Chapter III (3)

Mad. de Mouravieff, my old Russian friend, has been here, and passed most of the evening: her news is, that the German Countess who stole Demidoff’s diadem is to be tried to-day, and ’tis thought she will have her head shaved by the _bourreau_, and be imprisoned two years. Divoff’s gaming-table, where she played high, is supposed to be the source of her crime. Mad. Mouravieff has brought her seven children here; and she told me that when my old Baron heard she had that number, he said, ‘_Ah, fi, c’est bien bourgeois._’ Think of the Divoffs ruining themselves solely by her _toilette_, for neither had any other expense that their fortune could not easily support. You may see, by the style of my _news_, that I have passed the evening in a female _tête-à-tête_.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Paris, Feb. 23, 1806.

You will wonder at seeing me date again from Paris, which can have no attraction for me at present; an English person being, equally from choice and necessity, separated from all French society, and there not being any straggling English left with whom I have the least acquaintance. Lady ——’s house was a great resource to me when I was last here, as she was always at home, and to a very pleasant society; but she obtained a passport for England about five months ago. I hear, however, she soon intends returning. At present our hopes are very sanguine for peace. I am just at this instant returned from seeing the image of war, or at least a preparation for it, in the Emperor’s parade, which is now a finer sight than when you saw it, as the houses then in the Carrousel, opposite to the Tuileries, have been pulled down, and the _emplacement_ made regular and greatly increased. This gives for the parade a most beautiful _locale_; and you know what effect scenery has upon every similar exhibition.

My business at Paris has been the old work of trying to get a passport on _parole_ for Mr. Trench’s going to Ireland; or else permission for him to live here in the capital, instead of being confined to a miserable country town. I have little hope of success; but, like the spider, as soon as one of my webs is destroyed, I set about spinning another with undiminished activity.

I wish I could send you some of the many useful and pleasant objects of literature, taste, and _agrément_ with which Paris abounds; but I can find no one who will take the smallest parcel to England. Indeed, at present I know no person going. I am therefore reduced to sending you a dry and vulgar hundred pounds, with which I beg you will buy something pretty, and fancy it is your mother’s choice.

I am delighted to find you have acquired such facility in writing, as I perceive in your letters, and that you take such pains to form your style. I believe there is no trouble more fully and frequently repaid, no expense of time which brings such immense interest in worldly profit and pleasure.

TO RICHARD TRENCH, ESQ.

Paris, Feb. 24, 1806.

Antoine procured us the best places possible to see the parade: a window, _au premier_, in apparently a private house, opposite the Tuileries, where there were none but what seemed very good company, and where Fred was extremely admired. He interests every creature who sees him. There are people who in youth have that gift, which I look at as separate and independent of every other merit, charm, or advantage; and it certainly contributes highly to happiness, and facilitates everything. I fancy it was that which Venus breathed over Æneas, or Ascanius—I forget which of them—in the _Æneid_; for I can never bring myself to think it was mere personal grace, which one supposes the descendants of the goddess must have possessed naturally, and which is too material a thing for the refined Virgil to have had only in his thoughts. I stayed with him there from before twelve till past four, _dévorée d’ennui_, except as I received pleasure from his: and, by the bye, it is a species of complaisance I never had for any other human being; for though I _think_ I am complaisant (perhaps I am very much mistaken, like many others whom I have known entertain the same opinion of themselves, to which opinion they never made a convert), it is certainly not in that way, nor ever was; in spite of the lectures both of Baron Bretueil, and of another, whose judgment I more respected; who each of them used to tell me that in order to be a _distingué_ person in any line, one must learn to bear _ennui_, and so conceal it under smiles. For the first time I saw, in the same room with him, a pair of eyes which rivalled his, belonging to a little nice interesting girl about eight years old. Hers were much darker, of the Indian, Portuguese, and Jew black, with jet eyebrows much pencilled and immense eyelashes. After due deliberation I gave his the preference, as more susceptible of variety of expression, and equally capable of mirth as of melancholy, whereas the jet kind can only mark the soft and serious passions.

* * * * *

I possess no continuous journal of my Mother’s during her
constrained residence in France, though I believe she kept one.
I have not found more than a few entries, made in a volume
by themselves, and all referring to the death of the eldest
child of her second marriage, mentioned more than once in the
foregoing letters—then, indeed, its only child; for a daughter,
subsequently born, had only lived a few days. The impression
which this loss made, as will be seen by the many subsequent
allusions to it, was profound and lasting.

TO CHARLES MANNERS ST. GEORGE, ESQ.

Orleans, June 12, 1806.

... You will not wonder that I cannot write more fully at present, when you hear that Heaven has been pleased to take from me, not many days ago, my lovely and doted on child. I will not _attrister_ you with any account of the circumstances, _all_ of which were calculated to deepen my anguish. I will only tell you the blow was the more unexpected, as till his last illness his health and strength were equal to his beauty; while his grace, sprightliness, and intelligence, made him appear as if expressly sent from Heaven to be the solace of our captivity. The loss of my infant daughter, which seemed heavy at the time, shrinks into nothing when compared with this. She was merely a little bud; he was a lovely blossom which had safely passed all the earliest dangers, and gave clearest promise of delicious fruit. God bless you; I hope you will be more fortunate than your poor mother, and never know from experience the pain she has now three times endured.

* * * * *

_June 24, 1806._—My Frederick’s sufferings are over with respect to himself, but they still exist in my bosom. _I_ still feel and lament them. I consider that my sins have been visited upon him, and that I was the author of them all. Oh, my child, my child! your fever, your cough, your difficulty of breathing, the nauseous draughts that were forced upon you, your restlessness, your blindness, your blisters, your torments—how has my hard heart survived them all? When those beautiful eyes from whence a stream of light and pleasure ever flowed into my bosom grew dim and closed—when those lovely hands _felt_ for the little refreshments you could be prevailed on to take, and which you could no longer _see_—when that voice once so strong and sweet, grew too feeble to make its wants and wishes known—and when, finally, the last breath forsook those lips from whence had flowed music and perfume—when I saw you cold and motionless before me, how came it my heart did not break at once? You are now forgot, or nearly so, by all but me. Your beauty so vaunted, your intelligence so admired, your goodness of heart, your generosity, your strong affection, all are as if they had never existed. Yet, perhaps, you do not sleep; perhaps your spirit, though yet disunited from your body, awaits its union with consciousness and enjoyment, every stain of original sin effaced by the merits of our Redeemer; perhaps you are permitted to protect and watch over me, to detach me from this vain world, and guide me to that which you inhabit—‘_Là-haut, là-haut, là-haut._’

* * * * *

_June 26._—‘Il devroit y avoir dans le cœur des sources inépuisables de douleurs pour de certaines pertes. Ce n’est guère par vertu ou par force d’esprit qu’on sort d’une grande affliction. L’on pleure amèrement, et l’on est sensiblement touché; mais l’on est ensuite si foible ou si léger, qu’on se console.’—_La Bruyère._

I believe this applies to every loss but that of a lovely and beloved child, who is not only the flower of one’s present path, but the object of one’s future hopes, and in whom one sees an ever-widening perspective of happiness. But Bruyère was not a mother. He who _formed_ the human heart speaks on such an occasion, of ‘lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and _would not be comforted, because they are not_.’ No _man_, no father, however affectionate, can conceive a mother’s grief; this I always believed, and am now convinced of.

* * * * *

_Aug. 12._—I now view the whole creation expanding into the full bloom and ripeness I had promised to show him, and had anticipated his seeing and enjoying. The fruits hang on those trees, whose blossoms I exultingly compared with his complexion, whose perfume I traced in his sweeter breath. All nature is bright, vivid, animated; he pale, cold, and silent, ‘in his narrow cell for ever laid,’ and with him, his mother’s highest joy and fairest hopes. The gay perspective of that happiness he was born to receive and to impart, has melted ‘into air, into thin air.’ A fine prospect now reminds me that he who took such early delight in the beauties of nature is no longer here to give me a reflected pleasure, stronger than what I have ever felt from immediate gratification. His quick sensibility gave me every hope that my inventive fondness would make the happy days of infancy still happier; and all the visions I had formed on that exhaustless subject, now recur to increase my regrets by the unceasing comparison of the future I had painted with the dark and sad reality.

Let none think themselves truly miserable till they have seen the last moments of the object they have best loved on earth; and if that object were not their child, let them still own themselves far, far from a mother’s anguish; and if that child were not lovely, promising, full of sensibility, affection, and intelligence—if it has not boasted such a flow of health and spirits as set all apprehension at defiance—if they do not accuse themselves of errors and deficiencies in that care which might have preserved it—if they have not seen it suffer under torments inflicted by the hand of man—if they have not been an agent in its sufferings, through vain and dubious hopes of cure, then is theirs a bed of roses when compared to mine.

* * * * *

_Sept. 1._—I received this day my passport for England, and my husband his, giving him permission to accompany me as far as Brussels. Four months ago this would have made me happy. Now it is too late. But why such poignant regrets for anything which _can_ occur in this passing world? L’éternité ne tardera point à mettre fin à la scène de la vie, qui lui sert d’introduction. Elle s’avance vers nous comme les flots d’un vaste océan, prêts à engloutir tout ce qui appartient à l’humanité, et à ne laisser subsister que le souvenir de nos vertus, et le repentir de nos fautes.

* * * * *

_Sept. 2._—Je ne sais plus comment marche le temps; il me semble que tout ce qui s’est passé dans mon âme depuis le septième jour de Juin n’a pu avoir lieu dans une espace aussi courte; cependant il est bien vrai, c’est ce jour là que j’ai reçu le dernier soupir de mon enfant. Pourquoi le son de l’airain a-t-il pris quelque chose de si lugubre? Chaque fois qu’il retentit, j’éprouve un frémissement involontaire. Pauvre Frédéric! chaque coup t’éloigne de moi; chaque instant que s’écoule repousse vers le passé l’instant où je te voyais encore; le temps l’éloigne, le dévore; ce n’est plus qu’une ombre fugitive que je ne puis saisir, et ces heures de félicité que je passais près de toi sont déjà englouties par le néant! Les jours vont se succéder, l’ordre général ne sera plus interrompu; et pourtant tu seras loin d’ici. Le printemps reparaîtra sans toi, et mes tristes yeux ouverts sur l’univers n’y verront plus la beauté ravissante de mon enfant. Quel désert! Je me perds dans une immensité sans rivage; je suis accablée de l’éternité de la vie; c’est en vain que je me débats pour échapper à moi-même, je succombe sous le poids d’une heure, et pour aiguiser mon mal la pensée, comme un vautour déchirant, vient m’entourer de toutes celles qui me sont encore réservées. Lorsque je veux fixer ma pensée sur l’idée que _jamais_ je ne le reverrai, un instinct confus la repousse; il me semble quand la nuit m’environne, et que le sommeil pèse sur l’univers, que peut-être sa perte aussi n’est qu’un songe. Mais je ne puis m’abuser longtemps; il est trop vrai—Frédéric n’est plus; sa main glacée est restée sans mouvement dans la mienne; son beau corps est devenu pâle, froid, immobile; et un silence profond, éternel, a succédé à cette respiration entrecoupée et difficile, que j’avais seule écoutée dans le monde pendant son effroyable maladie. La mort et mon Frédéric! non, il m’est impossible d’unir ces deux idées! N’était-il pas la vivacité, la force, la jeunesse en sa fleur, la beauté même? N’avait il pas une surabondance de ce principe vivifiant que nous appelons la vie? Ne semblait-il pas, qu’être près de lui, c’était être en sûreté? et l’embrasser, n’était ce pas embrasser la perfection elle-même. Quand j’ai visité pour la première fois la chambre qui a été sa dernière demeure, quelle vide! quel silence! Je l’ai quittée; j’y suis revenue; je l’ai quittée encore; j’ai erré dans la maison pour me sauver de moi-même. Often in that room, I involuntarily turn towards the glass which reflected his last looks, and expect to find some outline, some trace, some shade of him.

‘But he is gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must consecrate his relics.’

What relics? one poor, solitary lock of shining hair; the little, simple clothes that he embellished; not a picture, not an image of that loveliness unparalleled!

* * * * *

The following lines, ‘On being pressed to go to a Masqued Ball
not many months after the Death of my Child,’ belong evidently
to this time:—

Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train,
With faltering step and faded brow;
She such a votary would disdain,
And such a homage disavow.

But art thou sure the goddess leads
Yon motley group that onward press?
Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,
Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.

When last I saw _her_ smile serene,
And spread her soft enchantments wide,
My lovely child adorned the scene,
And sported by the flowing tide.

The fairest shells for me to seek,
Intent the little wanderer strayed;
The rose that blossomed on his cheek
Still deepening as the breezes played.

Exulting in his form and face,
Through the bright veil that beauty wove
How did my heart delight to trace
A soul—all harmony and love!

Fair as the dreams by fancy given,
A model of unearthly grace;
Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven,
He seemed to seek his native place.

More lovely than the morning ray,
His brilliant form of life and light
Through strange gradations of decay
In sad succession shocked my sight.

And since that agonizing hour,
That sowed the seed of mourning years,
Beauty has lost its cheering power,
I see it through a mother’s tears.

Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast,
And all the dear illusion o’er;
A few dark days of terror past,
And Joy and Frederick bloom no more.