Bernardin de St. Pierre

by Arvède Barine

It is the poet, the Theocritus of the tropics, who begins. He sings of a voluptuous nature that squanders her caresses upon two nurslings. She lulls them to the murmur of the springs, and smiles upon them in a thousand brilliant colours. Around their cradle is only warmth and perfume. They develop harmoniously in this solitude, whose gentle influences are in accord with the gentleness of the sentiments placed by Providence in the hearts of the newly-born. Nothing could be more charming than these two beautiful children, "quite naked, according to the custom of the country, hardly able to walk, holding each other by the hand and under the arms, as we represent the twins in the zodiac. Night even could not separate them; they were often found in the same cradle, cheek to cheek, breast to breast, the hands of each round the other's neck, asleep in each other's arms." These last lines are exquisite; it would be impossible better to express the ineffable graces of the sleep of childhood.

Paul and Virginia grew up, and their games and little adventures are recounted with the same charm. It is not high art, it is too pretty, could be too easily turned into a ballad, or used to decorate a chocolate box, but it is delightful all the same. Besides, the beauty of some of the pictures is considerably heightened by their frames; for instance, the two children performing pantomines "like the negroes." "The place generally chosen for the scenes was the cross-roads of a forest, whose glades formed around us several arcades of foliage. In their midst we were sheltered from the heat during the whole day; but when the sun had sunk to the horizon, his rays, broken by the trunks of the trees, were divided among the shadows of the forest into long luminous beams, which produced the most majestic effect. Sometimes his whole disc would appear at the end of one of the avenues, making it sparkle with light. The foliage of the trees, lighted from below with the sun's saffron-tinted rays, shone with the glow of the topaz and the emerald. Their trunks, mossy and brown, seemed to be changed into columns of antique bronze; and the birds already gone to rest in silence under the dark leaves, there to pass the night, surprised by the vision of a second dawn, would salute altogether the star of the day with a thousand songs." How beautiful and true all this is. This sudden illumination of a great forest from below by the setting sun, is as real as it is dazzling. One understands how scenes like that astonished a generation brought up upon the Fastes of Lemierre and the Jardins of Delille.

The infancy of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre's young hero and heroine is passed entirely in a a desert, far from all society; and in them can be verified the statement made in the Études de la Nature, that "man is born good." They only possess virtuous instincts, good feelings, and not a germ of vice, for these germs are only communicated to us from without, nature did not place them in us.

Before going further we would remark once again how anti-Christian these ideas are. The necessity for the Redemption disappears with original sin, and Christianity altogether is only a superfluity, if not perhaps even charlatanism. Faith must certainly have been very weak, when the author of these heresies received from religious people a rapturous welcome, and from the Church of Rome so benignant a reception, that the philosophers accused him of being in the pay of the clergy. Godless ages very soon reach a point where they lose their sense of religion. Then there comes a general atmosphere of ignorance and want of intelligence of sacred things, from which Christians who have retained their belief also suffer; they accustom themselves to be too inexacting, and not to look too closely into things.

The moment arrives to educate the two children, and to demonstrate what is also said in the Études de la Nature that, "it is society which makes evil doers, and it is our education which prepares them." The philosopher here interrupts the poet, and explains his system. Paul and Virginia are not "prepared" to become wicked, because they are brought up far from schools and libraries, without any other teacher than nature. "All their study was to take delight in and help one another. For the rest they were as ignorant as creoles, and did not know how to read or write. They did not disturb themselves about what had happened in remote times, far from them; their curiosity did not extend beyond their mountain. They believed that the world ended where their island did, and they never imagined anything pleasant where they were not. Their affection for each other and for their mothers, occupied all the activity of their souls. Useless sciences had never made their tears flow; lessons of sad morality had never filled them with weariness. They did not know that they must not steal, for they had all things in common; nor that they must not be intemperate, for they had as much as they liked of simple food; nor that they must not lie, having nothing to hide. No one had ever frightened them by telling them that God reserves terrible punishments for ungrateful children; with them filial love was born of maternal love." Daphnis and Chloe had less innocent souls, less pure from all human teaching; they knew how to read, and, having flocks to mind, they had, at least, been taught that thieves exist.

An education so adapted to scandalise the Academies naturally produced the happiest results. At twelve Paul was "more robust and more intelligent than Europeans of fifteen." He had more "enlightenment." Virginia was no less superior to the girls of our countries. For all that they had no clocks, almanacs, or books of chronology, history, and philosophy, they were not ignorant, except to our pedantic ideas, as they possessed the knowledge which the country teaches us. "They knew the hours of the day by the shadows of the trees, the seasons by the time which gave them their flowers and their fruits, and the year by the number of their harvests." They knew the names and characteristics of all the plants and birds, and of everything which had life in their valley and its environs. They knew how to make everything necessary to the life of a man in the country, and they accomplished all these works with the good temper which comes from health, open air, and the absence of care. Seeing them so skilful, ingenious, and happy, their mothers congratulated themselves on having been "compelled by misfortune to return to nature."

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre foresaw that people might make some objections, and he hastened to be beforehand with them. "You Europeans, whose souls are filled from infancy with so many prejudices contrary to happiness, cannot understand that nature could give so much sagacity, judgment, and pleasure. Your souls, circumscribed by a small sphere of human knowledge, soon reach the limit of their artificial pleasures, but nature and the heart are inexhaustible." "... After all, what need had these young people to be rich and learned in our manner? their wants and their ignorance added still more to their happiness. There was not a day in which they did not impart to each other some help or some information, ay, real information; and if some errors were mixed up in it a pure man has no dangerous ones to fear."

There is a touch of declamation about this apostrophe. It threatens to become a little dull, when the poet awakes, and carries us with a flap of his wings above all theories and systems. The poet only knows one thing: his hero and heroine are beautiful, loving, tender, at an age to love; let them love therefore. All else is forgotten, and Bernardin de Saint-Pierre in his turn writes, like so many others, the everlasting romance of sweet fifteen. He writes it with chastity and fire, with a pure pen, but with deep and stirring passion. Genius just touched him with its breath for the first and last time, and he writes some pages of lofty conception such as mere talent however great cannot reach.

"Nevertheless for some time Virginia was agitated by an unknown trouble. Her beautiful blue eyes had black circles under them; her complexion became yellow, and a great languor took possession of her. Serenity was no longer on her brow, nor a smile upon her lips. They saw her all at once gay without joy, and sad without sorrow. She shunned her innocent sports, her pleasant labours, and the society of her beloved family. She wandered hither and thither in the most lonely parts of the homestead, everywhere seeking repose and finding none.... Sometimes at sight of Paul she would go towards him gaily, then all at once on getting near to him, a sudden embarrassment would seize her, a vivid blush would dye her pale cheeks, and her eyes would not dare to meet his. Paul would say to her, 'These rocks are covered with verdure; our birds sing when they see thee; everything around thee is gay, thou only art sad,' and he would try to cheer her by embracing her, but she would turn away her head and fly trembling towards her mother. The unhappy girl felt herself troubled by the caresses of her brother. Paul could not understand such new and strange caprices."