Clermont/Chapter 5
CHAP. V.
—in those woods I deem some spirits dwell,
Who, from the chiding stream and groaning oak,
Still hear and answer to my moan. Douglas
The soothing attentions of the Countess de Merville at length abated the grief of Madeline; she gradually revived and began to converse and admire the new and beautiful scenes, through which she passed. In the course of conversation she learned that her amiable friend was a widow, and had one only child, a daughter, married about three years to a Monsieur D'Alembert, who generally resided in Paris; in which place the Countess had also lived for that period, for the purpose of enjoying her daughter's company:—"but at length, weary of the dissipation that prevails there (said she), and in which I was sometimes obliged unavoidably to join, I found myself under the necessity of giving up my daughter's society for a time, in order to recruit myself by country air and retirement."
They stopped, in the meridian of the day, at a small house on the borders of an extensive forest through which they were to pass, to procure some refreshment, and rest the horses. The room in which the Countess and Madeline dined looked into the forest; and the cool shade which the trees cast upon the windows, rendered it delightful after the intense heat they had been exposed to whilst travelling. At some distance, proudly rising above the trees, appeared the antique towers of a castle.
"What a gloomy residence must that be, madam," said Madeline pointing to it."
"Gloomy indeed," replied the Countess.
"Ah, my ladies, (cried their host, who was attending them, an old grey-headed man), I remember the time (with a melancholy shake of his head) when that castle, notwithstanding its situation in the forest, was neither sad nor gloomy, but one of the gayest mansions in France."
"And what occasioned an alteration in it?" said Madeline, after waiting a minute to try if the Countess would ask the question.
"Death, my Lady,—death, that pays no regard to rank or riches. The Count de Montmorenci, (continued the old man, advancing a few steps nearer to Madeline), the lord of that castle, had an only son, one of the finest youths perhaps that ever was seen,—the admiration of the rich, the comfort of the poor, the pride and darling of his parents; this beloved son was murdered about seventeen years ago upon the Alps, and ever since that period the Count has never held up his head. To complete his misery, the Countess, on whom he doted, died in two days after she heard the fate of her son; and poor gentleman, from that time to the present, he has led a wretched and unsettled life, wandering about from one seat to another, (for he has many in France) as if he hoped change of scene could give him comfort;—alas! nothing in this world can do so. He has now been two years absent from Montmorenci Castle; we therefore expect him soon at it. While he is away, 'tis always locked up: and from his frequent absences, and the neglect shown to every thing when in it, 'tis become, both within and without, quite an altered place. The only pleasure he has experienced since his son's death, has been in doing what he thought would show respect and honour to his memory: he has had a fine monument erected for him in the chapel of Montmorenci Castle; and on the left side of it, at a good distance, you may see, my lady, (approaching the window, and pointing out the spot to Madeline), rising above a thick clump of trees, the top of a monumental pillar, which he placed there to his memory."
"Yes, (said Madeline) I see it; there appears to me an urn upon it."
"You are right, my lady, there is an urn ornamented with a wreath of laurel, withered ere half blown. Some people say that the Count in his youth, (resumed the old man), committed actions which deserved the chastisement of heaven. For my part, I say nothing; when a man is in sorrow, his faults should be forgotten."
"Not always, my friend, (said the Countess, who had hitherto sat silently listening to the conversation); I agree with you, a man should not be reproached for them when in trouble; but they should be remembered to prove the justice of Providence in sending that trouble, and that, sooner or later, he will punish the evil doer."
"Very true, very true," cried her host, bowing to the ground.
The Countess was now informed her carriage was ready, and she lost no time in re-entering it: it passed within a few yards of Montmorenci Castle; and through the bars of the massy iron gate which opened into its spacious court, Madeline beheld that court strewed with fragments of the building, o'er which the high grass waved in rank luxuriance. "The pride, the glory of the family belonging to that castle (said the Countess, bending forward to look at it), is gone for ever; dazzling was its splendour, but rapid its decline: greatness unsupported by goodness can never be durable."
"You think then, madam, (cried Madeline), that the Count really merited his afflictions."
"'Tis an unpleasant subject, my dear, (said the Countess) we will change it"; 'twas accordingly dropped.
About sun-set they reached the chateau, which the Countess de Merville possessed in right of her father; it was built at a very distant period, and its architecture was rude in the extreme; for the pride of its possessors would not permit the smallest polish or improvement, considering its rudeness an honourable date of their own antiquity. Time, however, had been less sparing, and marked it in many places with visible decay; some of the windows were dismantled from the failure of the stone work, and many of its battlements had mouldered away: it stood upon an elevated lawn, sequestered in the bosom of an extensive wood, whose mighty shades appeared coeval with itself: on one side a narrow stream crept from a little shrubby hill with sluggish murmurs through the brushwood, expanding by degrees, till it formed a spacious lake, whose rising banks were covered with a profusion of fragrant and flowering shrubs; the myrtle, the laurestine, the flexile osier, and the weeping willow here intermingled their beauties, and fantastically fringed its margin; while on its bosom lay a few small islands of variegated verdure, the haunts of lonely and aquatic fowl, whose melancholy cries heightened the natural solemnity of the evening hour. Behind the chateau lay its old fashioned gardens, full of fountains, labyrinths, bowers, and mutilated statues; and above them, bounding the horizon, were seen the towering Alps, those gigantic sons of creation, to whom compared, the proudest monuments of art are as insignificant as the ray of the glow-worm to the solar blaze. The gardens were terminated by a narrow valley, to which there was a descent by steps cut in the sod: it lay between stupendous mountains, whose summits, at a distance, appeared tinged with blue vapour, and proudly reaching to the clouds; and in it stood the remains of a religious house, built and endowed by an ancestor of the Countess, many years prior to the erection of the castle, and at which this period had been long uninhabited in consequence of its decay; it still however continued to be the Countess's place of worship; hither, whenever she resided at the chateau, she was wont to retire at the close of day, and pass an hour in prayer and solemn meditation; and here a priest (belonging to the community that had once inhabited it, and for whom her father had procured another habitation) officiated at stated periods. The chapel was still in tolerable preservation; but all beside, except a flight of stairs that led to the dormitory above, was in irreparable decay. The numerous religious devices and heavy gothic windows of the chapel, were of themselves almost sufficient to have inspired a holy awe: relics of saints and departed warriors covered great part of the walls; and banners presented by knights crusaders on their return from the Holy Land, as grateful offerings to heaven for its protecting care, still hung from some of the pillars, waving, as if in sullen dignity, o'er the sculptured marble that covered their remains. For religious retirement, no place could have been better adapted than the valley; its towering mountains excluded every prospect that could have allured the heart to wish to stray beyond it; and the gloom of the hanging woods invited to meditation, which there was no sounds to interrupt, except the dashing of distant waterfalls, and the cawing of rooks: a thick mantle of grass covered the valley, and here the thistle shook its lonely head, and the moss that crept over the buttresses of the monastery whistled to the wind. This building communicated with the castle by means of a subterraneous passage, now never used on account of its vicinity to the burying vaults.
The vast magnitude and decaying grandeur of the chateau, impressed Madeline with surprise and melancholy; which were almost heightened to awe and veneration on entering a gloomy-vaulted hall of immense size, with small arched windows, and supported by stone arches, ornamented with rude sculpture, and hung with rusty coats of armour; while against the walls the ancient implements of war were placed in curious devices of suns, moons, and stars. At one end of the hall was the picture of the founder of the castle, and at the other the grand stair-case, whose sides were covered with historical pictures reaching to the ceiling.
The old domestics of the chateau were here assembled to welcome the return of their lady; and their delight at seeing her was a convincing proof, if such a one had been wanting, of her goodness. She addressed them all kindly and severally, nor betrayed the least impatience at their tedious enquiries. She then led Madeline into a large parlour, where she embraced and welcomed her to the chateau, which she desired her in future to consider as her home. Coffee was immediately brought in, and the house-keeper soon after followed; presuming on her superiority over the rest of the servants, she had come in to hear and relate all that had happened since her lady's departure; she was a little woman, almost double with age, and neat even to preciseness. The Countess, who esteemed her from her long residence in the family, and her fidelity, made her take a cup of coffee, and sit down.
"Well, madame (said the little creature, while her eyes twinkled with pleasure at the kindness of her lady), has my young lady yet given an heir to Monsieur D'Alembert?"
"No," replied the Countess.
"Dear heart! I am sorry for that; I had hoped by this time to have heard there was a grandson born to my beloved lady." She then proceeded to mention her pleasure at the Countess's having procured such a companion as Madeline, one who would prevent her missing her daughter as much as she had formerly done.
The Countess sighed at these words; and a shade of melancholy for a few minutes obscured her countenance. The eyes of Madeline, meanwhile, were busily employed examining the apartment; many things within it excited her surprise and curiosity; and scarcely could she keep herself from asking a number of questions about what she saw. While the Countess and Agatha were talking over family matters, she retired to a window which commanded a beautiful prospect of the lake, now glittering with the beams of a setting sun: the scene recalled to her mind the manner in which she had been situated the preceding evening; and the sigh of involuntary regret mingled with the pleasures of recollection.
With her father she had then viewed the retiring glories of the sun from the little lawn before their cottage;—glories which he had likened to those that attend the departure of the virtuous—calm, awful, and lovely: together they had enjoyed the fresh breeze which played around; and heard the soft voices of the peasant girls chanting the evening service to the Virgin, in which they joined, elevating their hearts like their eyes to that heaven whose goodness they experienced. Enraptured with the scene, they thought not of returning to the house; but continued to watch the moon gradually breaking through the fleecy clouds, mellowing the extensive landscape, and casting long tracts of radiance aslant the trembling waves; while the owl, from his ivy-mantled bower, hailed her with notes of sadness, and the young cottagers came forth to dance beneath her beams. "Oh, my father! (cried Madeline to herself) if I did not think such evenings would return, how wretched would be now the heart of your child!"
As she leaned pensively against the window, she was suddenly roused by lively music from the wood; and immediately after, saw a troop of rustics emerging from it, dressed in their holiday clothes, and adorned with large bouquets of the gayest spring flowers. Those were the Countess's tenants come to celebrate her arrival. She directly went forth to meet them, followed by Madeline, who derived unspeakable pleasure from such a sight. They all eagerly crowded round their beloved mistress, each anxious to be first noticed; some weeping for joy, and others blessing heaven for permitting them again to behold her face. Affected by those proofs of love and gratitude, the heart of the Countess swelled with sensibility, and a tear rolled down her cheek: oh, how delightful! how different her sensations from those experienced by the selfish beings who neither feel nor interest themselves about the welfare of others; but, like the haughty tyrant, seated
——————amid the gaudy herd
Of mute, barbarians bending to his nod,
close their eyes upon the distresses of mankind, because elevated above them; and say within themselves, let not
——————the clam'rous voice of woe
Intrude upon mine ear!
After conversing some time with the peasants, the Countess returned to the parlour; from whence she and Madeline watched them resuming the dance, and partaking of refreshments laid out for them on large tables about the lawn. The gaiety of the scene somewhat amused, but could not entirely remove the dejection of Madeline's heart; her father, sad and solitary in his cottage, was present to her view: and she sighed almost unknowing to herself. The Countess perceived her dejection, and loved her the better for it, as she knew the amiable source from which it proceeded: she tried, however, to beguile it by her conversation; and related a number of pleasant anecdotes; described the different places she had seen; and gave a particular account of Paris, its customs, and diversions.
Subjects so new to Madeline could not fail to amuse and interest her; and she expressed her pleasure in the liveliest manner.
"Yet this charming place (said the Countess, alluding to what Madeline had said on hearing Paris described), I should never visit but on my daughter's account. At my time of life, its gaieties begin to tire: besides, I love retirement, particularly the retirement of this chateau; I venerate its woods; they were planted by my forefathers; and if ever departed spirits are permitted to review this world, their spirits I think sometimes revisit them. Often, at the solemn hour of twilight, have I fancied their voices mingled in the gale which sighed among the trees: such fancies, perhaps, you'll say are weaknesses; the generality of mankind would consider them so; but they rather strengthen than enervate my mind: they are more soothing to it than language can express; they calm, they refine, they almost exalt it above mortality, and gradually prepare it for that hour which, in the course of nature, I may soon expect. But think not, my love (continued she, on seeing a gloom again stealing over the countenance of Madeline), that you are come to live with a dismal recluse; no,—I love innocent and rational society, and shall continue to do so, while I have health or spirits to enjoy it."
In this manner they continued to converse, till supper was announced in another room. Hitherto a stranger to any thing like luxury or splendour, Madeline was astonished on entering it at the elegance and grandeur exhibited to her view; for the Countess, though of the most domestic turn, still kept up that state her high rank and fortune entitled her to. She gazed alternately at the table, the attendants, and the massy plate which covered the side-board; and began to fear she should make but an awkward figure in a situation so very different from her former one.
Fatigued by her journey, the Countess soon after supper proposed retiring to rest; a proposal extremely agreeable to Madeline, whose spirits still felt agitated. The Countess conducted her to her chamber, which was near her own, and at the end of a long gallery that overlooked the hall; here they parted; but a servant remained, who offered to assist Madeline in undressing; an offer which she, never accustomed to such attendance, refused; and, feeling a restraint in her presence, dismissed her; yet scarcely had she done so, ere she felt an uneasy sensation, something like fear, stealing over her mind as she looked round her spacious and gloomy apartment; nor could she prevent herself from starting as the tapestry, which represented a number of grotesque and frightful figures, agitated by the wind that whistled through the crevices, every now and then swelled from the walls. She sat down near the door, wishing herself again in her own little chamber, and attentively listening for a passing step that she might desire the servant she had dismissed to be recalled; but all was profoundly still, and continued so; and at length she recollected herself, blushed for the weakness she had betrayed; and, recommending herself to the protection of heaven, retired to bed, where she soon forgot her cares and fears. She awoke in the morning with renovated spirits; and, impatient to gratify her curiosity by examining the contents of the chamber, instantly rose: the furniture was rich but old-fashioned; and as she looked over the great presses and curious inlaid cabinets, she thought indeed she must have not only a great fortune, but great vanity if she could ever fill them. Thus employed, she forgot the progress of time, till one of the Countess's women appeared to know if she was ready for breakfast, as her lady waited. She immediately descended to the parlour, where she was received with the utmost kindness.
Breakfast over, she wrote a long letter to her father, and was then amused by looking over the chateau. In the course of a week she received an answer from her father; and the pleasure he expressed at her situation, joined to the unremitting attentions of the Countess, entirely restored her spirits. Every day raised her benevolent friend still higher in her estimation, and love and esteem were soon united to gratitude and respect.
The Countess determined not to receive any visitors, nor if possible let her arrival at the chateau be known, till she had recovered from the fatigue occasioned by the dissipations of Paris. But the total retirement in which she at present lived, neither tired nor depressed Madeline; with the Countess, it was, indeed, impossible to experience any dullness; she had received and profited by all the advantages of a liberal education; and her almost constant intercourse with the great world, contributed, as well as her knowledge of books, to render her conversation entertaining and instructive. But not alone by her conversation did she try to enliven their solitude; she varied it by excursions about the domain and to the most romantic places in its neighbourhood.
She also diversified it, by seeing carried into execution a number of benevolent schemes for her poor tenants: she went amongst them herself to see if they had every thing requisite for comfort; and whether their children were taught to reverence the power that gave them being; she loved to watch their labours, and encourage industry by reward. Madeline, who always attended her in her rambles, beheld with the most exquisite delight the cheek of youth dimpling into smiles at her approach, and the eye of age glittering with tears; while she seemed to tread in air, and her cheek, warmed by the glow of benevolence, again displayed a colour that might have rivalled the brightest bloom of youth. Next to these, the most delightful of the hours passed by the Countess and Madeline, were those in which they rambled through the wild wood walks of the forest; at that time of day when all the
——air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shrieks, flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft' he rises 'mid the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.
A month glided on in this manner, when the Countess, having recovered from her fatigue determined to emerge a little from her solitude on account of her young friend.