The Press. — London, England, 1853-06-25 00:00:00

yittraturt. Three Toler. By the Countess d'Arbouville. Translated from the French by Maunsell B. Field, M.A. New York : Harper and Co. Tins is the first collected edition we have met with of the deeply-pathetic tales by the Countess d'Arbouville. In their anxiety to gratify the American appetite for fresh fic• Lions, the transatlantic) publishers seem in this instance to have got the start of our London dealers in cheap literature. As the name of the accomplished authoress of these tales is new to many of our readers, we cannot better introduce her to their notice than by quoting a passage from Biackwood's Magasuee in which the Countess d'Arbouville is thus referred to : In the year 1543 a fimey fair was held at Paris, lot the benefit of the sufferers by en earthquake in the island of (ifelsefe. The patronage of the Queen of the French, *WM fib the strong empathy awakened by the catastrophe, filled the blamer with a p throng, deli ghted to combine aimusessent with clarity, and to chaffer for baubles with aristocratic saleswomen. Amidst the multitude of tasteful trifles exposed for sale was a contribution from Queen Marie' Amelie—flfty books, printed at the royal press and ideputly bound. They were fifty copies of a volume eon taitnng three charming tales, and soon it was whispered Hutt no others had been printed, and that the author was a lady of rank, distinguished for grace and wit, but whose literary talents were previously unknown, save to a limited circle of discreet and admiring Mends. At the Queen's request, and at the voice of pity, pleading for the unfortu nates of Point-1-litre, she had sanctioned the printing of fifty copies: these taken, the types had been broken up. Ruch rumours were more than sufficient to stimulate curio- sity, and raise the value of the volume. Increased celebrity was given to the volume in consequence of rumours that the Duchess of Orleans had a claim to the authorship. The real authoress, however, proved to be the Countess d'Arbouville, the wife of the lieute nant-general of that name, granddaughter of Madame d'Houdetot, and niece by marriage of Monsieur de Baranto. From such connec tions it would not have been too much to have expected great literary ability, and it is rarely that our expectations have been so fully re alised. We best characterise the Countess d'Arbou ville as a fictionist in saying that the volume now before us equals in merit the " Two Old Men's Tales," the first and finest production of Mrs. Marsh. As a mere storyteller the Coun tess d'Arbouville is not so practised as Mrs. Marsh, but she excels in a lyrical utterance of emotion, and picturesque felicity of descrip tion, while in the rhetoric of her composition she has a proficiency worthy of her country women, Madame do Stag and "George Sand." As far as our space will allow we will present some portions of " Christine Van Amberg," the first tale in the volume, to enable our readers to judge for themselves. The story is laid in Holland, and opens with this vivid description of local scenery : The sun rose—not brilliant and radiant like the sun of Spain or Italy, when his bright etlldgence, glowing over the horizon, recals suddenly to life all that breathes ; when, his golden rays mingling with the deep blue of a southern sky, everything seems IWI of sap and vigour, as if light produced life ; the sun rose over the cold land of Hollins' ; the clouds separated to allow the passage of a pale light, without warmth and without brilliancy. All nature passed insensibly from sleep to waking, and still continued torpid, when no longer slumbering. It was life In silence. No cry, no song of joy, no flight of birds, no lowing of herds salute the day. On the summit of the dykes the hears of reeds bend to the breeze, and the sea-sand, sweeping over this weak obstacle, falls upon the meadows and covers their verdure with a moving veil. A river with yellow waves, heavy with the slime of its banks, flows on quietly, without energy, and without love, towards the ocean which awaits it. From afar, its waters and its banks appear of the same colour, and only present the aspect of a sandy plain, except when, a ray of light flashing upon the wave, some silvery t i e isarkles reveal the river's course. Boats heavily &vigil pass along, towed by a team of horses who plunge their clumsy feet deep in the sand, raise them, plunge them again, and advance without haste to their journey's end, apparently unconscious of fatigue. Behind them a peasant walks with his whip upon his shoulder ; he pays no attention to the river which flows by, to the ani mals which are towing, nor to the boat which follows ; he walks, and, to reach his destination, makes use of nothing but perseverance. Such is not the general aspect of Holland, but such is one of the corners of the picture which strikes the weary rye of the traveller when he journeys over the north of that country ; which seems, more than any other, charged to make respected the cosoloood et tied to the sea ; " Thou shall pv farther 1" THE PRESS. This silence—this repose of all nature, animate and in animate—this subdued light—these shades everywhere in distinct—these great plains without any of the evidences of life and activity upon them—all this has its poetry. Wherever there is silence and space, poetry finds its place ; it has a love for all things—smiling landscapes and me lancholy deserts ; a bird of light wing, everything suffices for it to rest upon—everything bears it on—everything sustains it—a blade of grass often suffices. Holland, which the poet Butler called " a great ship al war at anchor," has its beauty for the reflecting mind. One is slow to admire, but one admires at last, thin land at war with the sea, struggling from day to day to defend its existence—those patient and courageous men, who behind • broken rampart raise another rampart--those towns which compel the waves to flow at the feet of their walls— to follow the route marked out—to confine themselves to the channel dug for them ; and then those days of revolt, when the water, as if in recollection of its original nature, endeavour,' to reconquer its independence, overflows, in =ditto', destroys, and finally, by the strength of man's hands, is calmed, and again becomes obedient. There life resembles the evening after a battle ; there is fatigue, pride, and triumph. The unexcitable inhabitant of this country possesses that motive power of all things--will. He is sure of success because he wills to succeed; he is calm because he is strong ; he acts slowly because he reflects. There is in the silence of serious things a beauty which the mind should study es it comprehends the harmony of a song —as it sees the colours of a picture. The plot of the story turns upon the sad theme of two young lovers whose affections are blasted by a stern and hard-hearted parent. The heroine of the tale is thus introduced meeting with the young student, Herbert : It was under this dome of verdure that the little boat was moored. There the young man mused, his eye wan dering from the sky, as gloomy as his heart, to the stream as uncertain as his destiny. Some of the willow leaves brushed his brow when the undulations of the boat brought him near the trees; one of his hands hanging over the side of the boat felt the cool contact of the water ; soft, gentle breeze played in his hair; nameless flowerets which had sprung up at the feet of the willows, beyond the influence of their shade, wafted towards the water per fumes which were detectable at intervals, according to the caprice of the wind ; a bird concealed in the foliage was singing an amorous melody, and, cradled in his bark, the young student waited for the woman whom he loved. Un grateful that he was ! lie accused time of lagging; he urged it to speed on ; he was insensible to the charms of the passing hour. Oh! if he ever grows old, how well will he understand that destiny was then giving him the most precious treaanres of life—hope and youth ! Suddenly the student started : he stood up in the boat, and, with outstretched neck and eyes fixed upon the foliage of the willows, listened, scarce daring to breathe. The branches parted, and the thee of a young girl, almost a child, was revealed to his gaze. " Christine ! " he exclaimed. The young girl placed her foot upon the trunk of the tree which inclined the moat; then gracefully placing her self upon this moveable seat, which her weight, slight as it was, caused to sway, she leaned her arm upon one of the branches which drooped towards the water, and in this posi tion her handreachedherlover's. He pressed itpassionately. Then the young girl drew hack ; the tree, partly relieved of its burden, as if in obedience to her will, yielded to the impulse, and the youth, seated in his boat, conversed with his eyes raised towards the willow upon which she whom he loved was reclining. Christine Van Amberg had nothing of the characteristic features of the country which had given her birth. Tresses as black as the raven's wing harmonised with a face full of energy and decision. There was that in her large, deep eyes under which falsehood must have quailed ; eyebrows almost straight, and strongly marked, would have given, perhaps, a little too much character to this youthful head, if a charming expression of truth and innocence had not produced rather the effect of a child's face than that of a woman. Christine was fifteen years old; a small band of silver encircled her black hair; this was, aooonling to the custom of her country, the ornament of festival days ; but for the young Hollander the happiest festival day was that on which she met her lover. She wore a dress of flowered muslin of a pale blue colour, and her mantle of black silk was thrown over her hair and fell down upon her shoulders, the better to conceal her from any prying eye. Seated upon the trunk of a tree whose branches surrounded her, and close by the water. Christine was as lovely as Shakspearc's Ophelia. Rut although young, beautiful. and beloved, a profound melancholy was expressed upon her face : her companion glued at her in sadness, his eyes almost filled with tears. . . . . . . " Herbert," said the young girl, bending her head to wards her lover, " Herbert, be not so sad. We have both of us too many days yet to live, to live them in unhappi ness. Herbert, a better time will come." " Christine, they have refused me your hand—they have closed the door of your dwelling against me—they are determined to separate us—they will succeed—to-morrow, perhaps !" " Never!" exclaimed the young girl, and a gleam like lightning passed over her face but, like lightning too, this energetic expression only lasted fin• a moment, and gave place to a look of calm sadness. The mother of Christine is a Spanish beauty married to a cold-blooded, hard-hearted Hol lander, and the contrast between the phlegm of the husband and the romance of his Span ish wife is beautifully painted. Taxed by her mother with having a lover, Christine makes the following girlia eoufebsion SATURDAY, I have nothing, mother, to confess with which you are not already acquainted. 1 love Herbert, You, who have followed my life step by step, you know that I must love Her bert. His was the first heart which I found open tome. Rein! lect, mother, the existence which you have made for me here. When I was a child I said to my sisters : " Come with me and run in the meadow, come and look for the birds'. nests, let us go and play and sing together !" My sistersan. swered ; " Go alone," and they remained seated upon the threshold turning the spinning-wheel. 1 did not play long; nothing on the earth pleased me; I looked at the sky, and it appeared to me very beautiful, especially when covered with all its stars : • calming influence seemed to come down from them to me. I fancied that the star covered sky hada voice so low that it was necessary to remain silent and motionless to hear it. I came to you, mother, as before I had been to my sisters; I said to you : " ther, let us together look at the sky ; are those stars worlds, whose inhabitants are as unhappy as we ? or are they heavens where tired souls will find repose?' And you answered : " Christine, avoid these thoughts ; tan the spinning-wheel as your sisters do." One voice alone on earth said to me : " I will go where you go, I will dream as you dream ; like c r o t t i m l e think that there is not love enough on earth, and 1 you, Christine, to love you!" This voice, mother, was Herbert's. Herbert is only a poor stu dent placed in my father's charge ; but he possesses a noble heart, somewhat sad like my own. He is learned, and he is gentle with those who are ignorant. He is poor, and be has the pride of a king. He loves, and he only speaks of it to her who knows it. Mother, I love Herbert—Herbert came honourably to ask my hand of my father, who only answered him with a disdainful smile. Since then Her. bert has been forbidden the house, and I have been com pelled to try to live without him. 1 have not succeeded. I have made many ncuraines upon the rosary which you gave me. I have seen you pray while you wept, mother, and 1 said to myself : " I weep as she does, I must pray se she does ;" but It happened that at the first break of day I once saw from afar a little boat descend to the river, ant then return and again descend ; from time to time a white sail fluttered in the air as we wave a handkerchief as a farewell signal to those who are leaving us. I was always thinking of Herbert ; it was therefore natural for me to think of him when I saw the boat ; 1 ran across the mea dow ; I reached the water's edge, mother : it was he ; he was expecting me ; he was waiting for me ! We talked sadly upon the pain of separation. I could only see him from a distance—his boat was rocking far below my feet. We conversed much in this way, losing some of our words in the noise of the wind in the trees; but enough remained to assure us that we should continue to love one another as long as we lived. This morning Herbert, discouraged in waiting for a change in our position, wished me to flee with him ; I might have done so, but I remained for yon, mother—Now you know all—and if I am guilty, forgive me. The father sends Christine to a convent, where she is immured for five years, and the lover, Herbert, is exiled to Batavia. The life in the convent, and its gloomy effect upon Christine, are described with vast power, and, although drawn by no unfavourable hand, we revolt from the picture presented to us : " What shall I do ? what will become of me ? " ex. claimed Christine. "Is there no place for me on earth — is there not a single heart to take pity on me ? These gates now closed upon me will only open to return me to my father ! What shall Ido ? " _ _ • " Obey and pray, my child," answered the superior. " Time will do the rest. Fear not, I will protect you.' " I cannot pray," exclaimed Christine. " Despair knows not the language of prayer. I rebel against my destiny. I wish to be free to love and to live in the open air; here, here, I cannot pray." The superior placed her hand on Christine's lips. " Then we will pray for you," she said. " Ali," exclaimed Cluistine, " if all my efforts to procure my liberty are powerless, there is in the world another who suffers as I do, and who will find means to deliver the poor prisoner. Herbert has told me that nothing is impossible for those who love. Herbert will come and rescue me." " Herbert has sailed for Batavia—he will remain there a long time ; thence he will go still farther; he has left Holland for many years." Christine uttered a shriek, and remained for some time completely overwhelmed by this last blow. After a while she raised her pale countenance, over which the tears were streaming, and said : " Now all places are indifferent to me—all garments are the same in my eyes. Herbert has abandoned me—he has consented to our eternal separation." Eight days afterward Christine assumed the dress of a poatulante; although she knew that it did not compromise her liberty, still she wept. Two lay sisters assisted her to dress. Motionless as a statue, Christine remained passive in their hands, but her heart protested energetically against all those promises to God which this costume seemed to imply. She desired her liberty, even it' all other happiness was denied her, and, in the excitement of her imagination, she dreamed of crossing the ocean to find her Herbert. Never did the pious garment of a postidante cover a more agitated heart—never was it watered with bitterer tears. When the toilet was all but completed, one of the sisters took Christine's hand, and attempted, in compliance with the rules, to remove a ring from one of her fingers. Christine abruptly withdrew her hand. " It was Herbert's gift," she exclaimed; "this ring, all that is left to me, will only leave me with life !" The superior entered the room. " 1 will keep this ring !" Christine repeated, pointing to the jewel which glittered on her finger. The superior requested the sisters to leave, and,