CHAPTER XVII.
What would life be without its varieties?
I forget where I have met with it--whether in the works of Kant and hisdisciples, or in the thoughts and imaginations attributed to Zoroaster,or in some of the lucubrations of Plato, or in the fragments ofEpicurus, whose doubtful philosophy has left the world at war as to histendency towards good or evil, virtue or vice: certainly it was not inPyrrho, who had nothing good in him, or in Confucius, the great teacherof the tea-growing nation--I forget where I have met with it; but amongthe many speculations, wise and foolish, learned and ignorant, fancifuland earthly, with which we children of the lower sphere from time totime have amused ourselves, sometimes reverently, sometimes impiously,sometimes with humility, sometimes audaciously, there is to be found atheory--perhaps it merely deserves the name of an hypothesis--whichattributes to the Deity, almost as an attribute, but, at all events, asa necessity, the endless variety of creations, and a satisfaction, if wemay use the term, in viewing the infinite multiplicity of his own works.
Without presuming, however, to raise our eyes to scan things that arehidden from us, or to reason upon any attributes of God except such ashe has deigned to reveal to us; without daring to lay down limits toinfinity, or, like the stupid idolaters of ancient times, the Greek andRoman inventors of the most barbarous worship that ever, perhaps, wasdevised, who, after making to themselves gods, and clothing those godswith all the most infamous of human passions, ended by enchaining theirvery deities themselves, under the law of a necessity which bound allthings, and left Godhead as impotent as humanity; without such audacityor such foolishness, we may well look round upon the universe exposed toour eyes, and, seeing that God has been pleased to render his creationsinfinite, we may at least feel certain that the varieties which he hasdisplayed are in themselves excellent and beautiful, each derivingpropriety from the other, and all forming a grand scheme in which thediversity of the parts is only one admirable feature. Our own eyes andour own senses, our own hearts and our own feelings, convince us of itevery moment; and, from the glorious mountain to the minute blade ofgrass which grows by its side, from the boundless ocean to the small,bright, glistening drop that dashes in spray upon the rocks that boundit, every variety contributes visibly to our delight, and to the beautyof the wonderful scene in which we dwell.
Variety, then, forms a part of enjoyment; but let it not be supposedthat the admission of this fact--derived, as we derive it, from theworks of God himself--can ever have a tendency to produce evil, togenerate the licentious desire of multiplying and changing pleasures, orto create the fickle and fluttering inconstancy which rangesdissatisfied from object to object. In the works of God, though thevarieties be infinite, and the contrasts sometimes immense, there isstill a general and beautiful harmony, a fine and exact adaptation ofevery part to the other. Each change and each variation has its end andobject, each step has its purpose, and each contrast ends in some grandresult.
By the same rules, however, must the search for variety be guided, asthe condition of producing happiness. Means of varying our pleasures,almost to infinity, have been given us by the Almighty, within thelimits which he has himself assigned to us. The enjoyment of His ownworks, the contemplation of His goodness, the devotion to His service,were alone sufficient, were man rightly wise, to afford more variedexercise to the human mind than would fill many a long life, even if theAlmighty had not loaded our pathway with opportunities of a thousandother gratifications, innocent in themselves, and endless in theircombinations. In fact, the variety which we seek in our way through lifemust be framed, not partially, but entirely, upon the model of thatwhich we see in creation. Each new endeavour, each alteration ofpursuit, must have its high object, and in itself be good; and, as weand our existence are but parts of a great system, so must each changebe part of the great system of our life.
In an humbler and in a lesser way, he who sits down to tell atale--intended not alone to while away an idle hour for himself or forothers, but also to do some good while it amuses--may well indulge infollowing every work of nature, and every page in the book of humanlife, and change the scene continually, varying the characters, thepersonages, the events which he depicts; but he must also bear in mindthat each is a part of one general scheme, each tends to one particularand distinct object.
From the court of France and the gay scenes of the capital we must oncemore travel back to the rugged mountain passes among which our talebegan, and to those in whose fate, to say sooth, we are the mostinterested. Although we are ourselves somewhat anxious to discover whathas become of the fair Isabel of Brienne--how her escape has beeneffected--where she is now wandering--how she is guided, guarded, andprotected--we must, nevertheless--though we suspect that her path wasdangerous, thorny, and sorrowful--return to Baron de Rohan, and leavehim no longer upon the side of the mountain.
The young cavalier rode on, accompanied by Corse de Leon, with as muchspeed as the rough and tortuous nature of the road would admit. The menwho brought the horses followed quickly after; and, in about twentyminutes, they reached the spot in the valley where the two roadsdivided, which we have already mentioned more than once. Here Corse deLeon was about to proceed at the same pace up the shorter road, leavingupon the left hand that by which, upon a former night, he had broughtback Isabel de Brienne to the castle of Masseran. One of his followers,however, instantly shouted to him: "Ho! signior, ho! you cannot go bythat road except on foot. It was that which kept us so long. The streamis swelled, and the bridge is gone again, and we were obliged to comeround the other way."
"The stream swelled!" said Corse de Leon, in a thoughtful tone. "Theremust be something going on farther up in the mountains. The snows mustbe melting, or some glacier breaking up! However, let us go on by thisother road. One of you remain here and see if we are followed," hecontinued, turning to the men behind him; "let the other go down to thecross, and tell Pinchesne and the rest to come over the hill. Let themleave one or two in the valley in case they should be wanted. Now let uson!" and he rode forward more slowly than before, though the left-handroad which he pursued was the longer of the two. He seemed, however, inone of those moody fits during which bitter memories continually mingledwith a natural current of powerful abstract thoughts, changing theircharacter from the calm reasoning of a man of acute and high-toned mindand intelligence, to morose and misanthropical ponderings, wherein allthe images were gloomy and harsh. At such times his whole conduct anddemeanour varied according to the mood of the moment: even his corporealgestures, the quickness or slowness of his pace, as well as his look andhis tone of voice, were all affected by what passed in his mind. When onhis guard, indeed, no one was more deliberate, thoughtful, and measured,in every look, word, and gesture; but that was a matter of habit andacquired self-command. By nature he was one of those whose wholecorporeal frame is, as it were unconsciously, the quick and ready slaveof the spirit.
A change had come over him since they had mounted their horses, and suchwas, in reality, the secret of his riding more slowly. He might beactuated, indeed, in some degree, by consideration for the animal onwhich he was mounted; for the way, as we have before said, was nearlytwo leagues longer, and the night was excessively hot and oppressive, sothat the white foam was already about the horse's neck and bridle. Thesky was clear of all clouds, however, and the stars were shining bright,though they seemed smaller and farther off than usual. As they turned,the distant pointed summit of an icy mountain was seen towering over oneof the passes, white and glittering in the starlight, while around it,without any visible clouds, there played occasionally brightcoruscations as of faint summer lightning. For some way Corse de Leondid not speak; but at length he said, putting his hand to his brow,"Were there any clouds in the sky, I should think there would be a stormto-night. It seldom happens that the elements, as is the case with humanlife, give us storms without clouds. We have generally some warning ofthe tempest."
"There is a moaning sound in the hills," said Bernard de Rohan,
"and yetI feel no wind. But do you not think," he continued, reverting to whathis companion had said, "do you not think that it generally happens inhuman life we have some forewarning of the storms that befall us?"
"Not from external things," replied Corse de Leon, "not from externalthings. Often, often without the slightest cause to fear a change,suddenly a thousand adverse circumstances combine to overwhelm us. It istrue, indeed it is true, that there may be other indications of adifferent kind."
"Ay," answered Bernard de Rohan, "that is what I mean. Do you not thinkthat when we have no external omens of what is coming--when no cloudblackens the sky--when no red sun announces the tempest of the followingday--do you not think that even then, within us, there may be a warningvoice which tells us of the storm that we see not, and bids us seek someshelter from its fury?"
"Like that low murmuring that we hear even now," said Corse de Leon.
"I remember," continued Bernard de Rohan, without marking his wordsparticularly, "that, not many days ago, as I was crossing the mountainsto come hither, a fit of gloom fell upon me: I knew not why; for all wasbright and cheerful in the prospect before me. I could not shake it offfor some time; and in vain I tried to scoff at my own feelings. Theywould have way: I felt as if some misfortunes were about to befall me;and, though not one of all the things which have since occurred could byany chance have been divined at the time, yet you see that misfortunesdid assail me even within a few days."
"Do you call these misfortunes?" demanded Corse de Leon. "You areyounger in heart than I even thought you were. But what you say isworthy of memory; if what you felt were really a presentiment of comingevils, take my word for it, they are scarcely yet begun: you will wantwatching and assistance," he added, thoughtfully; "you will need aid andhelp with a strong hand; I have not forgotten my promise, and I willkeep it. But quick, let us ride on! Our horses feel that there issomething coming, and I would fain reach Gandelot's inn before itcomes."
"I should suppose," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that it offers veryinefficient shelter. It is built so completely at the foot of themountain, that I wonder the snows in winter do not overwhelm it."
"It has twice been crushed under an avalanche," replied his companion,"and they still build it up again on the same spot; but what the househas to fear is as much the water as the snow; and it is because it is noplace of shelter that I would fain be there."
Bernard de Rohan understood him in a moment; and the thought of Isabelde Brienne was quite sufficient to make him spur on eagerly. About halfa league farther, the road turned a projection of the mountain, and,shortly after they had passed the angle of the rock, the spray of acataract dashed in their faces, while an immense volume of water rushedfuriously down from a spot some hundred yards above them, looking inthat dim hour like some vast giant robed in white and leaning againstthe mountain. The torrent itself gushed across the road, and Bernard deRohan turned his eyes upon his companion, not recollecting such anobstruction in their way.
"Some four or five hours ago," said Corse de Leon, "when I passed bythat spot, there was scarcely water enough to quench the thirst of awolf, and now it is a torrent. There is some great commotion abovethere. But perhaps it is all past, and these may be the results. We musttry and force our horses through, however; keep as close to the face ofthe rock as possible."
So saying, he spurred on; but it was with the greatest difficulty thateither he or his companion compelled their horses to make the attempt topass the torrent. The pattering of the spray and the roaring of thestream terrified and bewildered them; and when, at length, urgedforward, partly by chiding, partly by gentleness, they did dash on, theanimals bore their riders through the midst of the current, where theground was rough and insecure. Twice the charger which bore Bernard deRohan stumbled, and nearly fell, and twice, though drenched with thepouring of the water on his head, and gasping for breath under therushing weight upon him, he aided the horse up with heel and hand tillhe reached the other side and stood on firm ground.
Wellnigh stunned and bewildered, he turned to look for Corse de Leon.The brigand was standing beside him dismounted from the horse, andholding the animal by the rein with one hand, while he raised the othertowards the sky with a look of eager, yet solemn attention. The nextinstant he grasped the young cavalier's hand, exclaiming, "Stir not astep! It is coming, it is coming! Now, as ever, we stand in God's goodwill to live or die; but death is very near us."
At the same moment there came a roar as of distant cannon; many shot offat once; then a murmuring pause; then a roar again; and, as it came on,the deafening sound of the thunder itself would have been as nothing tothe terrific rushing noise that echoed through the hollow valleys. Itseemed as if a thousand sounds were mingled; for the howling of the windstill continued, as if imitating the screams and wailing of people inpain; while the crash of rocks falling upon rocks, and of the stouttrees of the forest rent into shivers, and of rolling masses of earthand snow, crags and cliffs, with one half the mountain itself, was aloneoverpowering by the very sound that beat upon the ear, even had it notbeen accompanied by an awful pressure of the air which took away thebreath, and a sense of coming annihilation which seemed to check thebeating of the heart even before death had stilled it with his icy hand.
There was time for but one short prayer to Him on high, and one thoughtof her he loved, before the crumbling ruin came down into the valley,sweeping close, past the very place where Bernard de Rohan stood. Rocksand stones rushed on before it, and one immense mass struck his horse onthe knees and chest, threw him backward on his haunches, and beast andrider rolled over the edge into the stream. For an instant he lost hisconsciousness; and then, waking to life, found himself in the valleybelow, dashed by the torrent against the rocky banks.
He had been thrown free, however, from the horse; and, though to swimwas impossible, from the crags, the trees, the projecting stones, andthe fierce struggling of the torrent, yet he contrived to grasp a ruggedbranch that hung over the water, swung himself to the bank, and sprangupon the land. It was all impulse, for he hardly knew how he found thebough or reached the firm ground. Even when there, he was fain to casthimself down, and press his hands upon his forehead, for everything swamround with him: the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet; and the roarof falling rocks and crags still mingled with the loud voice of theturbulent waters from which he had just escaped. The mightier sound,however, had passed away--that awful rushing noise, unlike anything elseon earth--and gradually, the others ceased also, till at length nothingwas heard but the flowing of the river, as it foamed and struggled withthe obstacles in its course.
When Bernard de Rohan could rise and look around him everything wasdark, except where in the sky appeared the twinkling myriads of thenight, beginning, he fancied, to look pale at the approach of morning.He listened in the hopes of hearing some voice; but, if there was any,it was drowned in the noise of the waters.
With a thousand painful apprehensions in his heart, with no way ofrelieving his anxiety, with nothing left but to wait for the return ofdaylight, he cast himself down again, after having called once or twicealoud upon Corse de Leon without receiving any answer. He could notdistinguish whither he had been borne. He could see some large treesstill standing near him, and some enormous black masses of rock liftingtheir heads around. The shadow of the giant mountain, too, rose upbefore him; but its form seemed changed, and he gazed as if to ascertainin what features it was altered.
Gradually the summit of the hill, warmed into a dusky brown, caught someof the rays of the rising sun, and--while every moment it assumed abrighter hue, till it crowned itself, and decorated the mists whichsurrounded it with gold--a sober twilight crept into the valley; andBernard de Rohan found himself standing in the gray morning with a worldof ruin and desolation around him, without a trace of road or humanhabitation, and with the narrow pass along which his way had been bentcompletely blocked up by the huge masses of the fallen mountain.
Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2) Page 17
