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Paul and Virginia from the French of J.B.H. de Saint Pierre
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_Paul and Virginia. p.29._]
PAUL AND VIRGINIA,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
J.B.H. DE SAINT PIERRE.
1851
PREFACE.
The following translation of "Paul and Virginia," was written at Paris,amidst the horrors of Robespierre's tyranny. During that gloomy epocha itwas difficult to find occupations which might cheat the days of calamity oftheir weary length. Society had vanished; and amidst the minute vexationsof Jacobinical despotism, which, while it murdered in _mass_, persecuted indetail, the resources of writing, and even reading, were encompassed withdanger. The researches of domiciliary visits had already compelled me tocommit to the flames a manuscript volume, where I had traced the politicalscenes of which I had been a witness, with the colouring of their firstimpressions on my mind, with those fresh tints that fade from recollection;and since my pen, accustomed to follow the impulse of my feelings, couldonly have drawn, at that fatal period, those images of desolation anddespair which haunted my imagination, and dwelt upon my heart, writing wasforbidden employment. Even reading had its perils; for books had sometimesaristocratical insignia, and sometimes counter revolutionary allusions; andwhen the administrators of police happened to think the writer aconspirator, they punished the reader as his accomplice.
In this situation I gave myself the task of employing a few hours every dayin translating the charming little novel of Bernardin St. Pierre, entitled"Paul and Virginia;" and I found the most soothing relief in wandering frommy own gloomy reflections to those enchanting scenes of the Mauritius,which he has so admirably described. I also composed a few Sonnets adaptedto the peculiar productions of that part of the globe, which areinterspersed in the work. Some, indeed, are lost, as well as a part of thetranslation, which I have since supplied, having been sent to theMunicipality of Paris, in order to be examined as English papers; wherethey still remain, mingled with revolutionary placards, motions, andharangues; and are not likely to be restored to my possession.
With respect to the translation, I can only hope to deserve the humblemerit of not having deformed the beauty of the original. I have, indeed,taken one liberty with my author, which it is fit I should acknowledge,that of omitting several pages of general observations, which, howeverexcellent in themselves, would be passed over with impatience by theEnglish reader, when they interrupt the pathetic narrative. In thisrespect, the two nations seem to change characters; and while the seriousand reflecting Englishman requires, in novel writing, as well as on thetheatre, a rapid succession of incidents, much bustle and stage effect,without suffering the author to appear himself, and stop the progress ofthe story; the gay and restless Frenchman listens attentively to longphilosophical reflections, while the catastrophe of the drama hangs insuspense.
My last poetical productions (the Sonnets which are interspersed in thiswork) may perhaps be found even more imperfect than my earliercompositions; since, after a long exile from England, I can scarcelyflatter myself that my ear is become more attuned to the harmony of alanguage, with the sounds of which it is seldom gladdened; or that mypoetical taste is improved by living in a country where arts have givenplace to arms. But the public will, perhaps, receive with indulgence a workwritten under such peculiar circumstances; not composed in the calm ofliterary leisure, or in pursuit of literary fame, but amidst the turbulenceof the most cruel sensations, and in order to escape awhile fromoverwhelming misery.
H.M.W.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA.
On the eastern coast of the mountain which rises above Port Louis in theMauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former cultivation,are seen the ruins of two small cottages. Those ruins are situated near thecentre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens only towardsthe north. On the left rises the mountain, called the Height of Discovery,from whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches the vergeof the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel approaches theisland. At the foot of this mountain stands the town of Port Louis. On theright is formed the road, which stretches from Port Louis to the ShaddockGrove, where the church, bearing that name, lifts its head, surrounded byits avenues of bamboo, in the midst of a spacious plain; and the prospectterminates in a forest extending to the furthest bounds of the island. Thefront view presents the bay, denominated the Bay of the Tomb: a little onthe right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and beyond rolls the expandedocean, on the surface of which appear a few uninhabited islands, and, amongothers, the Point of Endeavour, which resembles a bastion built upon theflood.
At the entrance of the valley which presents those various objects, theechoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the windsthat shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of thewaves which break at a distance upon the cliffs. But near the ruinedcottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet theeye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. Largeclumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even ontheir majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. The showers, whichtheir bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow ontheir green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the littleriver which flows at their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms.
Within this enclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters, theair, all the elements are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat thewhispers of the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points ofwhich are gently balanced by the winds. A soft light illuminates the bottomof this deep valley, on which the sun only shines at noon. But even atbreak of day the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and thesharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints ofgold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky.
To this scene I loved to resort, where I might enjoy at once the richnessof the extensive landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted solitude. Oneday, when I was seated at the foot of the cottages, and contemplating theirruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot. He was dressed inthe ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and he leaned upon astaff of ebony: his hair was white, and the expression of his countenancewas dignified and interesting. I bowed to him with respect; he returned thesalutation: and, after looking at me with some earnestness, came and placedhimself upon the hillock where I was seated. Encouraged by this mark ofconfidence, I thus addressed him:--
"Father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?" "My son,"replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that unfilled land, were,twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found happiness inthis solitude. Their history is affecting; but what European, pursuing hisway to the Indies, will pause one moment to interest himself in the fate ofa few obscure individuals? What European can picture happiness to hisimagination amidst poverty and neglect? The curiosity of mankind is onlyattracted by the history of the great; and yet from that knowledge littleuse can be derived." "Father," I rejoined, "from your manners and yourobservations, I perceive that you have acquired much experience of humanlife. If you have leisure, relate to me, I beseech you, the history of theancient inhabitants of this desert; and be assured, that even the men whoare most perverted by the prejudices of the world, find a soothing pleasurein contemplating that happiness which belongs to simplicity and virtue."The old man, after a short silence, during which he leaned his face uponhis hands, as if he were trying to recall the images of the past, thus beganhis narration:--