the same day on which the marquis wrote to his brother caroline wrote to her sister, and sketched, after her own manner, the country where she was.

séval, near chambon (creuse), may 1, '45.

at last, my sister, we are here, and it is a terrestrial paradise. the castle is old and small, but well arranged for comfort and picturesque enough. the park is sufficiently large, not any too well kept, and not in the english fashion—thank heaven!—rich in fine old trees covered with ivy, and in grasses running wild. the country is delightful. we are still in auvergne, in spite of the new boundaries, but very near to the old limits of la marche, and within a league of a little city called chambon, through which we passed on our way to the castle. this little town is very well situated. it is reached by a mountain ascent, or rather, through a cleft in a deep ravine; for mountain, properly speaking, there is none. leaving behind the broad plains of thin, moist soil, covered with small trees and large bushes, you descend into a long, winding gorge, which in some places enlarges into a valley. in the bottom of this ravine, which soon divides into branches, flow rivers of pure crystal, not navigable, and rather torrents than rivers, although they only whirl along, boiling a little, but threatening no danger. as for myself, having never known anything but our great plains and wide, smooth rivers, i am somewhat inclined to look upon all here as either hill or abyss; but the marchioness, who has seen the alps and the pyrenees, laughs at me, and pretends that all this is as insignificant as a table-cover. so i forbear to give you any enthusiastic description, lest i mislead your judgment; but the marchioness, who cannot be accused of an undue love of nature, will never succeed in preventing me from being delighted with what i see.

it is a country of grasses and leafage, one continual cradle of verdure. the river, which descends the ravine, is called the vouèze, and then, uniting with the tarde at chambon, it becomes the char, which, again at the end of the first valley, is called the cher, a stream that every one knows. for myself, i like the name char (or car); it is excellent for a stream like this, which in reality rolls along at about the pace of a carriage well under way down a gentle slope, where there is nothing to make it jolt or jar unreasonably. the road also is straight and sanded like a garden walk, lined too with magnificent beeches, through which one can see outspread the natural meadows that are just now one carpet of flowers. o, these lovely meadows, my dear camille! how little they resemble our artificial plains, where you always see the same plant on ground prepared in regular beds! here you feel that you are walking over two or three layers of vegetation, of moss, reeds, iris, a thousand kinds of grasses, some of them pretty, and others prettier still, columbines, forget-me-nots, and i know not what! there is everything; and they all come of their own accord, and they come always! it is not necessary to turn over the ground once in every three or four years to expose the roots to the air and to begin over again the everlasting harrowing which our indolent soil seems to need. and then, here, some of the land is permitted to go to waste or poorly tilled, or so it seems; and in these abandoned nooks nature heartily enjoys making herself wild and beautiful. she shoots forth at you great briers which seem inexhaustible and thistles that look like african plants, they flaunt such large coarse leaves, slashed and ragged, to be sure, but admirable in design and effect.

when we had crossed the valley,—i am speaking of yesterday,—we climbed a very rugged and precipitous ascent. the weather was damp, misty, charming. i asked leave to walk, and, at the height of five or six hundred feet, i could see the whole of this lovely ravine of verdure. the far-off trees were already crowding toward the brink of the water at my feet, while from point to point in the distance rustic mills and sluices filled the air with the muffled cadences of their sounds. mingled with all this were the notes of a bagpipe from i know not where, and which kept repeating a simple but pleasing air, till i had heard more than enough of it. a peasant who was walking in front of me began to sing the words, following and carrying along the air, as if he wanted to help the musician through with it. the words, without rhyme or reason, seemed so curious that i will give them to you—

"alas! how hard are the rocks!

the sun melts them not,—

the sun, nor yet the moon!

the lad who would love

seeketh his pain."

there is always something mysterious in peasant songs, and the music, as defective as the verses, is also mysterious, often sad and inducing revery. for myself, condemned as i am to do my dreaming at lightning speed, since my life does not belong to me, i was forcibly impressed by this couplet, and i asked myself many times why "the moon," at least, did not melt the rocks; did this mean that, by night as well as by day, the grief of the peasant lover is as heavy as his mountains?

on the top of this hill, which appropriately bristles with these large rocks, so cruelly hard,—the marchioness says they are small as grains of sand, but then i never happened to see any such beautiful sand,—we entered upon a road narrower than the highway, and, after walking a little way amid enclosures of wooded grounds, we found ourselves at the entrance of the castle, which is entirely shaded by the trees, and not imposing in appearance; but on the other side it commands the whole beautiful ravine that we had just passed through. you can see the deep declivity, with its rocks and its bushes, the river too with its trees, its meadows, its mills, and the winding outlet through which it flows, between banks growing more and more narrow and precipitous. there is in the park a very pretty spring, which rises there, to fall in spray along the rocks. the garden is well in bloom. in the lower court there is a lot of animals which i am permitted to manage. i have a delightful room, very secluded, with the finest view of all; the library is the largest apartment in the house. the drawing-room of the marchioness, in its furniture and arrangement, calls to mind the one in paris; but it is larger, not so deadening to sound, and one can breathe in it. in short, i am well, i am content, i feel myself reviving; i rise at daybreak, and until the marchioness appears, which, thank heaven, is no earlier here than in paris, i am going to belong to myself in a most agreeable fashion. o, how free i shall be to walk, and write to you, and think of you! alas! if i only had one of the children here, lili or charley, what delightful and instructive walks we could take together! but it is in vain for me to fall in love with all the handsome darlings that i meet, for it does not last. a moment after i compare them with yours, and i feel that yours will have no serious rivals in my affections, and in the midst of my rejoicing at being in the country, comes the thought that i am farther from you than i was before!—and when shall i see you again?

"alas! how hard are the rocks!" but it's of no use to struggle against all of those which cumber the lives of poor people like us. i must do my duty and become attached to the marchioness. loving her is not difficult. every day she is more kind to me; she is really almost like a mother to me, and her fancy for petting and spoiling me makes me forget my real position. we expected to find the marquis on our arrival, since he promised to meet his mother here. it cannot be long before he comes. as for the duke, he will be here, i think, next week. let us hope that he will be as civil to me in the country as he has been lately in paris, and not oblige me to show my temper.

at another time caroline reported to her sister the opinions of the marchioness on country life.

"'my dear child,' said she to me not long since, 'in order to love the country one must love the earth stupidly, or nature unreasonably. there is no mean between brutal stupidity and enthusiastic folly. now you know that if i have anything excitable or even sanguine in my composition, it is for the concerns of society rather than for what is governed by the laws of nature, which are always the same. those laws are the work of god, so they are good and beautiful. man can change nothing in them. his control, his observation, his admiration, even his descriptive eloquence, add nothing at all to them. when you go into ecstasies over an apple-tree in bloom, i do not think you are wrong; i think, on the contrary, that you are very right, but it seems to me hardly worth while to praise the apple-tree which does not hear you, which does not bloom to please you, and which will bloom neither the more nor the less, if you say nothing to it. be assured that when you exclaim, "how beautiful is the spring!" it is just the same as if you said, "the spring is the spring!" well, then, yes, it is warm in summer because god has made the sun. the river is clear because it is running water, and it is running water because its bed is inclined. it is beautiful because there is in all this a great harmony; but if it had not this harmony, all the beauty would not exist.'

"thus you see the marchioness is nothing of an artist, and that she has arguments at her service for not understanding what she does not feel; but in this is she not like the rest of the world, and are we not all acting like her, with respect to any faculty we may happen to lack?

"as she was thus talking, seated on a garden bench much fatigued with the 'exercise' she had taken,—namely, a hundred paces on a sanded walk,—a peasant came to the garden gate to sell fish to the cook, who was bargaining with him. i recognized this peasant as the one who had walked before me on the day of our arrival, singing the song about the 'hard rocks.' 'what are you thinking of?' asked the marchioness, who saw that i was observing him.

"'i am thinking,' i replied, 'of watching that stout fellow. it is no longer an apple-tree or a river, you see, and he has a peculiar countenance, with which i have been struck.'

"'how, pray?'

"'why, if i were not afraid to repeat a modern word of which you seem to have a horror, i should say that this man has character.'

"'how do you know? is it because he is obstinate about the price of his fish? ah! that's it; but pardon me. character! the word, you see, has become a pun in my mind. i have forgotten to think of it as used in literature—or art. a piece of dress goods, a bench, a kettle, have character now; that is to say, a kettle has the shape of a kettle, a bench looks like a bench, and dress goods have the effect of dress goods? or is it the contrary, rather? have dress goods the character of a cloud, a bench that of a table, and a kettle that of a well? i will never admit your word, i give you warning!'—and then she began to talk about the neighboring peasantry. 'they are not bad people,' said she; 'not so much given to cheating as to wheedling. they are eager for money, because they are in want of everything; but they allow themselves nothing from the money which they make. they hoard up to buy property, and, when the hour has come, they are intoxicated with the delight of acquisition, buy too largely, borrow at any price, and are ruined. those who best understand their own interests become usurers and speculate on this rage for property, sure that the lands will return to them at a lower price, when the purchaser shall have become bankrupt. this is why some peasants climb up into the citizen class, while the greater number fall back lower than ever. it is the sad side of the natural law, for these people are governed by an instinct almost as fatal and blind as that which makes the apple-tree blossom. so the peasant interests me but little. i assist the lame and the half-witted, the widows and children, but the healthy ones are not to be interfered with. they are more headstrong than their mules.'

"'then, madame, what is there here to interest one?'

"'nothing. we come here because the air is good, and because we can benefit our health and purse a little. and then it is the custom. everybody leaves paris at the earliest possible moment. one must go away when the others do.'"

* * * * *

"you see, dear camille, by this specimen of our conversation, that the marchioness looks gloomily upon the present age, and you can, too, by the same means, now form some idea of this 'talking life' of hers, which you said you could not understand. upon every subject she has an intelligent criticism always ready, sometimes bright and good-natured, sometimes sharp and bitter. she has talked too much in the course of her life to be happy. thinking of two or three or thirty people, continually, and without taking time to collect one's self, is, i believe, a great abuse. one ceases to question one's self, affirming always; for otherwise there could be no discussion, and all conversation would cease. condemned to this exercise, i should give way to doubt or to disgust of my fellow-creatures, if i had not the long morning to recover myself and find my balance again. although madame de villemer, by her wit and good-humor, throws every possible charm about this dry employment of our time, i long for the marquis to come and take his share in this dawdling oratory."

the marquis did really arrive in the course of a week or ten days, but he was worried and absent-minded, and caroline noticed that he was peculiarly cold toward her. he plunged directly into his favorite pursuits, and no longer allowed himself to be seen at all till the hour of dinner. this peculiarity was the more evident to mlle de saint-geneix, because the marquis seemed to be making more effort than he had ever done before to stand his ground in discussions with his mother,—to the very great satisfaction of the latter, who feared nothing in the world but silence and wandering attention; so that caroline, seeing herself no longer needed to spur on a lagging conversation, and getting the impression that she paralyzed the marquis more than she assisted him, was less assiduous in profiting by his presence, and took it upon herself to withdraw early in the evening.