Chapter 1

I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.

I was born in Geneva, and my family is one of the most distinguished in the republic. My ancestors served for many years as councilors and syndics. My father held several public offices with honor and distinction. Everyone who knew him respected him for his integrity and tireless attention to public affairs. He spent his younger years constantly occupied with his country’s affairs. Various circumstances prevented him from marrying early. He did not become a husband and father until late in life.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.

The circumstances of his marriage reveal his character, so I cannot resist telling the story. One of his closest friends was a merchant who had once prospered but fell into poverty after many misfortunes. The man’s name was Beaufort. He was proud and unbending, and he could not bear to live in poverty and obscurity in his own country. There, he had once been known for his rank and splendor. So, after paying his debts as honorably as he could, he withdrew with his daughter to the town of Lucerne. There, he lived in misery, unknown to anyone. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply saddened that he had withdrawn in such unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly regretted the false pride that had led his friend to act in a way so unworthy of their affection. He immediately set out to find Beaufort, hoping to persuade him to start over with my father’s credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.

Beaufort had hidden himself well, and it was ten months before my father found where he lived. Overjoyed by the discovery, my father hurried to the house, on a poor street near the Reuss. But when he entered, only misery and despair greeted him. Beaufort had saved very little money from the ruin of his fortune. Still, it was enough to support him for a few months. Meanwhile, he hoped to find respectable work at a merchant’s firm. So he spent that time doing nothing. With time to reflect, his grief only grew deeper and more painful. At last, it took such hold of his mind that, after three months, he lay sick in bed, unable to do anything.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.

His daughter cared for him with great tenderness. But she saw with despair that their small savings were quickly running out, and they had no other means of support. Caroline Beaufort had an unusually strong mind, and her courage rose to sustain her in hardship. She found simple work, braided straw, and earned money in other ways. She made barely enough to keep them alive.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

Several months passed this way. Her father grew worse, and she spent more and more of her time caring for him. Her means of support dwindled, and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This final blow overwhelmed her. She was kneeling by Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the room. He came like a guardian spirit to the poor girl, who placed herself in his care. After his friend’s burial, he took her to Geneva and placed her under a relative’s protection. Two years later, Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.

There was a considerable difference in my parents’ ages, but it seemed only to bring them closer in devoted affection. My father had a strong sense of justice, and he could not love deeply without also thinking highly of someone. Perhaps, in earlier years, he had discovered too late that someone he loved was unworthy. If so, he may have come to value proven virtue all the more. His love for my mother showed gratitude and devotion, quite unlike the doting affection of an old man. It came from his respect for her virtues and his desire to make up, in some measure, for her sorrows. This gave his behavior toward her an indescribable grace. Everything was made to serve her wishes and comfort. Like a gardener sheltering a delicate foreign flower, he tried to protect her from every harsh wind. He surrounded her with everything that might bring pleasure to her gentle and kind heart. What she had endured had shaken her health and even the calm of her once steady spirit. During the two years before their marriage, my father had gradually given up all his public duties. Immediately after their marriage, they went to Italy, hoping its pleasant climate would restore her weakened body. They also hoped that a tour through that land of wonders would help her through a change of scenery and interests.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.

From Italy, my parents traveled to Germany and France. I was their eldest child, born in Naples, and I traveled with them as an infant. For several years, I was their only child. Though they were deeply attached to each other, they seemed to have an endless supply of love for me. My earliest memories are of my mother’s tender caresses and my father’s loving, pleased smile as he looked at me. I was their plaything and their idol, but also something better: their child. Heaven had given them an innocent, helpless creature to raise to be good. My future happiness or misery was in their hands, depending on how well they fulfilled their duties to me. They deeply understood what they owed the child they had brought into the world. Both were also full of active tenderness. So, although every hour of my infancy taught me patience, kindness, and self-control, they guided me so gently that everything seemed like one continuous pleasure.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

For a long time, I was their only concern. My mother had greatly wanted a daughter, but I remained their only child. When I was about five, they traveled beyond the borders of Italy and spent a week on the shores of Lake of Como. Their kindness often led them into the cottages of the poor. For my mother, this was more than a duty. It was a need, a passion. She remembered what she had suffered and how she had been helped. Now she needed to be a guardian angel to those in distress. During one of their walks, they noticed a poor cottage tucked into a valley. It looked unusually desolate, and the number of half-clothed children gathered around it showed poverty at its worst. One day, when my father had gone alone to Milan, my mother took me to visit the cottage. She found a peasant and his wife sharing a meager meal among five hungry little children. They were hard-working people, worn down by worry and labor. One child drew my mother's attention far more than the others. She seemed to come from a different family. The other four were dark-eyed, sturdy little wanderers. This child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold. Despite her poor clothing, it seemed to crown her with distinction. Her forehead was smooth and broad, and her blue eyes were clear. Her lips and the shape of her face expressed such sensitivity and sweetness that no one could look at her without seeing her as a different kind of being, sent from heaven and bearing a heavenly mark in every feature.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

The peasant woman saw my mother gazing at the lovely girl with wonder and admiration. She eagerly told my mother the girl’s story. The girl was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was German and had died giving birth to her. The baby had been placed with these good people to be nursed. They were better off then. They had not been married long, and their eldest child had just been born. The girl’s father was one of those Italians raised on memories of Italy’s ancient glory. He was one of the schiavi ognor frementi, and he worked to win freedom for his country. He became a victim of his country’s weakness. No one knew whether he had died or still lingered in an Austrian dungeon. His property was confiscated, and his child became an orphan and a beggar. She stayed with her foster parents and blossomed in their humble home, lovelier than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my pleasures.

When my father returned from Milan, he found a child playing with me in the hall of our villa. She was more beautiful than a painted cherub. Her face seemed to shine, and her form and movements were lighter than those of a mountain chamois. Her presence was soon explained. With my father’s permission, my mother had persuaded the country people caring for her to let her take the child. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them. But it would be unfair to keep her in poverty and need when Providence had offered her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and Elizabeth Lavenza came to live in my parents’ house. She became more than a sister to me, the beautiful and adored companion of all my activities and pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. I shared the passionate, almost reverent affection everyone felt for her, and it was my pride and delight. The evening before she was brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor. Tomorrow he shall have it.” The next day, she presented Elizabeth to me as the gift she had promised. With childish seriousness, I took her words literally. I saw Elizabeth as mine, mine to protect, love, and cherish. Whenever anyone praised her, I took it as praise for something I owned. We called each other cousin. No word or expression could describe the relationship between us. She was more than a sister to me, since she was to be mine alone until death.