but with a repugnance she could not conquer,—and the Countess wrapping it about her, departed, assuring Madeline she would hasten back to supper, and would then expect to find her cheerful.
Madeline, left to herself, strolled out upon the lawn. It was now the dusky hour of twilight, and solitude and silence reigned around. Her thoughts, no longer diverted by conversation, again reverted to past subjects, and deeply ruminating on them, she continued to walk till it grew quite dark: she then returned to the castle, and not finding the Countess in the room where they had parted, she rung for a servant, to enquire whether she was yet come back; the man replied she was not. Her long stay, after promising to return so soon, filled the mind of Madeline with terror, lest her delay should be occasioned by a return of her illness: and going directly to Agatha, she communicated her apprehensions to her, and entreated her to accompany her to the monastery—an entreaty the faithful creature readily complied with.