Would harrow up thy soul.
SHAKESPEARE
Madame St. Aubert was interred1 in the neighbouring village church; her husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber2. When he came forth3, it was with a serene4 countenance5, though pale in sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired6 to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither7: he took her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, ‘My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to seek it — where else can we find it?’
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During this, his voice often faltered9, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime10 emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn11, he tenderly kissed Emily, and said, ‘I have endeavoured to teach you, from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed12 out to you the great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and virtue13, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous14, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiable15 in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties — by our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief enervates16 the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent enjoyments17 which a benevolent18 God designed to be the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect19 and practise the precepts20 I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you to be wise.
‘Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate21 your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible22 heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice8 — vice, of which the deformity is not softened23, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance24 or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostentation25 of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity26 of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are willing to avoid it.’
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: ‘Dear sir,’ said she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, ‘I will shew myself worthy27 of being your daughter;’ but a mingled28 emotion of gratitude30, affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without interruption, and then began to talk on common topics.
The first person who came to condole31 with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere32 and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau33, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their vices34, than compassion35 for their weaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness36 and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with his friends: he spoke37 little on the subject of their grief; but the minute attention he gave them, and the modulated38 voice, and softened look that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy39 period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse40 between them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised the virtues41 of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be consolation42. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil43, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the discourse44 upon another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit. ‘Change of place will amuse you,’ said she, ‘and it is wrong to give way to grief.’ St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot which his past happiness had consecrated45. The presence of his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment46 that bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with him to Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal47 domain48, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the turreted49 corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who neither revered51 nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature of the edifice52, distinguished53 by an air of heavy grandeur54, appeared successively between the branches of the trees — the broad turret50, the arched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fosse which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion55 loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal56 of laughter, and the song of conviviality57, had so often resounded58, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous59 ornaments60, and every thing that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted61 sentiments of the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell62 into her eyes, and then resentment63 checked them. St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed64 by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined65 not to incur66 it himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of an uncommonly67 handsome person, with features manly68 and expressive69, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness70 of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any other character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty — inferior in dignity, but equal to him in penetration71 of countenance, and superior in insinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her father —‘Dear brother,’ said she, ‘I am concerned to see you look so very ill; do, pray, have advice!’ St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the varied72 conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the commotions73 which at that period agitated74 the country; talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented75 the probable consequences of the tumults76. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided77 superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same eloquence78, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle29 what is so particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty79, simplicity80, and correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends — long since gone from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently81 of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed82 from her.
On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken83.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed84 to that tenderness which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert’s death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey — a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances85, or she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper86, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. ‘To save expences, my dear,’ he replied —‘we are going on an expensive excursion.’
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely87 along the shores of the Mediterranean88, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father’s room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his study — for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there.
The room was dark, but a light glimmered89 through some panes90 of glass that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended91 he was unwell, and was going to enquire92; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed93 aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time.
When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely94 convinced that it was designed for that of some other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting95 that she was intruding96 upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the chamber.
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1
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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7
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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9
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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10
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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14
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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15
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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enervates
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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18
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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19
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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22
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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28
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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45
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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49
turreted
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| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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51
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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53
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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54
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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56
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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58
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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59
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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