AN ICE-HILL PARTY IN RUSSIA.
The reader, I hope, will have no objection to quit his comfortable fire-side, put on his furs, and accompany me to a sledge, or ice-hill party.
An army of about ten or fifteen sledges start from a house where all the party assemble, the gentlemen driving themselves, and each family taking some provisions with them. After about an hour and three-quarters' drive, the whole caravan arrives at the house of a starosto (president) of the work-people employed by the foreign commercial houses in Russia. The starosto is usually a wealthy man, and mostly looked up to by his neighbors, as he has by some most extraordinary means acquired some few townish manners, which suit his country appearance as much as glazed boots, and a polka tie would suit the true English country farmer.
After having warmed themselves before a good hot Russian stove, the party begin operations by getting the sledges ready, and ascending the ice-hills. The hills are made of a wooden scaffold, covered with huge bits of ice, all of an equal size, placed side-by-side, so as to fit closely together. By being constantly watered, they gradually become one solid mass, as smooth as a mirror. The hill, which usually is of a considerable height, and rather sloping, ends in a long, narrow plain of ice called the run, which is just broad enough for three narrow sledges to pass each other, and long enough to carry you to the foot of a second hill.
The sledges are usually of iron, long and narrow, and covered by cushions, often embroidered by the fair hand of a lady. They are low, and so constructed that they can hold one or two persons, as the case may be. Both the run and the hill are bordered by fir trees on each side, and on such evening parties are illuminated with Chinese lamps placed between the branches of the trees. Fancy yourself on the top of the hill looking down this illuminated avenue of firs, which is reflected in the mirror of the ice, as if determining to outshine the lights in the clear sky, and the gay laughing crowds moving up and down the hills, and you have before you the finest and most perfect picture of sorrowless enjoyment, as a striking contrast to the lifeless nature surrounding it. The briskness of the movement, and the many accidents happening to the clumsy members of the party, keep up the excitement, while the contest of young men to obtain this or the other lady for their partner on their down-hill journey (not in life), never allows the conversation or the laugh to flag for one moment. I remember once getting into what school-boys would call an awful scrape with one of the ice-hill heroes. We both started together from the second hill on a race, and I, having a faster sledge, overtook him by the length of my conveyance, and arrived at the top of the hill before him. Seeing that the belle of the evening was disengaged, I approached her with all the formality with which the newly-admitted youth requests the queen of a ball-room for the pleasure and honor to dance a polka with her, and asked her to go down. Forgetting a previous appointment with my former antagonist, she accepted my offer, and the latter just arrived in time to see us start from the hill. In his rage he determined to do me some mischief by upsetting my sledge, as soon as he had an opportunity of doing so without any damage to another party. He soon had an occasion, but, unfortunately I had a sledge with a lady before me; passing me, he hit me, and I, hitting against the sledge before me, without being able to avoid it, at the same time getting hold of his legs, upset all three. Luckily, no injury was done, as the whole lot were upset into the snow, to the great enjoyment of all spectators.
Gradually the time to retire approaches. The lamps begin to go out, and the hills, divested of their beauty, appear like the ruins of a magnificent city of olden times. Here and there you see a single lamp peeping out from the branches of the trees, wistfully looking round in search of its brothers, as if it wanted to assure itself of the absence of any other enlightening object.
The party go in to refresh themselves with tea and other warm beverages. The gentlemen wait on the ladies, and a new contest begins, as each tries to surpass the other in politeness and quickness. If it is a supper, you see these youthful and useful members of society running about with plates of sandwiches, or steering along with a cup of bouillon in one and a glass of wine in the other hand, through the intricate passages formed by the numberless tables occupied by members of the fair sex. And then having, after a great deal of danger, at last arrived at their destination, they find the lady they wanted to serve already provided with every necessary comfort; and, perchance, she is so much engaged in conversation with their more fortunate rival, that she can not even give them a grateful smile for their trouble. Now the ladies adjourn, and the field of action is left to the gentlemen. All restraint seems to have gone. The clatter of knives, the jingling of glasses, the hubbub of voices, all this makes such a chaos of strange and mysterious noises, that it has quite a deafening effect. At last a cry of order is heard from the top of the table. One of the directors of the party, after having requested the audience to fill their glasses, in flowery language proposes the health of the ladies, which, of course, is drunk with tremendous applause, manifested by acts, such as beating with the handles of knives and forks on the table, and clapping hands.
After several other toasts, the party adjourn to join the ladies. Merry-making now begins, and an hour or so is passed in social games, such as hunting the slipper, cross-questions, crooked answers, and others. At last, the parties wrap themselves up again in their furs, and prepare to go home. On their homeward tour, one of the finest phenomena in nature may, perchance, appear to them. A streak of light, suddenly appearing on the horizon, shoots like lightning up to the sky. One moment longer, and the whole sky is covered by such streaks, all of different colors amalgamating together, and constantly changing and lighting up the objects as bright as daylight. This is the Aurora Borealis, one of the numerous spectacles of nature, which the common people regard with astonishment, while the cultivated mind finds sermon on the glory of our Maker in every object he meets on his journey through life; looks at it with admiration and reverence.
THE BLIND LOVERS OF CHAMOUNY.[9]
It was during a second visit to the beautiful and melancholy valley of Chamouny that I became acquainted with the following touching and interesting story. A complete change of ideas had become absolutely necessary for me; I sought, therefore, to kindle those emotions which must ever be awakened by the sublime scenes of Nature; my wearied heart required fresh excitement to divert it from the grief which was devouring it; and the melancholy grandeur of Chamouny seemed to present a singular charm to my then peculiar frame of mind.
Again I wandered through the graceful forest of fir-trees, which surrounds the Village des Bois, and, this time, with a new kind of pleasure; once more I beheld that little plain upon which the glaciers every now and then make an in-road, above which the peaks of the Alps rise so majestically, and which slopes so gently down to the picturesque source of the Arveyron. How I enjoyed gazing upon its portico of azure crystal, which every year wears a new aspect. On one occasion, when I reached this spot, I had not proceeded very far, when I perceived that Puck, my favorite dog, was not by my side. How could this have happened, for he would not have been induced to leave his master, even for the most dainty morsel? He did not answer to my call, and I began to feel uneasy, when, suddenly, the pretty fellow made his appearance, looking rather shy and uncomfortable, and yet with caressing confidence in my affection; his body was slightly curved, his eyes were humid and beseeching, he carried his head very low—so low, that his ears trailed upon the ground, like those of Zadig's dog; Puck, too, was a spaniel. If you had but seen Puck, in that posture, you would have found it impossible to be angry with him. I did not attempt to scold him, but, nevertheless, he continued to leave me, and return to me again; he repeated this amusement several times; while I followed in his track till I gradually came toward the point of his attraction; it appeared as if a similar kind of sympathy drew me to the same spot.
Upon a projection of a rock sat a young man, with a most touching and pleasing countenance; he was dressed in a sort of blue blouse, in the form of a tunic, and had a long stick of Cytisus in his hand; his whole appearance reminded me strongly of Poussin's antique shepherds. His light hair clustered in thick curls round his uncovered throat, and fell over his shoulders, his features wore an expression of gravity, but not of austerity, and he seemed sad, though not desponding. There was a singular character about his eyes, the effect of which I could scarcely define; they were large and liquid, but their light was quenched, and they were fixed and unfathomable. The murmur of the wind had disguised the sound of my footsteps, and I soon became aware that I was not perceived. At length, I felt sure that the young man was blind. Puck had closely studied the emotions which became visible in my face; but as soon as he discovered that I was kindly disposed toward his new friend, he jumped up to him. The young man stroked Puck's silky coat, and smiled good-naturedly at him.
"How is it that you appear to know me," said he, "for you do not belong to the valley? I once had a dog as full of play as you, and, perhaps, as pretty; but he was a French water-spaniel, with a coat of curly wool; he has left me, like many others—my last friend, my poor Puck."
"How curious! was your dog called Puck, too?"
"Ah, pardon me, sir!" exclaimed the young man, rising, and supporting himself on his stick. "My infirmity must excuse me."
"Pray sit down, my good friend; you are blind, I fear?"
"Yes, blind since my infancy."
"Have you never been able to see?"
"Ah, yes, but for so very short a time! yet, I have some recollection of the sun, and when I lift up my eyes toward the point in the heavens where it should be, I can almost fancy I see a globe, which reminds me of its color. I have, too, a faint remembrance of the whiteness of the snow, and the hue of our mountains."
"Was it an accident which deprived you of your sight?"
"Yes, an accident which was the least of my misfortunes. I was scarcely more than two years old, when an avalanche fell down from the heights of La Flégère, and crushed our little dwelling. My father, who was the guide among these mountains, had spent the evening at the Priory; you can easily picture to yourself his despair when he found his family swallowed up by this horrible scourge. By the aid of his comrades, he succeeded in making a hole in the snow, and was thus able to get into our cottage, the roof which was still supported on its frail props. The first thing which met his eyes was my cradle, he placed this at once in safety, for the danger was rapidly increasing; the work of the miners caused fresh masses of ice to crumble, and served rather to hasten the overthrow of our fragile abode; he pushed forward to save my mother, who had fainted, and he was afterward seen for a moment carrying her in his arms, by the light of the torches which burnt outside; and then all gave way. I was an orphan, and the next day it was discovered that my sight had been destroyed."
"Poor child! so you were left alone in the world, quite alone!"
"In our valley, a person visited by misfortune is never quite alone, all our good Chamouniers united in endeavoring to relieve my wretchedness; Balmat give me shelter, Simon Coutet afforded me food, Gabriel Payot clothed me; and a good widow who had lost her children, undertook the care of me. She still performs a mother's part to me, and guides me to this spot every day in summer."
"And are these all the friends you have?"
"I have had more," said the young man, while he placed his finger on his lip in a mysterious manner; "but they are gone."
"Will they never come back again?"
"I should think not, from appearances; yet a few days ago I imagined that Puck would return, that he had only strayed, but nobody strays among our glaciers with impunity. I shall never feel him bound again at my side, or hear him bark at the approach of travelers," and he brushed away a tear.
"What is your name?"
"Gervais."
"Listen, Gervais; you must tell me about these friends whom you have lost;" at the same time I prepared to seat myself by his side, but he sprang up eagerly, and took possession of the vacant place.
"Not here, not here, sir; this is Eulalie's seat, and since her departure nobody has occupied it."
"Eulalie," replied I, seating myself in the place from which he had just risen; "tell me about Eulalie, and yourself; your story interests me."
Gervais proceeded:
"I explained to you that my life had not been devoid of happiness, for Heaven compensates bountifully to those in misfortune, by inspiring good people with pity for their wretchedness. I lived in happy ignorance of the extent of my deprivation; suddenly, however, a stranger came to reside in the village des Bois, and formed the topic of conversation in our valley. He was only known by the name of M. Robert, but the general opinion was, that he was a person of distinction, who had met with great losses, and much sorrow, and consequently had resolved to pass his latter years in perfect solitude. He was said to have lost a wife, to whom he was tenderly attached; the result of their union, a little girl, had occasioned him much grief, for she was born blind. While the father was held up as a model for his virtues, the goodness and charms of his daughter were equally extolled. My want of sight prevented me from judging of her beauty, but could I have beheld her she could not have left a more lovely impression on my mind. I picture her to myself sometimes as even more interesting than my mother."
"She is dead, then?" inquired I.
"Dead!" replied he, in an accent in which there was a strange mixture of terror and wild joy! "dead! who told you so?"
"Pardon me, Gervais, I did not know her; I was only endeavoring to find out the reason of your separation."
"She is alive," said he, smiling bitterly, and he remained silent for a moment. "I do not know whether I told you that she was called Eulalie. Yes, her name was Eulalie, and this was her place;" he broke off abruptly. "Eulalie," repeated he, while he stretched out his hand as if to find her by his side. Puck licked his fingers, and looked pityingly at him: I would not have parted from Puck for a million.
"Calm yourself, Gervais, and forgive me for opening a wound which is scarcely yet healed. I can guess the rest of your story. The strange similarity of Eulalie's and your misfortune awakened her father's interest in you, and you became another child to him."
"Yes, I became another child to him, and Eulalie was a sister to me; my kind adopted mother and I went to take up our abode in the new house, which is called the Chateau. Eulalie's masters were mine; together we learned those divine strains of harmony which raise the soul to heaven, and together, by means of pages printed in relief, we read with our fingers the sublime thoughts of the philosophers, and the beautiful creations of the poets. I endeavored to imitate some of their graceful images, and to paint what I had not seen. Eulalie admired my verses, and this was all I desired. Ah! if you had heard her sing, you would have thought that an angel had descended to entrance the valley. Every day in the fine season we were conducted to this rock, which is called by the inhabitants of this part 'le Rocher des Aveugles;' here too the kindest of fathers guided our steps, and bestowed on us numberless fond attentions. Around us were tufts of rhododendrons, beneath us was a carpet of violets and daisies, and when our touch had recognized, by its short stalk and its velvety disk, the last-named flower, we amused ourselves in stripping it of its petals, and repeated a hundred times this innocent diversion, which served as a kind of interpretation to our first avowal of love."
As Gervais proceeded, his face acquired a mournful expression, a cloud passed over his brow, and he became suddenly sad and silent; in his emotion he trod unthinkingly upon an Alpine rose, which was, however, already withered on its stalk; I gathered it without his being aware of it, for I wished to preserve it in remembrance of him. Some minutes elapsed before Gervais seemed inclined to proceed with his narrative, and I did not like to speak to him; suddenly he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to drive away a disagreeable dream, and then turning toward me with an ingenuous smile, he continued.
"Be charitable to my weakness, for I am young, and have not yet learned to control the emotions of my heart; some day, perhaps, I shall be wiser."
"I fear, my good friend," said I, "that this conversation is too fatiguing for you; do not recall to your mind circumstances which appear so painful. I shall never forgive myself for occasioning you such an hour of grief."
"It is not you," replied Gervais, "who bring back these recollections, for these thoughts are never absent from my mind, and I would rather that it was annihilated than that they should ever cease to occupy it; my very existence is mixed up with my sorrow." I had retained Gervais's hand; he understood, therefore, that I was listening to him.
"After all, my reminiscences are not entirely made up of bitterness; sometimes I imagine that my present affliction is only a dream—that my real life is full of the happiness which I have lost. I fancy that she is still near me, only, perhaps, a little further off than usual—that she is silent because she is plunged in deep meditation, of which our mutual love forms a principal part. One day we were seated as usual on this rock, and were enjoying the sweetness and serenity of the air, the perfume of our violets, and the song of the birds; upon this occasion we listened with a curious kind of pleasure to the masses of ice which, being loosened by the sun, shot hissingly down from the peaks of the mountain. We could distinguish the rushing of the waters of the Arveyron. I do not know how it was, but we were both suddenly impressed with a vague sensation of the uncertainty of happiness, and at the same time with a feeling of terror and uneasiness; we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and held each other tightly, as if somebody had wished to separate us, and both of us exclaimed eagerly, 'Ah, yes! let it be always thus, always thus.' I felt that Eulalie scarcely breathed, and that her overwrought state of mind required to be soothed. 'Yes, Eulalie, let us ever be thus to one another; the world believes that our misfortune renders us objects only of pity, but how can it possibly judge of the happiness that I enjoy in your tenderness, or that you find in mine? How little does the turmoil and excitement of society affect us; we may be regarded by many as imperfect beings, and this is quite natural, for they have not yet discovered that the perfection of happiness consists in loving and in being loved. It is not your beauty which has captivated me, it is something which can not be described when felt, nor forgotten when once experienced; it is a charm which belongs to you alone—which I can discover in your voice, in your mind, in every one of your actions. Oh! if ever I enjoyed sight, I would entreat God to extinguish the light of my eyes in order that I might not gaze at other women—that my thoughts might only dwell upon you. It is you who have rendered study pleasing to me—who have inspired me with taste for art; if the beauties of Rossini and Weber impressed me strongly, it was because you sang their glorious ideas. I can well afford to dispense with the superfluous luxuries of art, I who possess the treasure from which it would derive its highest price; for surely thy heart is mine, if not thou couldst not be happy.'
"'I am happy,' replied Eulalie, 'the happiest of girls.'
"'My dear children,' said M. Robert, while he joined our trembling hands, 'I hope you will always be equally happy, for it is my desire that you should never be separated.'
"M. Robert was never long absent from us, he was ever bestowing upon us marks of his tenderness. Upon this occasion he had reached the spot where we were seated without our having been aware of his presence, and he had heard us without intentionally listening. I did not feel that I was in fault, and yet I was overwhelmed, embarrassed. Eulalie trembled. M. Robert placed himself between us, for we had withdrawn a little from each other.
"'Why should it not be as you wish?' said he, as he threw his arms around us, and pressed us close together, and embraced us with more than usual warmth. 'Why not? Am I not sufficiently rich to procure you servants and friends? You will have children who will replace your poor old father; your infirmity is not hereditary. Receive my blessing, Gervais, and you, my Eulalie. Thank God, and dream of to-morrow, for the day which will shine upon us to-morrow will be beautiful even to the blind.'
"Eulalie embraced her father, and then threw her arms round me; for the first time my lips touched hers. This happiness was too great to be called happiness. I thought that my heart would burst; I wished to die at that moment, but, alas! I did not die. I do not know how happiness affects others, but mine was imperfect, for it was without hope or calmness. I could not sleep, or rather I did not attempt to sleep, for it seemed to me a waste of time, and that eternity would not be sufficiently long to enjoy the felicity which was in store for me; I almost regretted the past, which, though it lacked the delicious intoxication of the present moment, was yet free from doubts and fears. At length I heard the household stirring; I got up, dressed myself, performed my morning devotions, and then went to my window, which looked out upon the Arve. I opened it, stretched forth my head in the morning mists to cool my burning brow. Suddenly my door opened, and I recognized a man's footstep; it was not M. Robert; a hand took hold of mine—'M. Maunoir!' exclaimed I.
"It was a great many years since he had been to the Valley; but the sound of his footstep, the touch of his hand, and something frank and affectionate in his manner, brought him back to my remembrance.
"'It is indeed he,' observed M. Maunoir, in a faltering voice, to some one near him, 'It is indeed my poor Gervais. You remember what I said to you about it at that time.' He then placed his fingers on my eyelids, and kept them up for a few seconds. 'Ah,' said he, 'God's will be done! You are happy at any rate, are you not Gervais?'
"'Yes, very happy,' replied I. 'M. Robert considers that I have profited by all his kindness; I assure you I can read as well as a person who is gifted with sight; above all, Eulalie loves me.'
"'She will love you, if possible, still more if she should one day be able to see you.'
"'If she sees me, did you say?'
"I thought he alluded to that eternal home where the eyes of the blind are opened, and darkness visits them no more.
"My mother, as was her custom, brought me here, but Eulalie had not arrived; she was later than usual. I began to wonder how this could have happened. My poor little Puck went to meet her, but he returned to me again without her. At length he began to bark violently, and to jump so impatiently up and down on the bench, that I felt sure she must be near me, though I could not hear her myself. I stretched myself forward in the direction she would come, and presently my arms were clasped in hers. M. Robert had not accompanied her as usual, and then I began at once to feel sure that his absence, and Eulalie's delay in reaching our accustomed place of rendezvous, was to be attributed to the presence of strangers at the Chateau. You will think it very extraordinary when I tell you that Eulalie's arrival, for which I had so ardently longed, filled me with a restless sensation, which had hitherto been unknown to me. I was not at ease with Eulalie as I had been the day before. Now that we belonged to each other, I did not dare to make any claim on her kindness; it seemed to me that her father, in bestowing her on me had imposed a thousand restrictions; I felt as if I might not indulge in a word or caress; I was conscious that she was more than ever mine, and yet I did not venture to embrace her. Perhaps she experienced the same feelings, for our conversation was at first restrained, like that of persons who are not much acquainted with each other; however, this state of things could not last long, the delicious happiness of the past day was still fresh in our minds. I drew near to Eulalie, and sought her eyes with my lips, but they met a bandage.
"'You are hurt, Eulalie?'
"'A little hurt,' replied she, 'but very slightly, since I am going to spend the day with you, as I am in the habit of doing; and that the only difference is, that there is a green ribbon between your mouth and my eyes.'
"'Green! green! Oh, God! what does that mean? What is a green ribbon?'
"'I have seen,' said she, 'I can see,' and her hand trembled in mine, as if she had apprised me of some fault or misfortune.
"'You have seen,' exclaimed I, 'you will see! Oh! unfortunate creature that I am! Yes, you will see, and the glass which has hitherto been to you a cold and polished surface, will reflect your living image; its language, though mute, will be animated; it will tell you each day that you are beautiful! and when you return to me it will make you entertain only one feeling toward me, that of pity for my misfortunes. Yet what do I say? you will not return to me; for who is the beautiful girl who would bestow her affection on a blind lover? Oh! unfortunate creature that I am to be blind;' in my despair I fell to the earth; she wound her arms round me, twined her fingers in my hair, and covered me with kisses, while she sobbed like a child.
"'No, no! I will never love any one but Gervais. You were happy yesterday, in thinking we were blind, because our love would never be likely to change. I will be blind again, if my recovery of sight makes you unhappy. Shall I remove this bandage, and cause the light of my eyes to be for ever extinguished? Horrible idea, I had actually thought of it.'
"'Stop, stop,' cried I, 'our language is that of madness, because we are both unnerved and ill—you from excess of happiness, and I from despair. Listen,' and I placed myself beside her, but my heart felt ready to break. 'Listen,' continued I, 'it is a great blessing that you are permitted to see, for now you are perfect; it matters not, if I do not see, or if I die; I shall be abandoned, for this is the destiny which God has reserved for me; but promise me that you will never see me, that you will never attempt to see me; if you see me, you will, in spite of yourself, compare me to others—to those whose soul, whose thoughts may be read in their eyes, to those who set a woman fondly dreaming with a single glance of fire. I would not let it be in your power to compare me; I would be to you what I was in the mind of a little blind girl, as if you saw me in a dream. I want you to promise me that you will never come here without your green bandage; that you will visit me every week, or every month, or at least once every year;—ah! promise me to come back once more, without seeing me.'
"'I promise to love you always,' said Eulalie, and she wept.
"I was so overcome that my senses left me, and I fell at her feet. M. Robert lifted me from the ground, bestowed many kind words and embraces upon me, and placed me under the care of my adopted mother. Eulalie was no longer there; she came the next day, and the day after, and several days following, and each day my lips touched the green bandage which kept up my delusion; I fancied I should continue to be the same to her as long as she did not see me. I said to myself with an insane kind of rapture, 'my Eulalie still visits me without seeing me; she will never see me, and therefore I shall be always loved by her.' One day, a little while after this, when she came to visit me, and my lips sought her eyes as usual, they, in wandering about, encountered some long, silky eye-lashes beneath her green bandage.
"'Ah!' exclaimed I, 'if you were likely to see me.'
"'I have seen you,' said she, laughingly; 'what would have been the good of sight to me, if I had not looked upon you? Ah! vain fellow, who dares set limits to a woman's curiosity, whose eyes are suddenly opened to the light?'
"'But it is impossible, Eulalie, for you promised me.'
"'I did not promise you any thing, dearest, for when you asked me to make you this promise, I had already seen you.'
"'You had seen me, and yet you continued to come to me; that is well; but whom did you see first?'
"'M. Maunoir, my father, Julie, then this great world, with its trees and mountains, the sky and the sun.'
"'And whom have you seen since?'
"'Gabriel Payot, old Balmat, the good Terraz, the giant Cachat, and Marguerite.'
"'And nobody else?'
"'Nobody.'
"'How balmy the air is this evening! take off your bandage, or you may become blind again?'
"'Would that grieve me so much? I tell you again and again, that the chief happiness I have in seeing, is to be able to look at you, and to love you through the medium of another sense. You were pictured in my soul as you now are in my eyes. This faculty, which has been restored to me, serves but as another link to bring me closer to your heart; and this is why I value the gift of sight.'
"These words I shall never forget. My days now flowed on calmly and happily, for hope so easily seduces; our mode of life was considerably changed, and Eulalie endeavored to make me prefer excitement and variety of amusement, instead of the tranquil enjoyment which had formerly charmed us. After some little time I thought I observed that the books which she selected for reading to me were of a different character to those she used to like; she seemed now to be more pleased with those writers who painted the busy scenes of the world, she unconsciously showed great interest in the description of a fête, in the numerous details of a woman's toilet, and in the preparations for, and the pomps of a ceremony. At first I did not imagine that she had forgotten that I was blind, so that though this change chilled, it did not break my heart. I attributed the alteration in her taste, in some measure, to the new aspect things had assumed at the Chateau; for since M. Maunoir had performed one of the miracles of his art upon Eulalie, M. Robert was naturally much more inclined to enjoy society and the luxuries which fortune had bestowed upon him; and as soon as his daughter was restored to him in all the perfection of her organization, and the height of her beauty, he sought to assemble, at the Chateau, the numerous travelers that the short summer season brought to the neighborhood.
"The winter came at length, and M. Robert told me, after slightly preparing me, that he was going to leave me for a few days—for a few days at the most—he assured me that he only required time to procure and get settled in a house at Geneva, before he would send for me to join them; he told me that Eulalie was to accompany him; and at length, that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva; the winter which would so soon be over, which had already begun. I remained mute with grief. Eulalie wound her arms affectionately round my neck. I felt they were cold and hung heavily on me; if my memory still serves me she bestowed on me all kinds of endearing and touching appellations; but all this was like a dream. After some hours I was restored to my senses, and then my mother said, 'Gervais, they are gone, but we shall remain at the Chateau.' From that time I have little or nothing to relate.
"In the month of October she sent me a ribbon with some words printed in relief, they were these: 'This ribbon is the green ribbon which I wore over my eyes—it has never left me; I send it you.' In the month of November, which was very beautiful, some servants of the house brought me several presents from her father, but I did not inquire about them. The snow sets in in December, and, oh! heavens, how long that winter was! January, February, March, April, were centuries of calamities and tempests. In the month of May the avalanches fell every where except on me. When the sun peeped forth a little, I was guided, by my wish, to the road which led to Bossons, for this was the way the muleteers came; at length, one arrived, but with no news for me; and then another, and after the third I gave up all hope of hearing from my absent friends; I felt that the crisis of my fate was over. Eight days after, however, a letter from Eulalie was read to me; she had spent the winter at Geneva, and was going to pass the summer at Milan. My poor mother trembled for me, but I smiled; it was exactly what I expected. And now, sir, you know my story, it is simply this, that I believed myself loved by a woman, and I have been loved by a dog. Poor Puck!" Puck jumped on the blind man.
"Ah!" said he, "You are not my Puck, but I love you because you love me."
"Poor fellow," cried I, "you will be loved by another, though not by her, and you will love in return; but listen, Gervais, I must leave Chamouny, and I shall go to Milan. I will see her. I will speak to Eulalie, I swear to you, and then I will return to you. I, too, have some sorrows which are not assuaged; some wounds which are not yet healed." Gervais sought for my hand, and pressed it fervently. Sympathy in misfortune is so quickly felt. "You will, at least, be comfortably provided for; thanks to the care of your protector, your little portion of land has become very fruitful, and the good Chamouniers rejoice in your prosperity. Your prepossessing appearance will soon gain you a mistress, and will enable you to find a friend."
"And a dog?" replied Gervais.
"Ah! I would not give mine for your valley or mountains if he had not loved you, but now I give him to you."
"Your dog!" exclaimed he. "Your dog ah! he can not be given away."
"Adieu, Gervais!"
I did not speak to Puck, or he would have followed me; as I was moving on I saw Puck looked uneasy and ashamed; he drew back a step, stretched out his paws, and bent down his head to the ground. I stroked his long silky coat, and with a slight pang at my heart, in which there was no feeling of anger, I said, so. He flew back to Gervais like an arrow. Gervais will not be alone at any rate, thought I.
A few days afterward I found myself at Milan. I was not in spirits for enjoying society, yet I did not altogether avoid mixing in it; a crowded room is, in its way, a vast solitude, unless you are so unfortunate a person as to stumble upon one of those never-tiring tourists whom you are in the habit of meeting occasionally on the Boulevards, at Tortoni's, or with whom you have gaped away an hour at Favert's, one of those dressed-up puppies with fashionable cravat and perfumed hair, who stare through an eye-glass, with the most perfect assurance imaginable, and talk at the highest pitch of their voice.
"What! are you here?" cried Roberville.
"Is it you?" replied I. He continued to chatter, but his words were unheeded by me, for my eyes suddenly fixed upon a young girl of extraordinary beauty; she was sitting alone, and leaning against a pillar in a kind of melancholy reverie.
"Ah! ah!" said Roberville, "I understand; your taste lies in that direction. Well, well, really in my opinion you show considerable judgment. I once thought of her myself, but now I have higher views."
"Indeed," replied I, as I gazed at him from head to foot, "you do not say so."
"Come, come," said Roberville, "I perceive your heart is already touched, you are occupied only with her; confess that it would have been a sad pity if those glorious black eyes had never been opened to the light."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? why, that she was born blind. She is the daughter of a rich merchant of Anvers, and his only child; he lost his wife very young, and was plunged in consequence in the profoundest grief."
"Do you believe it?"
"I should think so, for he quitted Anvers, gave up his mercantile pursuits, which had never been more profitable to him than at that time, and, after making magnificent presents to those persons employed in his service, and pensions to his servants, left his house and occupation."
"And what became of him afterward?" said I, somewhat impatiently, for my curiosity was gradually increasing.
"Oh! it's a romance, a perfect romance. This good man retired to Chamouny, where we have all been once in our life, for the sake of saying that we have been, though, for my part, I can never understand the charms of its melancholy grandeur, and there he remained several years. Have you never heard him mentioned? let me see, it's a plebeian name—M. Robert, that's it."
"Well?" said I.
"Well," continued he, "an occulist succeeded in restoring his daughter's sight. Her father took her to Geneva, and at Geneva she fell in love with an adventurer, who carried her off because her father would not have him for a son-in-law."
"Her father felt that he was unworthy of her," said I.
"Yes, and he had formed a correct opinion of him, for no sooner had they reached Milan than the adventurer disappeared, with all the gold and diamonds of which he had been able to possess himself; it was asserted that this gallant gentleman was already married, and that he had incurred capital punishment at Padua, so that the law punished him."
"And M. Robert?"
"Oh, M. Robert died of grief; but this affair did not create a great sensation, for he was a very singular man, who had some extraordinary ideas; one of the absurd plans he had formed was, to marry his daughter to a blind youth."
"Oh, the poor girl!"
"She is not so much to be pitied either, but look at her instead of talking of her, and confess that she has many advantages, with two hundred thousand francs a year, and such a pair of eyes!"
"Eyes, eyes, curses rest upon her eyes, for they have been her ruin!" There is a leaven of cruelty in my composition, and I like to make those, who have caused others suffering, suffer in their turn. I fixed one of those piercing looks upon Eulalie, which, when they do not flatter a woman, make her heart sink within her; she raised herself from the pillar, against which she was leaning, and stood motionless and tremblingly before me. I went up to her slowly, and whispered Gervais.
"Who?"
"Gervais."
"Ah, Gervais," replied she, while she placed her hand before her eyes.
The scene was so singular that it would have shaken the nerves of the most composed person, for my appearance there was altogether so sudden, my acquaintance with her history so extraordinary.
"Ah, Gervais," exclaimed I, vehemently seizing her at the same time by the arm, "what have you done to him?" She sank to the ground in a swoon. I never heard any more of her from that memorable night.
I entered Savoy by Mount St. Bernard, and again found myself once more in the valley of Chamouny. Again I sought the rock where Gervais was accustomed to sit, but though it was his usual hour for sitting there, he was not to be seen. I came up to the old spot, and discovered his stick of Cytisus, and perceiving that it was ornamented with a piece of green ribbon, on which were some words printed in relief, the circumstance of his leaving this behind him made me feel very uneasy. I called Gervais, loudly; a voice repeated Gervais; it seemed to me like an echo; I turned round; and beheld Marguerite, leading a dog by a chain. They stopped, and I recognized Puck, though he did not know me, for he seemed occupied by some idea; he sniffed his nose in the air, raised his ears, and stretched forth his paws, as if he was going to start off.
"Alas, sir," said Marguerite, "have you met with Gervais?"
"Gervais," replied I, "where is he?" Puck looked at me as if he had understood what I had said, he stretched himself toward me, as far as his chain would permit; I stroked him with my hand, the poor thing licked my fingers and then remained still.
"I remember now, sir, that it was you who gave him this dog to console him for one which he had lost, a little while before you came here; this poor animal had not been eight days in the valley before he lost his sight like his master."
"I lifted up Puck's silky head, and discovered that he was indeed blind. Puck licked my hand, and then howled.
"It was because he was blind," said Marguerite, "that Gervais would not take him with him yesterday."
"Yesterday, Marguerite! what, has he not been home since yesterday?"
"Ah, sir, that is exactly what astonishes us all so much. Only think on Sunday, in the midst of a tremendous storm, a gentleman came to the Valley; I could have declared he was an English milord; he wore a straw hat, covered with ribbons."
"Well, but what has all this to do with Gervais?"
"While I was running to fetch some fagots to make a fire for drying M. Roberville's clothes, he remained with Gervais. M. de Roberville! yes, that was his name. I do not know what he said, but yesterday Gervais was so melancholy; he, however, seemed more anxious than ever to go to the rock; indeed he was in such a hurry that I had scarcely time to throw his blue cloak over his shoulders; and I think I told you that the evening before was very cold and damp. 'Mother,' said he, as we went along, 'be so kind as to prevent Puck from following me, and take charge of him; his restlessness inconveniences me sometimes, and if he should pull his chain out of my hand, we should not be able to find each other again perhaps.'"
"Alas, Gervais!" cried I, "my poor Gervais!"
"Oh, Gervais! Gervais, my son! my little Gervais!" sobbed the poor woman.
Puck gnawed his chain, and jumped impatiently about us.
"If you were to set Puck at liberty, perhaps he might find Gervais," said I.
The chain was unfastened, and before I had time to see that Puck was free, he had darted off, and the next moment I heard the sound of a body falling into the depths of the Arveyron. "Puck! Puck!" shouted I; but when I reached the spot, the little dog had disappeared, and all that could be seen was a blue mantle floating on the surface of the waters.