Paul and Virginia from the French of J.B.H. de Saint Pierre

by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre

"We retired from the spot overwhelmed with dismay, and our minds wholly occupied by one cruel loss, although numbers had perished in the wreck. Some of the spectators seemed tempted, from the fatal destiny of this virtuous young woman, to doubt the existence of Providence. Alas! there are in life such terrible, such unmerited evils, that even the hope of the wise is sometimes shaken.

"In the meantime, Paul, who began to recover his senses, was taken to a house in the neighbourhood, till he was able to be removed to his own habitation. Thither I bent my way with Domingo, and undertook the sad task of preparing Virginia's mother and her friend for the melancholy event which had happened. When we reached the entrance of the valley of the river of Fan-Palms, some negroes informed us that the sea had thrown many pieces of the wreck into the opposite bay. We descended towards it; and one of the first objects which struck my sight upon the beach was the corpse of Virginia. The body was half covered with sand, and in the attitude in which we had seen her perish. Her features were not changed; her eyes were closed, her countenance was still serene; but the pale violets of death were blended on her cheek with the blush of virgin modesty. One of her hands was placed upon her clothes: and the other, which she held on her heart, was fast closed, and so stiffened, that it was with difficulty I took from its grasp a small box. How great was my emotion, when I saw it contained the picture of Paul; which she had promised him never to part with while she lived! At the sight of this last mark of the fidelity and tenderness of the unfortunate girl, I wept bitterly. As for Domingo, he beat his breast, and pierced the air with his cries. We carried the body of Virginia to a fisher's hut, and gave it in charge to some poor Malabar women, who carefully washed away the sand.

"While they were employed in this melancholy office, we ascended with trembling steps to the plantation. We found Madame de la Tour and Margaret at prayer, while waiting for tidings from the ship. As soon as Madame de la Tour saw me coming, she eagerly cried, 'Where is my child, my dear child?' My silence and my tears apprised her of her misfortune. She was seized with convulsive stiflings, with agonizing pains, and her voice was only heard in groans. Margaret cried, 'Where is my son? I do not see my son!' and fainted. We ran to her assistance. In a short time she recovered, and being assured that her son was safe, and under the care of the governor, she only thought of succouring her friend, who had long successive faintings. Madame de la Tour passed the night in sufferings so exquisite, that I became convinced there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow. When she recovered her senses, she cast her languid and steadfast looks on heaven. In vain her friend and myself pressed her hands in ours: in vain we called upon her by the most tender names; she appeared wholly insensible; and her oppressed bosom heaved deep and hollow moans.

"In the morning Paul was brought home in a palanquin. He was now restored to reason but unable to utter a word. His interview with his mother and Madame de la Tour, which I had dreaded, produced a better effect than all my cares. A ray of consolation gleamed upon the countenances of those unfortunate mothers. They flew to meet him, clasped him in their arms, and bathed him with tears, which excess of anguish had till now forbidden to flow. Paul mixed his tears with theirs; and nature having thus found relief, a long stupor succeeded the convulsive pangs they had suffered, and gave them a lethargic repose like that of death.

"Monsieur de la Bourdonnais sent to apprise me secretly that the corpse of Virginia had been borne to the town by his order, from whence it was to be transferred to the church of the Shaddock Grove. I hastened to Port Louis, and found a multitude assembled from all parts, in order to be present at the funeral solemnity, as if the whole island had lost its fairest ornament. The vessels in the harbour had their yards crossed, their flags hoisted, and fired guns at intervals. The grenadiers led the funeral procession, with their muskets reversed, their drums muffled, and sending forth slow dismal sounds. Eight young ladies of the most considerable families of the island, dressed in white, and bearing palms in their hands, supported the pall of their amiable companion, which was strewed with flowers. They were followed by a band of children chanting hymns, and by the governor, his field officers, all the principal inhabitants of the island, and an immense crowd of people.

"This funeral solemnity had been ordered by the administration of the country, who were desirous of rendering honours to the virtue of Virginia. But when the progression arrived at the foot of this mountain, at the sight of those cottages, of which she had long been the ornament and happiness, and which her loss now filled with despair, the funeral pomp was interrupted, the hymns and anthems ceased, and the plain resounded with sighs and lamentations. Companies of young girls ran from the neighbouring plantations to touch the coffin of Virginia with their scarfs, chaplets, and crowns of flowers, invoking her as a saint. Mothers asked of heaven a child like Virginia; lovers, a heart as faithful; the poor, as tender a friend; and the slaves, as kind a mistress.

"When the procession had reached the place of interment, the negresses of Madagascar, and the caffres of Mosambiac, placed baskets of fruit around the corpse, and hung pieces of stuff upon the neighbouring trees, according to the custom of their country. The Indians of Bengal, and of the coast of Malabar, brought cages filled with birds, which they set at liberty upon her coffin. Thus did the loss of this amiable object affect the natives of different countries, and thus was the ritual of various religions breathed over the tomb of unfortunate virtue.

"She was interred near the church of the Shaddock Grove, upon the western side, at the foot of a copse of bamboos, where, in coming from mass with her mother and Margaret, she loved to repose herself, seated by him whom she called her brother.

"On his return from the funeral solemnity, Monsieur de la Bourdonnais came hither, followed by part of his numerous train. He offered Madame de la Tour and her friend all the assistance which it was in his power to bestow. After expressing his indignation at the conduct of her unnatural aunt, he advanced to Paul, and said every thing which he thought most likely to soothe and console him. 'Heaven is my witness,' said he, 'that I wished to ensure your happiness, and that of your family. My dear friend, you must go to France: I will obtain a commission for you, and during your absence will take the same care of your mother as if she were my own.' He then offered him his hand; but Paul drew away, and turned his head, unable to bear his sight.

"I remained at the plantation of my unfortunate friends, that I might render to them and Paul those offices of friendship which soften, though they cannot cure, calamity. At the end of three weeks Paul was able to walk, yet his mind seemed to droop in proportion as his frame gathered strength. He was insensible to every thing; his look was vacant; and when spoken to, he made no reply. Madame de la Tour, who was dying, said to him often, 'My son, while I look at you, I think I see Virginia.' At the name of Virginia he shuddered, and hastened from her, notwithstanding the entreaties of his mother, who called him back to her friend. He used to wander into the garden, and seat himself at the foot of Virginia's cocoa tree, with his eyes fixed upon the fountain. The surgeon to the governor, who had shown the most humane attention to Paul, and the whole family, told us that, in order to cure that deep melancholy which had taken possession of his mind, we must allow him to do whatever he pleased, without contradiction, as the only means of conquering his inflexible silence.