"What o'clock is it?"
"Three o'clock, sir."
Then, without rising, I stretched out my arm, and opened the door that
separated my room from the forecastle.
The two men were squatting in the low den, through which the mast
passes in fitting into the step; the den was full of such strange and
odd things, that one might take it for a haunt of thieves; in perfect
order along the partitions, instruments of all kinds were suspended:
saws, axes, marling spikes, pieces of rigging, and saucepans; on the
floor between the two berths, a pail, a stove, a barrel with its copper
circles, glistening under the immediate ray of light from the lantern
which hangs between the anchor bitts, by the side of the cable tiers;
and my men were busy, baiting the innumerable hooks hanging all along
the fishing lines.
"At what hour must I get up?" I asked.
"Why, now, sir, at once."
Half an hour after, we all three embarked on board the dingy, and left
the "_Bel-Ami_" to go and spread our net at the foot of the Drammont,
near the Ile d'Or.
Then when our line, some two or three hundred yards long, had sunk to
the bottom, we baited three little deep-sea lines, and having anchored
the boat by sinking a stone at the end of a rope, we began to fish.
It was already daylight, and I could distinctly see the coast of
Saint-Raphaël, near the mouth of the Argens, and the sombre mountains
of the Maures, themselves running out seawards till they came to an
end, far away in the open sea, beyond the gulf of Saint-Tropez.
Of all the southern coast, this is the spot I am fondest of. I love
it as though I had been born there, as though I had grown up in
it, because it is wild and glowing, and because the Parisian, the
Englishman, the American, the man of fashion, and the adventurer have
not yet poisoned it.
Suddenly the line I held in my hand quivered, I started, then felt
nothing, and again a slight shock tightened the line wound round my
finger, then another one more violent, shook my whole hand, and with
beating heart, I began to draw in the line, gently, eagerly, striving
to peer through the transparent blue water, and soon I perceived in the
shadow of the boat, a white flash describing rapid circles.
[Illustration 041]
The fish thus seen appeared to me enormous, and when on board it was no
bigger than a sardine.
Then I caught many others, blue, red, yellow, green, glittering,
silvery, striped, golden, speckled, spotted, those pretty rock fish of
the Mediterranean, so varied, so coloured, that seem painted to please
the eye; then sea-urchins covered with prickles, and those hideous
monsters of the sea, conger-eels.
Nothing can be more amusing than the uplifting of a sea fishing line.
What will come out of the sea? What surprise, what pleasure, or what
disappointment at each hook pulled out of the water! What a thrill runs
through one when from afar some large creature is perceived struggling,
as it rises slowly towards us!
At ten o'clock we had returned on board the yacht, and the two men
beaming with delight, informed me that our take weighed twenty-three
pounds.
I was, however, doomed to pay dearly for my sleepless night! A sick
headache, the dreadful pain that racks in a way no torture could equal,
shatters the head, drives one crazy, bewilders the ideas, and scatters
the memory like dust before the wind; a sick headache had laid hold of
me, and I was perforce obliged to lie down in my bunk with a bottle of
ether under my nostrils.
[Illustration 042]
After a few minutes, I fancied I heard a vague murmur which soon became
a kind of buzzing, and it seemed as if all the interior of my body
became light, as light as air, as though it were melting into vapour.
Then followed a numbness of spirit, a drowsy, comfortable state, in
spite of the persisting pain, which, however, ceased to be acute. It
was now a pain which one could consent to bear, and not any longer the
terrible tearing agony, against which the whole tortured body rises in
protest.
Soon the strange, and delightful sensation of vacuum I had in my chest,
extended, and reached my limbs, which in their turn became light, light
as though flesh and bone had melted away and skin only remained; just
enough skin to permit of my feeling the sweetness of life, and enjoy my
repose. Now I found that I no longer suffered. Pain had disappeared,
melted, vanished into air. And I heard voices, four voices, two
dialogues, without understanding the words. At times they were but
indistinct sounds, at other times a word or two reached me. But I soon
recognized that these were but the accentuated buzzing of my own ears.
I was not sleeping, I was awake, I understood, I felt, I reasoned with
a clearness, a penetration and power which were quite extraordinary;
and a joyousness of spirit, a strange intoxication, produced by the
tenfold increase of my mental faculties.
It was not a dream like that created by haschich, nor the sickly
visions produced by opium; it was a prodigious keenness of reasoning, a
new manner of seeing, of judging, of estimating things and life, with
the absolute consciousness, the certitude that this manner was the true
one.
And the old simile of the Scriptures, suddenly came back to my mind. It
seemed to me that I had tasted of the tree of life, that all mystery
was unveiled, so strongly did I feel the power of this new, strange,
and irrefutable logic. And numberless arguments, reasonings, proofs,
rose up in my mind, to be, however, immediately upset, by some proof,
some reasoning, some argument yet more powerful. My brain had become a
battle-field of ideas. I was a superior being, armed with an invincible
intelligence, and I enjoyed prodigious happiness in the sensation of
my power.
This state lasted a long, long time. I still inhaled the fumes of my
ether bottle. Suddenly, I perceived that it was empty. And I again
began to suffer.
For ten hours I endured this torture for which there is no remedy, then
I fell asleep, and the next day, brisk as after convalescence, having
written these few pages I left for Saint-Raphaël.
SAINT-RAPHAËL, _April 11th_.
On our way here the weather was delightful, and a light breeze carried
us over in six tacks. After rounding the Drammont, I caught sight of
the villas of Saint-Raphaël hidden amongst the pine-trees, among the
little slender pines beaten all the year round, by the everlasting
gusts of wind from Fréjus. Then I passed between the Lions, pretty red
rocks that seemed to guard the town, and I entered the port, which,
choked up with sand at the further end, obliges one to remain some
fifty yards off the quay. I then went on land.
A large crowd was gathered in front of the church. Some one was being
married. A priest was authorising in Latin with pontifical gravity, the
solemn and comical act which so disturbs mankind, bringing with it so
much mirth, suffering, and tears. According to custom, the families
had invited all their relatives and friends to the funereal service
of a young girl's innocence, to listen to the piously indecorous
ecclesiastical admonitions, preceding those of the mother, and to the
public benediction, bestowed on that which is otherwise so carefully
veiled.
And the whole country-side, full of broad jokes, moved by the greedy
and idle curiosity that draws the common herd to such a scene, had come
there to see how the bride and bridegroom would comport themselves. I
mingled with the crowd, and watched it.
Good heavens, how ugly men are! For at least the hundredth time, I
noticed, in the midst of this festive scene, that, of all races, the
human race is the most hideous. The whole air was pervaded by the odour
of the people, the nauseous, sickening odour of unclean bodies, greasy
hair and garlic, that odour of garlic, exhaled by the people of the
South, through nose, mouth, and skin, just like roses spread abroad
their perfume.
Certainly men are every day as ugly, and smell as obnoxious, but our
eyes accustomed to the sight of them, our nostrils used to their odour,
fail to distinguish their ugliness and their emanations, unless we have
been spared for some time the sight and stink of them.
Mankind is hideous! To obtain a gallery of grotesque figures, fit
to raise a laugh from the dead, it would be sufficient to take the
ten first-comers, set them in a line, and photograph them with their
irregular heights, their legs, either too long or too short, their
bodies too fat or too thin, their red or pale, bearded or smooth faces,
their smirking or solemn looks.
Formerly, in primeval days, the wild man, the strong naked man, was
certainly as handsome as the horse, the stag or the lion. The exercise
of his muscles, a life free from restraint, the constant use of his
vigour and his agility, kept up in him a grace of motion, which is the
first condition of beauty, and an elegance of form, which is produced
only by physical exercise. Later on, the artistic nations, enamoured of
form, knew how to preserve this grace and this elegance in intelligent
man, by the artificial means of gymnastics. The care bestowed on the
body, the trials of strength and suppleness, the use of ice-cold water
and vapour baths, made the Greeks true models of human beauty, and they
have left us their statues, to show us what were the bodies of these
great artists.
But now, O Apollo! look at the human race moving about in its festive
scenes. The children rickety from the cradle, deformed by premature
study, stupefied by the school life that wears out the body at
fifteen years of age, and cramps the mind before it is formed, reach
adolescence with limbs badly grown, badly jointed, in which all normal
proportions have completely disappeared.
[Illustration 043]
And let us contemplate the people in the street, trotting along in
their dirty clothing! As for the peasant! Good Heavens! Let us go and
watch the peasant in the fields, his gnarled knotted frame, lanky,
twisted, bent, more hideous than the barbarous types exhibited in a
museum of anthropology.
In comparison how splendid are those men of bronze, the negroes; in
shape, if not in face; how elegant, both in their movements and their
figure, the tall lithe Arabs. Moreover, I have yet another reason for
having a horror of crowds.
I cannot go into a theatre, nor be present at any public entertainment.
I at once experience a curious and unbearable feeling of discomfort, a
horrible unnerving sensation, as though I were struggling with all my
might, against a mysterious and irresistible influence. And in truth, I
struggle with the spirit of the mob, which strives to take possession
of me.
How often have I observed that the intelligence expands and grows
loftier, when we live alone, and that it becomes meaner and lower, when
we again mix among other men. The contact, the opinions floating in
the air, all that is said, all that one is compelled to listen to, to
hear, to answer, acts upon the mind. A flow and ebb of ideas goes from
head to head, from house to house, from street to street, from town to
town, from nation to nation, and a level is established, an average of
intellect is created, by all large agglomerations of individuals.
The inherent qualities of intellectual initiative, of free will, of
wise reflection and even of sagacity, belonging to any individual
being, generally disappear the moment that being is brought in contact
with a large number of other beings.
The following is a passage from a letter of Lord Chesterfield to his
son (1751) which sets forth with rare humility, the sudden elimination
of all active qualities of the mind, in every large body of people:
"Lord Macclesfield, who had the greatest share in forming the bill, and
who is one of the greatest mathematicians and astronomers in Europe,
spoke afterwards with infinite knowledge, and all the clearness that so
intricate a matter would admit of, but as his words, his periods, and
his utterance were not near so good as mine, the preference was most
unanimously, though most unjustly, given to me.
"This will ever be the case; every numerous assembly is _mob,_ let the
individuals who compose it be what they will. Mere reason and good
sense is never to be talked to a mob; their passions, their sentiments,
their senses and their seeming interests, are alone to be applied to.
"Understanding they have collectively none, &c...."
This deep observation of Lord Chesterfield's, a remark, however,
that has often been made, and noted with interest by philosophers of
the scientific school, constitutes one of the most serious arguments
against representative government.
The same phenomenon, a surprising one, is produced each time a large
number of men are gathered together. All these persons, side by side,
distinct from each other, of different minds, intelligences, passions,
education, beliefs, and prejudices, become suddenly, by the sole fact
of their being assembled together, a special being, endowed with a new
soul, a new manner of thinking in common, which is the unanalysable
resultant of the average of these individual opinions.
It is a crowd, and that crowd is a person, one vast collective
individual, as distinct from any other mob, as one man is distinct from
any other man.
A popular saying asserts that "the mob does not reason." Now why does
not the mob reason, since each particular individual in the crowd does
reason? Why should a crowd do spontaneously, what none of the units
of the crowd would have done? Why has a crowd irresistible impulses,
ferocious wills, stupid enthusiasms that nothing can arrest, and,
carried away by these thoughtless impulses, why does it commit acts,
that none of the individuals composing it would commit alone?
A stranger utters a cry, and behold! a sort of frenzy takes possession
of all, and all, with the same impulse, which no one tries to resist,
carried away by the same thought, which instantaneously becomes common
to all, notwithstanding different castes, opinions, beliefs, and
customs, will fall upon a man, murder him, drown him, without a motive,
almost without a pretext, whereas each one of them, had he been alone,
would have precipitated himself, at the risk of his life, to save the
man he is now killing.
And in the evening, each one on returning home, will ask himself what
passion or what madness had seized him, and thrown his nature and his
temperament out of its ordinary groove; how he could have given way to
this savage impulse?
The fact is, he had ceased to be a man, to become one of a crowd. His
personal will had become blended with the common will, as a drop of
water is blended with and lost in a river.
His personality had disappeared, had become an infinitesimal particle
of one vast and strange personality, that of the crowd. The panics
which take hold of an army, the storms of opinion which carry away an
entire nation, the frenzy of dervish dances, are striking examples of
this identical phenomenon.
In short, it is not more surprising to see an agglomeration of
individuals make one whole, than to see molecules, that are placed near
each other form one body.
To this mysterious attraction, must without doubt be attributed the
peculiar temperament of theatre audiences, and the strange difference
of judgment, that exists between the audience of general rehearsals,
and that of the audience of first representations, and again between
the audience of a first representation, and that of the succeeding
performances, and the change in the telling effects, from one evening
to another; and the errors of judgment condemning a play like _Carmen,_
which, later on, turns out an immense success.
What I say about crowds, must be applied to all society, and he who
would carefully preserve the absolute integrity of his thought, the
proud independence of his opinion, and look at life, humanity and the
universe as an impartial observer free from prejudice, preconceived
belief and fear, must absolutely live apart from all social relations;
for human stupidity is so contagious, that he will be unable to
frequent his fellow-creatures, even see them, or listen to them,
without being, in spite of himself, influenced on all sides by their
conversations, their ideas, their superstitions, their traditions,
their prejudices, which by their customs, laws and surprisingly
hypocritical and cowardly code of morality, will surely contaminate him.
Those who strive to resist these lowering and incessant influences,
struggle in vain amidst petty, irresistible, innumerable and almost
imperceptible fetters; and through sheer fatigue soon cease to fight.
But a backward movement took place in the crowd; the newly-married
couple were coming out. And immediately I followed the general example,
raised myself on tip-toe to see,--and longed to see,--with a stupid,
low, repugnant longing, the longing of the common herd. The curiosity
of my neighbours had intoxicated me; I was one of a crowd.
[Illustration 044]
To fill up the remainder of the day, I decided on taking a row in my
dingy up the Argens. This lovely and almost unknown river, separates
the plains of Fréjus from the wild mountain range of the Maures.
I took Raymond, who rowed me along the side of the low beach to the
mouth of the river, which we found impracticable and partly filled up
with sand. One channel only communicated with the sea; but so rapid,
so full of foam, of eddies and of whirlpools, that we were unable to
ascend it.
We were therefore obliged to drag the boat to land, and carry it over
the sandhills to a kind of beautiful lake, formed by the Argens at
this spot.
In the midst of a green and marshy country, of that rich green tint
given by trees growing out of water, the river sinks down between
two banks, so covered with verdure, and with such high impenetrable
foliage, that the neighbouring mountains are barely visible; it sinks
down, still winding, still looking like a peaceful lake, without
showing or betraying that it continues twisting its way through the
calm, lonesome and magnificent country.
As in the low Northern plains, where the springs ooze out under the
feet, running over and vivifying the earth like blood, the clear, cold
blood of the soil; so here, we find again the same strange sensation of
exuberant nature which floats over all damp countries.
Birds, with long legs dangling as they fly, spring up from amongst
the reeds, stretching their pointed beaks heavenwards; while others,
broad-winged and slow, pass from one bank to another with heavy
flight, and others, smaller and more rapid, skim along the surface
of the river, darting forward like rebounding pebbles. Innumerable
turtle-doves cooing on the heights, or wheeling about, fly from tree
to tree, and seem to exchange messages of love. One feels a sensation
that all around this deep water, throughout all this plain, up to the
foot of the mountains, there is yet more water; the deceitful water
of the marsh, sleeping yet living; broad clear sheets, in which the
skies are mirrored, over which the clouds flit by; in which, widely
scattered, all manner of strange rushes spring up; the fertile limpid
water, full of rotting life and deathly fermentation; water breeding
fever and miasma, at the same time food and poison, spreading itself
out in attractive loveliness, over the mysterious mass of putrefaction
beneath it. The atmosphere is delightful, relaxing and dangerous. Over
all the banks which separate the vast still pools, amid all the thick
grasses, swarms, crawls, jumps, and creeps a whole world of slimy,
repugnant, cold-blooded animals. I love those cold, subtle animals that
are generally avoided and dreaded; for me there is something sacred
about them.
[Illustration 045]
At the hour of sunset the marsh intoxicates and excites me. After
having been all day a silent pond lying hushed in the heat, it becomes
at the moment of twilight, a fairy-like and enchanted country. In
its calm and boundless depths the skies are mirrored: skies of gold,
skies of blood, skies of fire; they sink in it, bathe in it, float and
are drowned in it. They are there up above, in the immensity of the
firmament, and they are there below, beneath us, so near and yet so
completely beyond our touch, in that shallow pool, through which the
pointed grasses push their way like bristling hairs. All the colour
with which earth has been endowed, charming, varied, and enthralling,
appears to us deliciously painted, admirably resplendent, and
infinitely shaded around a single leaf of the water-lily. Every shade
of red, rose, yellow, blue, green, and violet are there, in a little
patch of water which shows us the heavens, and space, and dreamland,
and the flight of the birds as they skim across its face. And then
there is still something else,--I know not what,--in the marshes
beheld in the setting sun. I feel therein a confused revelation of
some unknown mystery, an original breath of primeval life, which is,
perhaps, nothing more than the bubble of gas rising from a swamp at the
fall of day.
[Illustration 046]
SAINT-TROPEZ, _April 12th_.
We left Saint-Raphaël at about eight o'clock this morning, with a
strong northwest breeze.
The sea in the gulf, though it had no waves, was white with foam, white
like a mass of soap-suds, for the wind, the terrible wind from Fréjus
which blows almost every morning, seemed to throw itself on the water,
as though it would tear it to pieces, raising a rolling mass of little
waves of froth, scattered one moment, reformed the next.
The people at the port having assured us that this squall would fall
towards eleven o'clock, we decided upon starting with three reefs in,
and the storm-jib. The dingy was placed on board at the foot of the
mast, and the _Bel-Ami_ seemed to fly directly it left the jetty.
Although it carried scarcely any sail, I had never felt it dash along
like this. One might have thought that it hardly touched the water, and
one would never have suspected that it carried at the bottom of its
large keel, two and a-half yards deep, a slab of lead weighing over
thirty cwt., besides thirty-eight cwt. of ballast in its hold, and all
we had on board in the shape of rigging, anchors, chains, cables and
furniture.
I had soon crossed the bay, at the further end of which the Argens
throws itself into the sea; and as soon as I was under shelter of
the coast the breeze completely fell. It is there that the splendid,
sombre, and wild region begins, which is still called the land of the
Moors. It is a long peninsula, composed of mountains; with a contour
of coasts over sixty miles long.
Saint-Tropez, situated at the entry of the lovely gulf, formerly called
Gulf of Grimaud, is the capital of the little Saracen kingdom, of which
nearly every village, built on the summit of a peak in order to secure
it from attack, is still full of Moorish houses with arcades, narrow
windows, and inner courtyards, wherein tall palm trees have grown up,
and are now higher than the roofs.
If one penetrates on foot into the unknown valleys of this strange
group of mountains, one discovers an incredible country, devoid of
roads, and lanes; without even footpaths, without hamlets, without
houses.
At intervals, after seven or eight hours' walking, appears a hovel,
often abandoned, or sometimes inhabited by a poverty-stricken family of
charcoal burners.
The Monts des Maures have, it appears, a system of geology peculiar to
themselves, a matchless flora said to be the most varied in Europe,
and immense forests of pines, chestnuts, and cork trees.
Some three years ago, I made an excursion into the very heart of
the country, to the ruins of the _Chartreuse de la Verne,_ and have
retained an ineffaceable recollection of it. If it is fine to-morrow I
shall return there.
A new road follows the sea, going from Saint-Raphaël to Saint-Tropez.
All along this magnificent avenue, opened up through the forest by the
side of a matchless beach, new winter resorts are being started. The
first one planned is called Saint Aigulf.
This bears a peculiar stamp. In the midst of a forest of fir trees
stretching down to the sea, wide roads are laid out in every direction.
There is not a house, nothing but the barely indicated plan of
the streets, running through the trees. Here are the squares, the
cross-roads and the boulevards. The names are even written up on metal
tablets: Boulevard Ruysdaël, Boulevard Rubens, Boulevard Van Dyck,
Boulevard Claude Lorrain. One wonders at all these painters' names. Why
indeed? Simply because the _Company_ has decided, like God before he
lit the sun: "This shall be an artists' resort!"
The _Company!_ No one knows in the rest of the world, all this word
contains of hopes, dangers, money gained, and money lost on the
Mediterranean shores! The _Company!_ fatal and mysterious word, deep
and deceitful!
[Illustration 047]
In this instance however the _Company_ seems to have realized its
expectations, for it has already found purchasers, and of the best,
amongst artists. At various places one reads: "Building lot bought by
M. Carolus Duran; another by M. Clairin, another by Mlle. Croizette,
etc." Nevertheless--Who can tell? The Mediterranean Companies are
not in luck just now. Nothing is more ludicrous than this fury of
speculation, which generally ends in terrible failures. Whosoever has
gained ten thousand francs (four hundred pounds) over his field, at
once buys ten millions (four hundred thousand pounds) worth of land at
twenty sous (ten pence) the metre, in order to sell it again at twenty
francs (sixteen shillings). Boulevards are traced, water is conveyed,
gasworks are prepared, and the purchaser is hopefully expected.
The purchaser does not make his appearance, but instead of him---ruin.
Far off in front of me I perceive the towers and the buoys, that mark
the breakers on both sides, at the opening of the gulf of Saint-Tropez.
The first tower is called "Tour des Sardinaux," and marks a regular
shoal of rocks, level with the top of the water, some of which just
show the tips of their brown heads; the second one has been christened
"Balise de la Sèche à l'huile."[1]
We now reach the entrance of the gulf, which extends back between two
ridges of mountains and forests as far as the village of Grimaud,
built at the very extremity, on a height. The ancient castle of
Grimaldi, a tall ruin that overlooks the village, appears in the
distant haze like the evocation of some fairy scene.
The wind has fallen. The gulf looks like an immense calm lake, into
which, taking advantage of the last puffs of the squall, we slowly make
our way.
To the right of the channel, Sainte-Maxime, a little white port, is
mirrored in the water which reflects the houses topsy-turvy, and
reproduces them as distinctly as on shore. Opposite, Saint-Tropez
appears, guarded by an old fort.
At seven o'clock _Bel-Ami_ anchored by the quay, at the side of the
little steamboat which carries on the service with Saint-Raphaël. The
only means of communication between this isolated little port, and the
rest of the world is by this _Lion de Mer,_ an old pleasure yacht,
which runs in connection with a venerable diligence, that carries
the letters, and travels at night by the one road which crosses the
mountains.
[Illustration 048]
This is one of those charming and simple daughters of the sea, one of
those nice modest little towns; which, fed upon fish and sea air, and
breeder of sailors, is as much a produce of the sea as any shell. On
the jetty, stands a bronze statue of the Bailli de Suffren.
[Illustration 049]
The pervading smell is one of fish and smoking tar, of brine and hulls.
The stones in the streets glitter like pearls, with the scales of the
sardines, and along the walls of the port, a population of lame and
paralysed old sailors bask in the sun, on the stone benches. From time
to time they talk of past voyages, and of those they have known in
bygone days, the grandfathers of the small boys running yonder. Their
hands and faces are wrinkled, tanned, browned, dried by the wind, by
fatigue, by the spray, by the heat of the tropics and by the icy cold
of Northern seas, for they have seen, in their roamings over the ocean,
the ins and outs of the world, every aspect of the earth and of all
latitudes. In front of them, propped upon a stick, passes and repasses
the old captain of the merchant service, who formerly commanded the
_Trois-Soeurs,_ or the _Deux-Amis,_ or the _Marie-Louise_ or the
_Jeune-Clémentine._
All salute him, like soldiers answering the roll-call, with a litany of
"Good day, captain," modulated in many tones.
This is a true land of the sea, a brave little town, briny and
courageous, which fought in days of yore against the Saracens, against
the Duc d'Anjou, against the wild corsairs, against the Connétable
de Bourbon, and Charles-Quint, and the Duc de Savoie, and the Duc
d'Epernon. In 1637, the inhabitants, fathers of these peaceful
citizens, without any assistance repelled the Spanish fleet, and
every year they renew with surprising realism, the representation of
the attack and their defence, filling the town with noisy bustle and
clamour, strangely recalling the great popular festivities of the
middle ages.
In 1813, the town likewise repulsed an English flotilla, that had been
sent against it.
Now it is a fishing town, and the produce of its fisheries supplies
the greater part of the coast with tunny, sardines, _loups,_
rock-lobsters, and all the pretty fish of this blue sea.
On setting foot on the quay after having dressed myself, I heard twelve
o'clock strike, and I perceived two old clerks, notary or lawyer's
clerks, going off to their midday meal, like two old beasts of burden,
unbridled for a few minutes while they eat their oats at the bottom of
a nosebag.
Oh, liberty! liberty! our sole happiness, sole hope, sole dream! Of
all the miserable creatures, of all classes of individuals, of all
orders of workers, of all the men who daily fight the hard battle of
life, these are the most to be pitied, on these does fortune bestow the
fewest of her favours.
No one believes this,--no one knows it. They are powerless to complain;
they cannot revolt; they remain gagged and bound in their misery, the
shamefaced misery of quill-drivers.
They have gone through a course of study, they understand law, they
have taken a degree, perhaps.
How dearly I like that dedication by Jules Vallès:
"To all those, who, nourished upon Greek and Latin, have died of
starvation."
And what do they earn, these starvelings? Eight to fifteen hundred
francs, (thirty-two to sixty pounds) a year!
Clerks in gloomy chambers, or clerks in office, you should read every
morning over the door of your fatal prison, Dante's famous phrase:
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!"
They are but twenty when they first enter, and will remain till sixty
or longer. During this long period not an event takes place! Their
whole life slips away in the dark little bureau, ever the same,
carpeted with green portfolios. They enter young, at the age of
vigorous hopes; they leave in old age, when death is at hand. All the
harvest of recollections that we make in a life-time, the unexpected
events, our loves,--gentle or tragic memories, our adventures, all the
chances of a free existence, are unknown to these convicts.
The days, the weeks, the months, the seasons, the years, all are like.
They begin the day's work at the same hour; at the same hour, they
breakfast; at the same hour, they leave; and this goes on for sixty
or seventy years. Four accidents only constitute landmarks in their
existence: marriage, the birth of the first-born, and the death of
father, or mother. Nothing else; stop though, yes, a rise in salary.
They know nothing of ordinary life, nothing of the world! Unknown
to them are the days of cheerful sunshine in the streets, and idle
wanderings through the fields, for they are never released before the
appointed hour. They become voluntary prisoners at eight o'clock in the
morning, and at six, the prison doors are opened for them, when night
is at hand. But, as a compensation, they have, for a whole fortnight in
the year, the right,--a right indeed much discussed, hardly bargained
for and grudgingly granted,--to remain shut up in their lodgings. For
where can they go without money?
The builder climbs skywards; the driver prowls about the streets; the
railway mechanic traverses woods, mountains, plains; moves incessantly
from the walls of the town, to the vast blue horizon of the sea. The
_employé_ never quits his bureau, his coffin, and in the same little
mirror, wherein he saw himself a young fellow with fair moustache the
day of his arrival, he contemplates himself bald, and white-bearded, on
the day of his dismissal. Then, all is finished, life is played out,
the future closed. How can he have reached this point? How can he have
grown old without any event having occurred, without having been shaken
by any of the surprises of existence? It is so nevertheless. He must
now make way for the young! for the young beginners!
Then the unfortunate mortal steals away, more wretched than before,
and dies, almost immediately from the sudden snapping of the long and
obstinate habit of his daily routine, the dreary routine of the same
movements, the same actions, the same tasks at the same hours.
As I went into the hotel for breakfast, an alarmingly big packet of
letters and papers was handed to me, and my heart sank as at the
prospect of some misfortune. I have a fear and a hatred of letters;
they are bonds. Those little squares of paper bearing my name, seem to
give out a noise of chains, as I tear them open,--of chains linking me
to living creatures, I have known or know.
Each one inquires, although written by different hands: "Where are you?
What are you doing? Why disappear in this way, without telling us where
you are going? With whom are you hiding?" Another adds: "How can you
expect people to care for you, if you run away in this fashion from
your friends? It is positively wounding to their feelings."
Well then, don't attach yourselves to me! Will no one endeavour to
understand affection, without joining thereto a notion of possession
and of despotism. It would seem as if social ties could not exist
without entailing obligations, susceptibilities, and a certain amount
of subserviency. From the moment one has smiled upon the attentions of
a stranger, this stranger has a hold upon you, is inquisitive about
your movements, and reproaches you with neglecting him. If we get as
far as friendship, then each one imagines himself to have certain
claims; intercourse becomes a duty, and the bonds which unite us seem
to end in slip-knots which draw tighter. This affectionate solicitude,
this suspicious jealousy, eager to control, and to cling, on the part
of beings who have met casually, and who fancy themselves linked
together because they have proved to be mutually agreeable, arises
solely from the harassing fear of solitude, which haunts mankind upon
this earth.
Each of us, feeling the void around him, the unfathomable depth in
which his heart beats, his thoughts struggle, wanders on like a madman
with open arms and eager lips, seeking some other being to embrace.
And embrace he does, to the right, to the left, at haphazard, without
knowing, without looking, without understanding, that he may not feel
alone. He seems to say, from the moment he has shaken hands: "Now, you
belong to me a little. You owe me some part of yourself, of your life,
of your thoughts, of your time." And that is why so many people believe
themselves to be friends, who know nothing whatever of each other, so
many start off hand in hand, heart to heart, without having really had
one good look at one another. They must care for some one, in order
not to be alone, their affections must be expended in friendship or
in love, but some vent, must be found for it incessantly. And they
talk of affection, swear it, become enthusiastic over it, pour their
whole heart into some unknown heart found only the evening before, all
their soul into some chance soul with a face that has pleased. And
from this haste to become united, arise all the surprises, mistakes,
misunderstandings and dramas of life.
Just as we remain lonely and alone, notwithstanding all our efforts, so
in like manner we remain free, notwithstanding all our ties.
No one, ever, belongs to another. Half unconsciously we lend ourselves
to the comedy,--coquettish or passionate, of possession, but no one
really gives himself--his ego--to another human being. Man, exasperated
by this imperious need to be the master of some one, instituted
tyranny, slavery and marriage. He can kill, torture, imprison, but the
human will inevitably escapes him, even when it has for a few moments
consented to submission.
Do mothers even possess their children? Does not the tiny being but
just entered into the world, set to work to cry for what he wants, to
announce his separate existence, and proclaim his independence?
Does a woman ever really belong to you? Do you know what she thinks,
whether even she really adores you? You kiss her sweet body (waste
your whole soul on her perfect lips): a word from your mouth or
from hers--one single word--is enough to put between you, a gulf of
implacable hatred!
All sentiments of affection lose their charm, when they become
authoritative. Because it gives me pleasure to see and talk with
some one, does it follow that I should be permitted to know what he
does, and what he likes? The bustle of towns, both great and small,
of all classes of society, the mischievous, envious, evil-speaking,
calumniating curiosity, the incessant watchfulness of the affections
and conduct of others, of their gossip and their scandals, are they not
all born of that pretension we have, to control the conduct of others,
as if we all belonged to each other in varying degrees? And we do in
fact imagine that we have some rights over them, and on their life, for
we would fain model it upon our own; on their thoughts, for we expect
them to be of the same style as our own; on their opinions, in which
we will not tolerate any difference from ours; on their reputation,
for we expect it to conform to our principles; on their habits, for we
swell with indignation, when they are not according to our notions of
morality.
I was breakfasting at the end of a long table, in the hotel Bailli de
Suffren, and still occupied with the perusal of my letters and papers,
when I was disturbed by the noisy conversation of some half-dozen men,
seated at the other end.
[Illustration 050]
They were commercial travellers. They talked on every subject
with assurance, with contempt, in an airy, chaffing authoritative
manner, and they gave me the clearest, the sharpest feeling of what
constitutes the true French spirit; that is to say, the average of the
intelligence, logic, sense and wit of France. One of them, a great
fellow with a shock of red hair wore the military medal, and also one
for saving life,--a fine fellow. Another, a fat little roundabout,
made puns without ceasing and laughed till his sides ached at his own
jokes, before he would leave time to the others to understand his fun.
Another man with close-cut hair, was re-organizing the army and the
administration of justice, reforming the laws and the constitution,
sketching out an ideal Republic to suit his own views, as a traveller
in the wine trade. Two others, side by side, were amusing each other
thoroughly with the narrative of their _bonnes fortunes;_ adventures in
back parlours of shops, and conquests of maids-of-all-work.
And in them I saw France personified, the witty, versatile, brave and
gallant France of tradition.
These men were types of the race, vulgar types, it is true, but which
have but to be poetized a little, to find in them the Frenchman, such
as history--that lying and imaginative old dame--shows him to us.
And it is really an amusing race, by reason of certain very special
qualities, which one finds absolutely nowhere else.
First and foremost it is their versatility, which so agreeably
diversifies both their customs, and their institutions. It is this,
which makes the history of their country resemble some surprising tale
of adventure in a _feuilleton,_ of which the pages "to be continued
in the next number," are full of the most unexpected events, tragic,
comic, terrible, grotesque. One may be angry or indignant over it,
according to one's way of thinking, but it is none the less certain
that no history in the world is more amusing, and more stirring than
theirs.
From the pure art point of view--and why should one not admit this
special, and disinterested point of view, in politics as well as in
literature?--it remains without a rival. What can be more curious, and
more surprising, than the events which have been accomplished in the
last century?
What will to-morrow bring forth? This expectation of the unforeseen is,
after all, very charming. Everything is possible in France, even the
most wildly improbable drolleries, and the most tragic adventures.
What could surprise them? When a country has produced a Joan of Arc,
and a Napoleon, it may well be considered miraculous ground.
And then the French love women: they love them well, with passion and
with airy grace, and with respect.
Their gallantry cannot be compared to anything in any other country.
He who has preserved in his heart, the flame of gallantry which burned
in the last centuries, surrounds women with a tenderness at once
profound, gentle, sensitive and vigilant. He loves everything that
belongs to them; everything that comes from them, everything that they
are; everything they do. He loves their toilette, their knick-knacks,
their adornments, their artifices, their _naïvetés,_ their little
perfidies, their lies and their dainty ways. He loves them all, rich as
well as poor, the young and even the old, the dark, the fair, the fat,
the thin. He feels himself at his ease with them, and amongst them.
There he could remain indefinitely, without fatigue, without _ennui,_
happy in the mere fact of being in their presence.
He knows how, from the very first word, by a look, by a smile, to
show them that he adores them, to arouse their attention, to sharpen
their wish to please, to display for his benefit all their powers of
seduction. Between them and him there is established at once, a quick
sympathy, a fellowship of instincts, almost a relationship through
similarity of character and nature.
Then begins between them and him a combat of coquetry, and gallantry;
a mysterious, and skirmishing sort of friendship is cemented, and an
obscure affinity of heart and mind is drawn closer.
He knows how to say what will please them, how to make them understand
what he thinks; how to make known, without ever shocking them, without
offending their delicate and watchful modesty, the admiration, discreet
yet ardent, always burning in his eyes, always trembling on his lips,
always alight in his veins. He is their friend and their slave, the
humble servitor of their caprices, and the admirer of their persons. He
is ever at their beck and call, ready to help them, to defend them, as
secret allies. He would love to devote himself to them, not only to
those he knows slightly, but to those he knows not at all, to those he
has never even seen.
He asks nothing of them but a little pretty affection, a little
confidence, or a little interest, a little graceful friendliness or
even, sly malice.
He loves, in the street the woman who passes by, and whose glance
falls upon him. He loves the young girl with hair streaming down her
shoulders, who, a blue bow on her head, a flower in her bosom, moves
with slow or hurried step, timid or bold eye, through the throng on the
pavements. He loves the unknown ones he elbows, the little shopwoman
who dreams on her doorstep, the fine lady who lazily reclines in her
open carriage.
From the moment he finds himself face to face with a woman, his heart
is stirred, and his best powers are awakened. He thinks of her, talks
for her, tries to please her, and to let her understand that she
pleases him. Tender expressions hover on his lips, caresses in his
glance; he is invaded by a longing to kiss her hand, to touch even the
stuff of her dress. For him, it is women who adorn the world, and make
life seductive.
He likes to sit at their feet, for the mere pleasure of being there; he
likes to meet their eye, merely to catch a glimpse of their veiled and
fleeting thoughts; he likes to listen to their voice, solely because it
is the voice of woman.
It is by them, and for them, that the Frenchman has learnt to talk, and
to display the ready wit which distinguishes him.
To talk! What is it? It is the art of never seeming wearisome; of
knowing how to invest every trifle with interest, to charm no matter
what be the subject, to fascinate with absolutely nothing.
How can one describe the airy butterfly touch upon things by supple
words, the running fire of wit, the dainty flitting of ideas, which
should all go to compose talk?
The Frenchman is the only being in the world who has this subtle spirit
of wit, and he alone thoroughly enjoys and comprehends it.
His wit is a mere flash and yet it dwells; now the current joke, now
the wit, which illumines the national literature.
That which is truly innate, is wit in the largest sense of the word,
that vast breath of irony or gaiety, which has animated the nation
from the moment it could think or speak: it is the pungent raciness
of Montaigne and Rabelais, the irony of Voltaire, of Beaumarchais, of
Saint-Simon, and the inextinguishable laughter of Molière.
The brilliant sally, the neat epigram, is the small-change of this
wit. And nevertheless, it is yet an aspect of it, a characteristic
peculiarity of the national intelligence. It is one of its keenest
charms. It is this that makes the sceptical gaiety of Paris life, the
careless cheerfulness of their manners and customs. It is part and
parcel of the social amenity.
Formerly, these pleasant jests were made in verse, now-a-days they
appear in prose. They are called, according to their date, epigrams,
_bons mots,_ traits, hits, _gauloiseries._ They fly through town and
drawing-room, they spring up everywhere, on the boulevard as well as
Montmartre. And those of Montmartre are often just as good as those of
the boulevard, they are printed in the papers; from one end of France
to the other, they excite laughter. For, at least, the French know how
to laugh.
Why should one good thing more than another, the unexpected, quaint,
juxtaposition of two terms, two ideas or even two sounds; a ridiculous
pun, some unexpected cock-and-bull story, open the floodgates of our
gaiety, causing explosions of mirth, fit to blow up all Paris and the
provinces like a mine?
Why do all the French laugh, while all the English and all the Germans
can understand nothing of the fun? Why? solely and wholly because they
are French, because they possess the intelligence which is peculiar to
the French, and because they possess the delightful, enviable gift of
laughter.
With them, moreover, a little mother-wit, enables any government to
hold its own.
Good spirits takes the place of genius, a neat saying consecrates a
man at once, and makes him great for all posterity. The rest matters
little. The nation loves those who amuse it, and forgives everything to
those who can make it laugh.
A glance thrown over the past history of France, will make us
understand that the fame of their great men, has only been made by
flashes of wit. The most detestable princes have become popular by
agreeable jests, repeated and remembered from century to century.
The throne of France, is maintained by the cap and bells of the jester.
Jests, jests, nothing but jests, ironic or heroic, polished or
coarse,--jests float for ever to the surface in their history, and make
it like nothing so much as a collection of puns and witticisms.
Clovis, the Christian king, cried on hearing the story of the Passion:
"Why was I not there with my Franks?" This prince, in order to reign
alone, massacred his allies and his relations, and committed every
crime imaginable. Nevertheless, he is looked upon as a pious and
civilizing monarch.
"Why was I not there with my Franks?"
We should know nothing of good King Dagobert, if the song had not
apprised us of a few particulars, no doubt erroneous, of his existence.
Pepin, wishing to remove the king Childeric from the throne, proposed
to Pope Zacharias the following insidious question:
"Which of the two is the most worthy to reign? He who worthily fulfils
all the kingly functions without the title, or he who bears the title
without knowing how to reign?"
What do we know of Louis VI.? Nothing. Pardon! In the battle of
Brenneville, when an Englishmen laid hands upon him, crying, "The king
is taken," this truly French monarch replied: "Do you know, knave, that
a king can never be taken, even at chess?"
Louis IX., saint though he was, has not left a single good saying to
remember him by. In consequence, his reign appears to the French a
wearisome episode, full of orisons and penances.
That noodle, Philip VI., beaten and wounded at the battle of Crécy,
cried as he knocked at the gates of the castle of Arbroie: "Open: here
are the fortunes of France!" They are still grateful to him for this
melodramatic speech. John II., made prisoner by the Prince of Wales,
remarks, with chivalrous good will, and the graceful gallantry of a
French troubadour, "I had counted upon entertaining you at supper
to-night; but fortune wills otherwise, and ordains that I should sup
with you."
It would be impossible to bear adversity more gracefully.
"It is not for the King of France to avenge the quarrels of the Duke of
Orleans," was the generous declaration of Louis XII. And it is, truly,
a kingly saying; one worthy of the remembrance of all princes.
That hare-brained fellow Francis I., more apt at the pursuit of the
fair sex, than at the conduct of a campaign, has saved his reputation,
and surrounded his name with an imperishable halo, by writing to his
mother those few superb words, after the defeat of Pavia: "All is lost,
Madame, save honour."
Does not that phrase remain to this day as good as a victory? Has it
not made this prince more illustrious, than the conquest of a kingdom?
We have forgotten the names of the greater number of the famous
battles, fought in these long bygone days; but shall we ever forget:
"All is lost, save honour?"
Henry IV.! Hats off, gentlemen! Here is the master! Sly, sceptical,
tricky, deceitful beyond belief, artful beyond compare; a drunkard,
debauchee, unbeliever, he managed by a few happy and pointed sayings,
to make for himself in history, an admirable reputation as a
chivalrous, generous king, a brave, loyal, and honest man.
Oh! the cheat! well did he know how to play upon human stupidity!
"Hang yourself, brave Crillou, we have gained the day without you."
After a speech like this, a general is always ready to be hanged, or
killed for his master's sake.
At the opening of the famous battle of Ivry: "Children, if the colours
fall, rally to my white plumes, you will find them always on the road
to honour and victory."
How could a man fail to be victorious, who knew how to speak thus to
his captains and his troops?
This sceptical monarch wishes for Paris; he longs for it, but he must
choose between his faith and the beautiful city: "Enough," he murmurs,
"after all Paris is well worth a mass!" And he changes his religion,
as he would have changed his coat. Is it not a fact, however, that the
witticism caused a ready acceptance of the deed? "Paris is well worth
a mass," raised a laugh among the choicer spirits, and there was no
violent indignation over the change.
Has he not become the patron of all fathers of families, by the
question put to the Spanish Ambassador, who found him playing at horses
with the Dauphin: "Are you a father, M. l'Ambassadeur?"