Ourika

We had been living for some months in solitude, when towards the latter end of the year 1792, the decree for the confiscation of the emigrants' estates was issued. In the midst of such great disasters, Madame de B. would have cared little for the loss of her fortune, had it not belonged to her grandchildren; for by a family arrangement, she had only the enjoyment of it during her lifetime. This made her decide upon sending for Charles home, whilst his eldest brother, then nearly one and twenty, went to join the army of the Prince of Condé. Their travels were just completed, which two years before had been undertaken under such different auspices. Charles arrived in Paris, in the beginning of February, 1793, a short time after the King's death. Madame de B. had given herself up to the most poignant grief, at the perpetration of this deed. Her feeling mind proportioned its horror to the immensity of the crime. Affliction in old age is a most moving spectacle, it carries with it the authority of reason. Madame de B. suffered with such energy, that it affected her health, and I did not conceive it possible to console her, but I mingled my tears with hers, and sought by elevating my own sentiments, to ally my soul more nearly to hers, so that I might at least share her sufferings. My own distress scarcely occurred to me while the reign of terror lasted. I should have felt ashamed to think of it during such dreadful calamities. Besides, I no longer felt so isolated, since every person round me was unhappy. Opinion is like the link of country, it is the property of all, and men are brothers to defend its cause. Sometimes I thought, that poor negress as I was, still I was allied to noble minds, by the same need of justice that I experienced in common with them. The return of truth and justice to their country, would be a day of triumph for me as well as for them; but, alas! it was far distant.

On Charles's return, Madame de B. went into the country. All her friends had fled. The only society she had left, was that of an old Abbé, who for ten years had turned religion into ridicule, but was now highly irritated at the riches of the clergy being confiscated, because he lost twenty thousand francs a year by it. He accompanied us to St. Germain. His company was rather quiet than agreeable, and was more the result of his disposition than of his heart.

Madame de B. had had it in her power all her life to do good. She was intimately, acquainted with the Count de Choiseul, and during his long ministry, was useful to a number of persons. Two of the most popular men during the terror, owed obligations to her, and remembered it in those dreadful times. They watched over her preservation, and risqued their own lives to save hers from the fury of the revolutionary assassins; and it may here be remarked, that at this fatal epoch even the chiefs of the most violent factions ran great danger in doing a little good. It seemed as if our desolate land was only to be governed by evil, for that alone took away or gave power. Madame de B. was not sent to prison. She was guarded at home under pretext of bad health. Charles, the Abbé, and myself remained with her, and attended her with care.

Nothing can equal the state of anxiety and terror in which we passed our days: continually reading in the papers accounts of the sentences of death passed against Madame de B.'s friends, and trembling lest her protector should be deprived of the power of preserving her from a similar fate. We discovered, indeed, that she was on the eve of perishing, when the death of Robespierre put an end to so much horror. We breathed again. The guards left our house, and we all remained in the same solitude, like people who have escaped some great calamity together. Misfortune seemed to have linked us closer to each other. I felt in those moments that I was not a stranger. If I ever passed a few happy moments since the fairy days of my childhood, it was during the times that followed this disastrous epoch. Madame de B. possessed to a supreme degree those qualities which constitute the charm of domestic life; her temper was easy and indulgent; she always put the most favourable construction upon what was said before her: no harsh or captious judgment of hers ever cooled the confidence of her friends. Thoughts were free, and might be uttered without responsibility before her, merely passing for what they were worth. Such gifts, had they been her only ones, would have made Madame de B's friends adore her; but how many others she possessed! It was impossible to feel ennui in her company. There was a charm in her wit and manner, that made even trifles interesting the moment they engrossed her attention.

Charles bore some resemblance to his mother. His mind like her's was liberal and just, but firm, and without modification, for youth allows of none; it finds every thing either quite right or quite wrong, while the failing of old age is to believe that nothing is ever quite right or quite wrong. Charles was endowed with the two first qualities of his age, – truth and justice. I have already said, that he hated the very shadow of affectation; nay, he sometimes fancied it where it did not exist. Reserve was habitual to him, and this made his confidence the more flattering, as it was evidently the result of his esteem, and not of his natural propensity; whatever portion of it he granted, was of value, for he never acted inconsiderately, and yet was always natural and sincere. He placed such full reliance in me, that his thoughts were communicated to me as quickly as they came. When we were all seated round our table of an evening, how interesting were our conversations. Our old Abbé took his share in them; he had made out to himself such a completely false set of ideas, and maintained them with so much good faith, that he was an inexhaustible source of amusement to Madame de B.; her clear and penetrating judgment drew out the poor man's absurdities (he never taking it amiss), and she would throw in keen traits of good sense over his orderly system, which we used to compare to the heavy strokes of Charlemagne's or Roland's sword.

Madame de B. was fond of exercise; we used to walk in the forest of St. Germain every morning; she leaning on the Abbé, and I following with Charles at a distance. It was then he would unburthen his mind to me, and tell me his thoughts, his projects, his future hopes, and above all, his opinion upon men and passing events. He had not a secret feeling hidden from me, and was unconscious of disclosing one. The habit of relying upon my friendship had made it like his own life to him. He enjoyed it without knowing that he did. He demanded neither attention nor expressions of interest from me; he knew that, in speaking to me of his own concerns, it was as though he spoke to me of mine, and that I felt more deeply for him than he did for himself. Friendship like this was a charm that equalled the sensations of happiness itself!

I never thought of telling Charles what had so long oppressed me. I listened to him, and, by I know not what magical effect, his conversation banished from my mind the recollection of my sorrows. Had he questioned me, I should have confessed them all, but he did not imagine that I had any secret. Every body was accustomed to my weak state of health, and Madame de B. had striven so much to make me happy, that she had a right to think me so. So I ought to have been, I felt it, and often accused myself of ingratitude and folly. I doubt whether I should have ever dared to own how miserable the irreparable misfortune of my colour made me. There is a sort of degradation in not being able to submit to necessity, and when hopeless grief masters the soul, it bears the character of despair. There was a rigidity in Charles's notions, which likewise increased my timidity. One evening our conversation turned upon pity, and it was asked, whether misfortune inspires most compassion from its cause or from its effects. Charles decided for the former; this was declaring that all grief should be actuated by some powerful motive. But who can judge the motives of another? All hearts have not the same wants; and does not real misfortune consist in the heart's being deprived of its desires? It was seldom, however, that our conversations thus led me to reflect upon my own case, which I so earnestly sought to forget. I would have no looking-glasses in my room. I constantly wore gloves, and dresses that covered my throat and arms. I had a large hat and veil to walk out in, which I often continued to wear in doors: in short, I would fain have deceived myself, and, like a child, shut my own eyes, and thought that no one saw me.

Towards the end of the year 1795, the reign of terror being at an end, friends began to seek each other out, and the scattered remains of Madame de B.'s society rallied round her. With chagrin I beheld the circle of her friends increase, for the station I held in the world was so equivocal, that the more society returned to its natural order, the more I felt myself excluded from it. Every time that strangers came to visit us I underwent fresh misery. The expression of surprise, mingled with disdain, that I observed upon their countenances when they first beheld, me, put me to confusion. I was sure to become the subject of an aparté in the window-seat, or of a whisper in a corner, that it might be explained how a negress came to be admitted as an inmate in Madame de B.'s society. I used to suffer martyrdom during these explanations. I longed to be transported back to my barbarous country and its savage inhabitants, whom I should fear less than this cruel world that made me responsible for its own evils. The recollection of a disdainful look would remain upon me for whole days, appear to me in my dreams, flit before me under the likeness of my own image. Alas! such were the chimeras that I suffered to disturb me. Thou, my God! hadst not yet taught me to dispel these phantoms; I knew not that repose was to be found in thee.

I then sought for shelter in the heart of Charles. I was proud of his virtues, and still prouder of his friendship. I admired him as the most perfect being that I knew upon earth. I once thought that I felt for him the most tender love of a sister; but now, worn by grief, it seemed as if I had grown old, and my tenderness was become that of a mother. Indeed, a mother only could feel the same passionate desire for his success, and anxiety for his welfare through life. I would willingly have given up my existence to save him from a moment's pain. I saw the impression he made upon others long before he did. He was happy enough neither to think nor care about it. This was natural, for he had nothing to fear; nothing to give him that habitual uneasiness I felt about the opinion of others. His fate was all harmony, mine was all discord.

One morning an old friend called upon Madame de B., confidentially entrusted with a proposal of marriage for Charles. Mademoiselle de Thémines had suddenly become a rich heiress in the most distressing manner. Her whole family, excepting her great aunt, had perished on the scaffold in one day. This lady (having reached her eightieth year) as sole guardian of her niece, was exceedingly anxious to have her married, lest her own death should leave her without a single protector. Anais de Thémines, besides possessing the advantages of birth, wealth, and education, was beautiful as an angel. It was impossible that Madame de B, should hesitate; she spoke to her son, who (though he at first showed some reluctance at marrying so early) expressed a desire to see Mademoiselle de Thémines. The interview took place, and his reluctance vanished. Anais was formed to please him. She appeared so unconscious of her charms, and possessed modesty so unassuming and quiet, that she could not fail endearing herself to him; he was allowed to visit at her aunt's, and soon became passionately in love with her. I knew the progress of his feelings, and longed to behold this lovely creature to whom his happiness was soon to be entrusted. She came one morning to St. Germains. Charles had spoken of me to her, and I had no contemptuous scrutiny to undergo. She appeared to me an angel of goodness; I assured her that Charles would make her happy, and that his discretion was so much above his years, that she need have no apprehensions on account of his youth. She questioned me much about him, for she knew that we had been friends from infancy, and I was so delighted at having an opportunity of extolling his many virtues, that I could have talked for ever.

Some weeks passed before the marriage took place for the settlement of business, and Charles spent most part of that time at Madame de Thémines, sometimes remaining two or three days at a time in Paris. His absence pained me; I felt vexed at losing him, and vexed with myself for preferring my own happiness to his. I had never done so before. The days that he returned home were holidays for me. Then he would tell me how he had passed his time, what progress he had made in the affections of his mistress, and rejoice with me at the success he had met with, Once, he began (describing to me the manner he intended to live with her) – "I will obtain her conscience," said he, "and give her mine. All my thoughts shall be open to her, every secret impulse of heart will I tell her; in short, I wish the same mutual trust and confidence to be between us as between you and me, Ourika." The same confidence! How this pained me. I recollected that he knew not the only secret I ever had, and determined never to let him know it.

By degrees his absences became longer and more frequent, until at last he used merely to come to St. Germains for a few minutes at a time (generally on horseback, to save time on the road), and always returning to Paris the same afternoon, so that we completely lost his company of an evening. Madame de B. used to joke him for having deserted us, would I could have done so too! One morning, as we were walking in the forest, I perceived him coming full gallop at a distance. He had been absent nearly the whole week; as he approached us, he jumped from his horse, and began walking with us. After a few minutes general conversation, we remained behind, and began conversing as in former times. I remarked it. "In former times!" cried he, "Had I ever any thing to say in former times? I have only begun to exist since I have known my Anais! Ah, Ourika, I never can express to you what I feel for her. Sometimes it seems to me as if my whole soul were passing into her's. When she looks at me I can no longer breathe; – if she blushes, I long to throw myself in adoration at her feet; – and when I think that I am to become the protector of this angel, and that she trusts her happiness, her life, her fate to me, ah! how proud am I of my own! I shall replace the parents she has lost, but I shall likewise be her husband! her lover! Her first affections will be mine, – our hearts will flow into each other, and our lives mingle into one; nor during their whole current, shall she have to say that I have given her an hour's pain.

"How rapturous are my feelings, Ourika, when I reflect that she will be the mother of my children, and that they will owe their life to my Anais! Ah! they will be beautiful and good as she is! Tell me, merciful heaven, what have I done to deserve such happiness?"

Oh! what a different question was I then addressing there! I had listened to his passionate discourse with the most unaccountable sensations. Thou knowest, O Lord, that I envied not his happiness, but why gavest thou life to poor Ourika? Why did she not perish on board the slave ship she was snatched from, or on the bosom of her mother. A little African sand would have covered her infant body, and light would have been the burthen. Why was Ourika condemned to live? To live alone? Ever and for ever alone? Never to be loved! O my God! do not permit it! Take thy poor Ourika from hence! No creature wants her; must she linger desolate through life!

This heart-rending thought seized me with more violence than it ever had. I felt my knees sinking under me. My eyes closed, and I thought that I was dying.

At these words the poor Nun's agitation increased. Her voice faultered, and a few tears ran down her withered cheeks. I besought her to suspend her narration, but she refused. "Do not heed me," said she, "grief has no hold over my heart now: it has been rooted out of it. God has taken pity on me, and has saved me from the abyss I had fallen into, for want of knowing and of loving him. Remember that I am happy now, but alas! how miserable I was then!"

Until the moment I have just been speaking of, I had borne with my grief; it had undermined my health, but I still preserved a kind of power over my reason. Like a worm in fruit, it ate through my very heart, while all seemed full of life without. I liked conversation; discussion animated me; I had even the gaiety of repartee. In short, until then my strength had surpassed my sorrow, but I felt that my sorrow would now surpass my strength.

Charles carried me home in his arms. Succour was promptly administered to me, and I returned to my senses. I found Madame de B. by my bed-side, and Charles holding one of my hands. They had both attended me, and the sight of their anxious, sorrowful countenances penetrated my very soul. I felt life flow again. My tears began to flow, Madame de B. gently wiped them away. She said not a word, did not ask a question, while Charles overwhelmed me with a thousand. I know not what I answered. I attributed my indisposition to the heat and fatigue. He believed it, and all my bitter feelings returned on perceiving that he did; I immediately ceased weeping. How easy is it, thought I, to deceive those whose interest lies not with you! I withdrew my hand, which he was holding, and strove to assume a tranquil air.

Charles left us as usual at five o'clock. I felt hurt at his doing so. I would have wished him to be uneasy about me. Indeed I was suffering greatly! He would still have gone to his Anais, for I should have insisted on it, but he would have owed the pleasure of his evening to me, and that might have consoled me. I carefully hid this sensation from him. Delicate feelings have a sort of chastity about them. They should be guessed, or they are thrown away. There must be sympathy on both sides.

Scarcely had Charles left us, than I was seized with a violent fever, which augmented the two following days. Madame de B. watched me with her usual tenderness. She was distracted at the state I was in, and at the impossibility of removing me to Paris, whither the celebration of her son's marriage obliged her to go the next day.

My physician answered for my life, if I remained at St. Germain, and she at last consented to leave me. The excessive tenderness she showed on parting with me, calmed me for an instant; but after her departure, the real and complete loneliness I was left in for the first time, threw me into despair. The vision was realized that my imagination had so long dwelt upon; I was dying far away from those I loved; the sound of my lamentations reached not their ear. Alas! it would but have disturbed their joy. I fancied them given up to the most ecstatic bliss, whilst I lay pining on my sickbed. They were all I cared for in the world, but they wanted not my care. I had but them through life, yet I was not wanted by them. The frightful conviction of the uselessness of my existence made me sick of it. It was a pang not to be endured, and sincerely I prayed that I might die of my illness. I neither spoke or gave any sign of life. The only distinct idea I could express in my mind was, I wish I could die. Then at other times I became excessively agitated. All that had passed in my last conversation with Charles rushed into my mind. I saw him lost in the ocean of delight he had pictured to me, whilst I was abandoned to a death as solitary as my life. This produced a kind of irritation, more painful to endure than grief; I increased it by filling my brain with chimeras; I fancied Charles coming to St Germain, being told that I was dead, and being made miserable by my death. Can it be believed? The idea, of grieving him rejoiced me. It would be a revenge. Revenge! for what? for his goodness, for his having been the protecting angel of my life? Such guilty thoughts were soon replaced by horror, at having conceived them. My grief I thought no crime, but thus giving way to it, might lead to one: then I tried to collect my inward strength, that it might fight against this irritation; but even that I sought not where I should have found it. I was ashamed of my ingratitude. Oh! let me die, I exclaimed, but let no wicked passions enter my heart. Ourika is a portionless orphan, but innocence is yet her's. Let her not tarnish it by ingratitude. She will pass away like a shadow upon earth, but in her grave she will at least rest in peace. Her friends are all happy, then let Ourika be so, and die as the leaves fall in autumn? I fell into a state of languor when this dangerous fever left me. Madame de B. continued to reside at St. Germain, after Charles's marriage. He often visited her, accompanied by his Anais, never without her. I always suffered more when they were present. I know not whether the image of their happiness made me feel my misfortune more acutely, or that the sight of Charles renewed my remembrance of our old friendship, which I sought to find what it once was, but could not. Yet he always spoke to me just as before: it resembled the friendship he used to show me, as the artificial flower does the natural one. It was the same, except that it had neither life nor perfume.

Charles attributed the change in my temper to the weakness of my constitution. I believe that Madame de B. knew more of its real cause: she guessed my secret, and was sensibly affected by it.

Anais gave hopes of increasing her family, and we returned to Paris. My languor increased daily. The spectacle of domestic happiness so peaceful – of family bonds so endearing – of love so passionate and yet so tender – was misery to a poor wretch who was doomed to live in no other bonds but those of dependence and pity.

Days and months passed on thus. I took no share in conversation: my talents were neglected: the only books I could endure were those in which a feeble picture of my own sufferings was traced. I fed upon these poisons, – I feasted on my tears, – and remained shut up in my room whole hours giving way to them.

The birth of a son completed the measure of Charles's happiness. He came, his heart overflowing with joy, to give me the news; and I recognised in the expressions of his delight, some of the accents of his former confidence. It was the voice of the friend that I had lost, and brought painful remembrances back with it. The child of Anais was as beautiful as herself. Every body felt moved at the sight of this tender young mother and her sweet infant. I alone beheld them with bitter envy. "What had I done that I should have been brought to this land of exile? Why was I not left to follow my destiny? – Well, if I had been the negro slave of some rich planter, sold to cultivate his land, exposed all day to the burning heat of the sun; still when evening came and my toils were over, I should have found repose in my humble cottage. I should have a sharer in them, a companion through life, and children of my own colour to call me mother! They would have pressed their infant lips upon my cheek without disgust, and lain their little heads to sleep upon my bosom. – Why am I never to experience the only affection my heart was made for? Oh my God! take me I beseech thee from this world, – I cannot, cannot endure life any longer!"

I was addressing this impious prayer to my Creator in agony, upon my knees, when my door opened, and the Marchioness de C – , who was just returned from England, entered the room. I beheld her approach with terror, for I too well remembered that she had first revealed my fate to me, – she had first caused my misery.

"My dear Ourika," said she, "I want to speak with you. You know that I have loved and admired you from your infancy, and I grieve to see you giving way to such deep melancholy. How comes it that you make not a better use of the ample resources of your mind?"

"The resources of the mind, Madam," answered I; "only serve to increase misfortunes by showing them under a thousand different forms." "But if those misfortunes are without remedy, is it not a folly to struggle against them, instead of submitting to necessity, which can compel even the strongest to yield?" – "True, Madam; but that only makes necessity a hardship the more." – "Still, you must own, Ourika, that reason commands us to resign ourselves, and divert our attention." – "We must have a glimpse of happiness elsewhere to be able to do so." – "Then cannot you try what occupation and forcing your mind to a little pleasure will do?" – "Ah! Madam, pleasures that are forced upon us are more tedious than melancholy." – "But why neglect your talents?" – "Talents must have some object (when they charm not their possessor,) ere they can become a resource. Mine would be like the flower of the English poet —