For a fortnight I was confined to my room, and I surrounded myself
with the books of the day (sixteen or seventeen years ago); I mean
those volumes which treat of the art of making people happy, wise and
rich, in twenty-four hours. I had thus digested--swallowed, I should
say--all the lucubrations of all those master-builders of the public
weal, of those who advise all the poor to enslave themselves, and of
those who persuade them they are all dethroned kings. There is, then,
naught surprising in the fact that I was in a state of mind bordering
on intoxication or stupidity.
It seemed to me merely that I felt, imprisoned in the depths of my
intelligence, the obscure germ of an idea superior to all the old
wives' formulæ the cyclopedia of which I had just run through. But it
was only the thought of a thought, a something infinitely vague.
And I went forth with a great thirst, for the impassioned taste of poor
reading engenders a proportionate need of open air and of refreshment.
As I was about to enter a tavern, a beggar held out his hat to me, with
one of those unforgettable glances that would tumble down thrones, if
the mental moved the material, and if a mesmerist's glance could ripen
grapes.
At the same time, I heard a voice which whispered at my ear, a voice
that I knew well: it was that of a good angel, or a good Demon, who is
with me everywhere. Since Socrates had his good Demon, why may not I
have my good Angel, and why may not I have the honor, like Socrates,
of securing my brevet in folly, signed by the subtle Lélut and the
well-advised Baillar get?[1]
There is this difference between the Demon of Socrates and my own,
that his manifested itself only to warn, to forbid, to prevent, and
that mine deigns to counsel, suggest, persuade. Poor Socrates had only
a Demon prohibitor; mine is a great affirmator, mine is a Demon of
action, or a Demon of combat.
Now, his voice whispered to me thus: "He alone is the equal of
another, that proves it; and he alone is worthy of liberty, that can
secure it."
Immediately I leapt upon the beggar. With one punch, I stopped an eye,
which became in a moment large as a ball. I broke one of my nails
shattering two of his teeth, and as I did not feel strong enough,
having been born delicate and having had but little practice in boxing,
to beat the old fellow to death right away, I grasped him by one hand
by the collar of his coat, and with the other I throttled him, and I
set to work dashing his head against a wall. I must avow that I had
first inspected the surroundings in a glance, and had made sure that
in that deserted suburb I should be long enough out of the reach of a
policeman.
Having then, with a kick in the back, hard enough to break his
shoulderblade, felled the enfeebled sexagenarian, I seized a great
branch of a tree which lay along the ground, and I beat him with the
determined energy of cooks trying to make a beefsteak tender.
All at once,--O miracle! O joy of the philosopher who proves the
excellence of his theory!--I saw that antique carcass turn about,
straighten up with an energy I should never have suspected in so
strangely disordered a machine--and, with a glance of hate that seemed
to me _good omen_, the decrepit ruffian hurled himself upon me,
blackened both my eyes, broke four teeth, and with the same branch beat
me stiff as a jelly. By my energetic medication, I had restored to him
pride and life.
Then I made any number of signs to him to make him understand that I
considered the matter closed, and, rising with the satisfaction of a
philosopher of the Porch, I said to him: "Sir, _you are my equal!_
Kindly do me the honor of sharing my purse; and remember, if you are
truly philanthropic, that you must apply to all your colleagues, when
they ask for alms, the theory that I have had the _sorrow_ of trying on
your back."
He swore to me that he understood my theory, and that he would obey my
counsels.
[Footnote 1: Famous Parisian alienists of the time.]