CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul. SHAKESPEARE
Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; herhusband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long trainof the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale insorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only wasabsent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retiredto her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he tookher hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was somemoments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. Ittrembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we toseek it--where else can we find it?'
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemnvoice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of thedeparted. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon thebook, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotiongradually elevated his views above this world, and finally broughtcomfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderlykissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from yourearliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you thegreat importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us inthe various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude andvirtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for theirconsequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which isamiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulgedat the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe toourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive griefenervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking ofthose various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to bethe sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise theprecepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has sooften shewn you to be wise.
'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplaceremark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilateyour feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; forwhatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart,nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand,is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effectconsoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know mysufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the lightwords which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy eventhe sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfishostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I canpractise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear tosee you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance whichis due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there isa period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: andanother, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighsdown the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearlyimpossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you arewilling to avoid it.'
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she,and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthyof being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection,and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep withoutinterruption, and then began to talk on common topics.
The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany hadintroduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in theirwanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts ofthe woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinionof mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them;he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for theirweaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had oftenpressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted theinvitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering theparlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to havesoftened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubertunhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was inmanners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with hisfriends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minuteattention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look thataccompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by MadameCheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, andnow resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse betweenthem had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were notwanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at onceto the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but sheassured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised thevirtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to beconsolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert wastranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned thediscourse upon another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give wayto grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spotwhich his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wifehad sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it graduallysoftened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantmentthat bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind wasthe visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of aninteresting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit nolonger, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her withhim to Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternaldomain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, theturreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passedsince he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man whoneither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whoselofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholyshade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every featureof the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appearedsuccessively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, thearched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dryfosse which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the greatgate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into thegothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of thefamily. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams thatcrossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used tostretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansionloved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, andthe song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; eventhe benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavywalls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeareddenoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons.and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and,after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten thatthey ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity
without assumingimportance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactlyknowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with himalone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that alarge party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled tohear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent thefestivity of the present hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixedemotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel,which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, thatMadame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily,and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle wouldbe prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conductwhich would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who nowshowed so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, ofwhom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a manabout forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly andexpressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of thehaughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of anyother character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior indignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior ininsinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met herfather--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look sovery ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholysmile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made hernow fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and thevaried conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in astyle of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been lessoppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, andhe spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probableconsequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, ofthe politics of his country; praised the government and prosperityof Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the otherItalian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the sameeloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners;and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is soparticularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detectedby those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producingsubmissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he coulddisengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimesaddressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisianoperas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed adecided contrast to those of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the oldchesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under itsshade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw hereand there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and eventsof his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures andcharacters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felthimself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily forhis heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till thesuccession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he startedaway, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; butshe considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spokeso eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause ofgrief which he concealed from her.
On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she morethan ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever shehad been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;now, all was silent and forsaken.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after weekpassed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshnessof her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which thefeeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visiblydeclined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him,was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had neverrecovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shockit received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its presentinfirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it wasperceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they hadbeen by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable,would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--apurpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emilyseldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or shewould now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have representedthat his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eveof their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis,and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she wasextremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so.'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensiveexcursion.'
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores ofthe Mediterranean, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock hadstruck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some ofher drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in theparlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father'sroom, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in hisstudy--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequentlyhis custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose hismind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but withoutfinding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door,and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he wasthere.
The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glassthat were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed herfather to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so latean hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but,considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to thecloset. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at asmall table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading withdeep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbedaloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father wasill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know thesubject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presentlyhe knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen himassume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, thatpartook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silentlyfor a considerable time.
When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily washastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and shestopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence aminiature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and sheperceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to hislips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emilycould scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till nowthat he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much lessthat he had one which he evidently valued so hig
hly; but having lookedrepeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St.Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that ofsome other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softlywithdrew from the chamber.