by Ellen Wood
Here and there in the wide plain a distant village reposed, its cluster of small chalets the only signs of human life and habitation. Morning and evening the blue peat smoke might be seen ascending in picturesque forms, and, if you chanced to pass that way, the air was full of homely, delicious scent. As night closed in, lights gleamed from the little windows and open doorways, like distant stars; but they soon disappeared, and the village became steeped in silence and slumber. The villagers, rising at four or five in the morning, went to bed at sundown. Darkness would fall quickly in the valley where the mountains shut out the twilight.
And the nightingales sang for ever, and filled the groves with melody. Day and night they never ceased. Myriads of birds, apparently intoxicated with their own exquisite sounds, they never seemed to sleep; week after week the song went on, ever the same. It never grew wearisome or monotonous; there was no desire for cessation. The sound soothed and charmed by day, and at night was a delicious lullaby which courted, never banished slumber. Sometimes it would visit the dreams and bring visions of Paradise — and for an earthly Paradise nothing could exceed this wonderful spot. Ever and ever the song of the nightingales echoed far up the heights, far down the valley, filling the air with music and the heart with rapture.
CHAPTER IX
“And many an old philosophy
On Argive heights divinely sang,
And round us all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady.”
IN these days the chateau would often be filled with guests, and groves and terraces would be bright with laughter and conversation: living forms still more beautiful than the sculptured images which never moved or changed and brought no sense of companionship.
It was here that Mrs. Henry Wood first met Madame de Marseine, and the two ladies quickly became firm and lifelong friends. The Comte de Marseine owned a chateau in the neighbourhood, some miles distant. Their home was in Paris, but here for the summer months they almost invariably came year after year. The family had suffered much in days gone by, and though still wealthy, had lost much in the political changes which from time to time agitated the country. The grandfather of the Count who reigned in Mrs. Wood’s time had lost his life on the scaffold in the Revolution of’93, and but for the beautiful and brave Charlotte Corday, who helped to bring the frightful events of those days to a close, it might have gone more seriously for the De Marseines.
“My husband’s grandmother saw Charlotte mount the scaffold,” said Madame de Marseine one day to Mrs. Henry Wood, when they were talking of Robespierre and the Revolution. “She felt a profound compassion for this brave young woman who had heroically sacrificed her life for her country; and, whatever may be thought of her act, she was at least a martyr to her belief. In vain the grandmother’s friends declared, ‘Your only safety is in keeping quietly out of sight.” I care not,’ was the answer. ‘They have taken my husband, and I have nothing to live for. But I must see Charlotte Corday mount the scaffold. Some of her people were my friends; her uncle was my sister’s confessor; I feel as though the knowledge that I am near will be a consolation. You may find me a window if you like; even close the shutters if I can see through them; but she must know that I am there. Her confessor is acquainted with me. Let him come that I may send her a message; he is to be trusted. That fiend Marat is dead — there will not be many more victims.’ So it happened. The window was secured, and the fact was secretly intimated to Charlotte Corday through the confessor, who himself abhorred the Revolution and all its myrmidons. In return she sent my grandmother a message of love and thanks, assuring her that she was happy and had no desire to live. Her task was performed, in which she considered she had been helped by that Heaven to which she was hastening.”
“A true heroine,” said Mrs. Henry Wood. “And though the deed was terrible, the motive was exalted. I cannot wonder at old Madame de Marseine’s admiration for her. Nothing else was possible.”
“Charlotte Corday was indeed a true heroine,” returned Madame de Marseine. “Well, the eventful morning did not tarry. My grandmother had spent much of the night in prayer, hoping that by some miracle the morning might bring a change — life and escape for her dear victim. It was not to be. The hour struck; the sound of the tumbril was heard; the fatal procession approached; the mob surged to and fro like a living tide, many of the multitude no better than demons, others peaceable citizens who could do nothing. Charlotte mounted the scaffold with a serene expression which told of Divine support and undiminished bravery. She looked a beautiful saint as she quietly moved towards the dread machine. It is said that Monsieur de Paris trembled as his gaze fell upon her, and many thought his courage was about to fail. It has also been said that, perceiving it, she whispered to him, ‘Courage, mon ami; je vous pardonne, comme je pardonne mes ennemis. Faites votre devoir.’ How far that may be true I know not; I believe it, for we had it from the confessor, who, however, did not attend her to the scaffold; but I know no history that records it. Others have no doubt said the same. Then turning, for a moment, to a certain window with closed shutters, behind which she knew my grandmother was gazing with all her heart in her eyes and all her tears dried at their source, Charlotte, raising her arm with a gesture worthy of a queen, pointed solemnly towards Heaven, as if to intimate that there was her home, and there one day they would meet again. A few moments and all was over; and the crowd waited, wondering if another victim was coming and who it would be.”
“And old Madame de Marseine?”
“She came to no harm. It was not her fate to die by the guillotine. The Revolution was nearly over; peace once more fell for a time upon France. When it did so, my grandmother’s courage gave way. She was aged, and the strain had been too great. When all danger had passed, the nerves relaxed and she quietly faded into the tomb. I never can think of that time — that so-called Age of Reason, when Mdlle. Aubry was elevated in Notre Dame — or St. Roch, which was it? — as its goddess, without shuddering.”
“It is a sad story,” said Mrs. Wood. “The two great heroines of France have always deeply interested me — Jeanne d’Arc and Charlotte Corday; but in the heroism of Jeanne there was a good deal of exaltation, whilst with Charlotte Corday it was the opposite. Of gentle birth, accustomed to self-control, no outward influence upheld her. The one was supported by martial music and waving flags and an admiring multitude; the other was alone, and all her surroundings were depressing. That solitary walk to Paris would have been sufficient to quench the ardour of a less brave spirit.”
“More than enough,” returned Madame de Marseine; “and if my grandmother were here she would go further than either of us. She would have her canonised, and placed in the front rank of saints. Jeanne d’Arc can never be canonised. The Church consented to her death, and can never canonise one whose martyrdom it helped to bring about. But Charlotte owed nothing to the Church, one way or the other; she was, indeed, murdered by the enemies of the Church, and so far may be said to have assisted its cause.”
“Then why does not the Church in gratitude canonise her?” asked Mrs. Wood.
“Ah, my dear, we do not always receive gratitude from those in high places. Confer a benefit upon exalted personages, and they too often consider that a favour has been conferred upon you. Put not your trust in princes — you see I know something of your beautiful Bible. It is always a case of wheels within wheels, too. France is republican and revolutionary at heart, and at any time monarchy may be a thing of the past. The Church knows this and is wise in her generation. But the character of Charlotte Corday has never been appreciated. It will require the influence of time and history to place her in her proper niche. We are still too near the glamour of those days to weigh them calmly; even now people cannot judge dispassionately of the Reign of Terror. In fifty years’ time, perhaps, they will begin to see Charlotte Corday in her true light — one of the best and bravest women the world has known.”
Was Madame de Marseine a prophet? More than half a century has passed away
since those words were spoken: has the world awakened to the merit of Charlotte Corday?
“A very sad story,” repeated Mrs. Wood, “which for ever throws a shadow even over the terrible drama of the Revolution. My heart has always ached for Charlotte Corday.”
“My dear,” returned Madame de Marseine, “let it ache no longer. I am many years older than you — old enough to be your mother, though still a young woman; but I have lived long enough to learn that life is full of sadness: a life cut short is not always to be deplored; and such a history as Charlotte Corday’s is not the most unhappy. I should not have said that twenty years ago, but I say so now, and am certain of it. Charlotte met her fate bravely — nothing less was possible to so heroic a nature. If she could come to us, she would perhaps tell us that her martyrdom was her grandest and happiest moment. I think I see her turning to that terrible masked figure, whose nerve seemed to give way when hers triumphed, and I hear the sweet tones of her voice bidding him do his duty. Poems have been written, operas composed, plays acted upon Jeanne d’Arc, but Charlotte Corday is remembered only by the few who see her for what she really was.” Many such conversations confirmed the friendship between Mrs. Henry Wood and Madame de Marseine. The Countess, in those days, was a woman of some forty years, tall, dignified, and commanding — far younger than most Frenchwomen of that age; spiritually and intellectually superior to most of her contemporaries. She belonged to an old Breton family, and possessed all the best points of her race. She moved in the great world of Paris, and was an especial favourite with Louis Philippe and Marie Thérése, the King always declaring that she bore some resemblance to the latter, though in reality much better-looking. Every one worth knowing she knew, both in the political and social world and the world of letters. But she little guessed that the child-like friend at her side would also one day become famous, though nearly thirty years were first to roll away.
Yet something of the truth seemed to dawn upon her, for one day, looking steadfastly at Mrs. Wood, she remarked, almost in the words of poor André Chenier, himself a victim to Revolution, and touching her forehead with her finger:
“My dear, I think there is something there; something in that head and behind those eyes which is asking to come out. I believe you will one day be a writer, but it will not be a political writer. One has only to look at you to see that you are all romance and imagination. When that day comes, I trust I may still be here.”
Mrs. Henry Wood laughed. Even then, we have said, she was conscious of a strange power, but never spoke of it, even to her most intimate friend. On this occasion she only replied: “Politics are certainly not in my line. And for anything else — as far as I can see, my life will be spent amidst the Alps and amongst the French — out of touch with all English influences. What you think is not likely to happen.”
“One never knows,” returned Madame de Marseine. “Life is full of surprises. And you are little more than a child, and can bide your time.” But the prophecy was long fulfilling.
“Should you like always to remain here?” asked Madame de Marseine.
“I am learning to be very happy,” was the somewhat wistful reply. “I should be ungrateful were it otherwise. Every one is good to me, and I am surrounded by all that heart can wish for.”
“And you have so charming a husband! Even I, old woman as I am, am fascinated by him. But, my dear, he has not your strength of character. Il faudra le manager. You are young for diplomacy, but tact is born with us, and for one of your age you possess it largely.”
Mrs. Henry Wood’s face saddened for a moment. Her friend had given expression to what she had already discovered: that her husband, delightful in private life, was too amiable to be a true, strong man of the world. He would be led rather than become a leader. And with her keen insight into human nature she saw in such a temperament the possibilities of future danger. But she made no reply. Madame de Marseine, already firmly devoted to her, a woman of the world and of experience, spoke from a loyal motive: Mrs. Wood, equally loyal to herself, her husband, and her friend, was silent.
They met frequently. Of all friends Madame de Marseine was the one preferred, and they were much together, visiting for a few days at a time at each other’s houses. The Chateau de Marseine was French in every particular, from the interior appointments to the regulation of the household. In Mrs.
Henry Wood’s home many English ways and evidences had been introduced, and the result was greater comfort — a more picturesque effect than the stiff and conventional French arrangement could produce.
Madame de Marseine always declared that her happiest days were spent in the less pretentious but more beautiful home of Mrs. Henry Wood. The view also from the terraces was much finer. The two friends would sit for hours together enraptured by the lovely scene, which day by day only seemed to grow dearer and more charming. No amount of time and gazing could take from the majesty of those mountains; from the soothing murmur of the pine forests as the breeze stirred their pointed tops and shed abroad their perfume; from the repose of the far-reaching valley and occasional villages; from the magnificent river gleaming like a silver thread in graceful windings and taking its quiet course towards the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
And when the sun was high and the heat of summer was full upon them, they would seek the shelter of the pine groves and listen to the ceaseless melody of the nightingales’ song: all the more prized in that, with the days of June, the song would end and silence fall upon wood and grove.
But whilst it lasted, the friends were never tired of listening, never weary of conversing to such an accompaniment. Both had exceptional minds, and sweet and charming must have been the hours that ran in golden sands. No wonder that in after years they formed one of Mrs. Henry Wood’s happiest recollections.
Her dress in those days was almost invariably some flowing white and airy material, for it has been said that at all times she felt the heat intensely. She must have seemed very fragile and fairy-like as she sat amongst her flowers; or in the shady groves, where seats were cunningly disposed; or reclining in her drawing-room, where, in days when they were alone, she listened to her husband’s voice at the piano, whilst thoughts and dreams passed through her imagination.
The nights too were beautiful; and as long as the nightingales sang, as full of melody. As the sun set across the valley, darkness would fall, a sense of mystery haunted the Alpine slopes and valleys. Black and sombre and weird looked the trees on the mountain sides, no sound breaking the utter stillness excepting the occasional hooting of an owl or the deep baying of a far-off St. Bernard.
On moonlight nights the effect was almost ghostly. The mountains cast deep shadows across the valley. Out of one wood into another the owls would take their silent flight with melancholy cry. As the moon rose the shadows would disappear for a time, and the world reposed in a flood of pale light, of which the far-off river would here and there catch gleams and flashes. The warm night air suggested quiet thought, a delicious repose. Lights gleamed from the house, and threw their reflection upon the terraces. When there was no moon, the stars shone with a size and brilliancy unknown to the skies of England. Nothing could be more lovely, more solemn and mysterious, than these Alpine summer nights, where all was calm and beautiful and full of peace.
Nevertheless, the twilight hour, the “gathering into night,” was always trying to Mrs. Wood. There would still sometimes fall upon her a sense of loneliness that was almost insupportable, as it had come to her upon the Malvern Hills in childhood. Everything seemed haunted by a strange silent spirit of invisible life and movement. To the last, she was happier in the centre of a stirring town with all its animated sights and sounds. Once when visiting friends in a small country place, it chanced to be the period of the annual fair. In a field not very far off booths were erected, and until very late at night torches flared, a crowd surged to and fro, drums and trumpets made the air anything but musical. “We fear you were much disturbed last night by that dreadful fair,�
�� sympathetically remarked her hosts the next morning. “Not at all,” was the reply, “I quite delighted in the sounds, and in picturing the enjoyment of the people. I slept admirably.” On the other hand, when near the sea, no matter how desolate the spot, she ever felt a sense of happiness and companionship. If absolutely alone, she was never lonely. She once remarked that if she could choose her abode and arrange things to her fancy, it should be Piccadilly, with all its life and movement on the one side and the sea flowing on the other.
We dwell upon this period of Mrs. Henry Wood’s life abroad not only because it was specially beloved by her — in which she made many true friends, and of which in after years she was never tired of conversing with the writer — but also because it was a period that greatly influenced the already singularly-formed mind. She was so young that her surroundings could not be without their distinct and permanent effect. Happy, then, that they were of so exceptional a nature, disposing her to thought and reflection, to be utilised when the pen was taken seriously in hand. Everything about her conduced to high and lofty aspirations, of which youth is essentially the period. Her religious temperament was being confirmed in all that unwavering faith which ever afterwards stood her in good stead, and enabled her to go through many troubles with a heroism and a reliance in the Divine guidance seldom equalled. In the darkest hours of life she was absolutely calm and serene — entirely trustful. “It is God’s will; He doeth all things well.” She rarely said these things, but she never ceased to act up to them. Amidst all the beauties of nature, the mountains, the clear heavens and the silent stars, she gathered strength; and many a meditation in those lovely groves remained to bear good fruit in the time to come.