That same evening we had intended to give a tea-party, and by my orders

flowers had already been placed in every nook and corner of the house.

There were lotus in our vases, beautifully colored lotus, the last of the

season, I verily believe. They must have been ordered from a special

gardener, out yonder near the Great Temple, and they will cost me dear.

With a few gentle taps of a fan I awake my surprised mousme; and, curious

to catch her first impressions, I announce my departure. She starts up,

rubs her eyelids with the backs of her little hands, looks at me, and

hangs her head: something like an expression of sadness passes in her

eyes.

This little sinking at the heart is for Yves, no doubt!

The news spreads through the house.

Mademoiselle Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her

babyish eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet

ring on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of

tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose, rolls

the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the parasol

of a passer-by.

Then Madame Prune makes her appearance; in an agitated and discomposed

manner she successively adopts every attitude expressive of dismay. What

on earth is the matter with the old lady, and why does she keep getting

closer and closer to me, till she is almost in my way?

It is wonderful to think of all that I still have to do this last day,

and the endless drives I have to make to the old curiosity-shops, to my

tradespeople, and to the packers.

Nevertheless, before my rooms are dismantled, I intend making a sketch of

them, as I did formerly at Stamboul. It really seems to me as if all I do

here is a bitter parody of all I did over there.

This time, however, it is not that I care for this dwelling; it is only

because it is pretty and uncommon, and the sketch will be an interesting

souvenir.

I fetch, therefore, a leaf out of my album, and begin at once, seated on

the floor and leaning on my desk, ornamented with grasshoppers in relief,

while behind me, very, very close to me, the three women follow the

movements of my pencil with astonished attention. Japanese art being

entirely conventional, they have never before seen any one draw from

nature, and my style delights them. I may not perhaps possess the steady

and nimble touch of M. Sucre, as he groups his charming storks, but I am

master of a few notions of perspective which are wanting in him; and I

have been taught to draw things as I see them, without giving them an

ingeniously distorted and grimacing attitudes; and the three Japanese are

amazed at the air of reality displayed in my sketch.

With little shrieks of admiration, they point out to one another the

different things, as little by little their shape and form are outlined

in black on my paper. Chrysantheme gazes at me with a new kind of

interest "Anata itchiban!" she says (literally "Thou first!" meaning:

"You are really quite wonderful!")

Mademoiselle Oyouki is carried away by her admiration, and exclaims, in a

burst of enthusiasm:

"Anata bakari!" ("Thou alone!" that is to say: "There is no one like you

in the world, all the rest are mere rubbish!")

Madame Prune says nothing, but I can see that she does not think the

less; her languishing attitudes, her hand that at each moment gently

touches mine, confirm the suspicions that her look of dismay a few

moments ago awoke within me: evidently my physical charms speak to her

imagination, which in spite of years has remained full of romance! I

shall leave with the regret of having understood her too late!

Although the ladies are satisfied with my sketch, I am far from being so.

I have put everything in its place most exactly, but as a whole, it has

an ordinary, indifferent, French look which does not suit. The sentiment

is not given, and I almost wonder whether I should not have done better

to falsify the perspective--Japanese style--exaggerating to the very

utmost the already abnormal outlines of what I see before me. And then

the pictured dwelling lacks the fragile look and its sonority, that

reminds one of a dry violin. In the pencilled delineation of the

woodwork, the minute delicacy with which it is wrought is wanting;

neither have I been able to give an idea of the extreme antiquity, the

perfect cleanliness, nor the vibrating song of the cicalas that seems to

have been stored away within it, in its parched-up fibres, during

hundreds of summers. It does not convey, either, the impression this

place gives of being in a far-off suburb, perched aloft among trees,

above the drollest of towns. No, all this can not be drawn, can not be

expressed, but remains undemonstrable, indefinable.

Having sent out our invitations, we shall, in spite of everything, give

our tea-party this evening--a parting tea, therefore, in which we shall

display as much pomp as possible. It is, moreover, rather my custom to

wind up my exotic experiences with a fete; in other countries I have done

the same.

Besides our usual set, we shall have my mother-in-law, my relatives, and

all the mousmes of the neighborhood. But, by an extra Japanese

refinement, we shall not admit a single European friend--not even the

"amazingly tall" one. Yves alone shall be admitted, and even he shall be

hidden away in a corner behind some flowers and works of art.

In the last glimmer of twilight, by the light of the first twinkling

star, the ladies, with many charming curtseys, make their appearance. Our

house is soon full of the little crouching women, with their tiny slit

eyes vaguely smiling; their beautifully dressed hair shining like

polished ebony; their fragile bodies lost in the many folds of the

exaggerated, wide garments, that gape as if ready to drop from their

little tapering backs and reveal the exquisite napes of their little

necks.

Chrysantheme, with somewhat a melancholy air, and my mother-in-law,

Madame Renoncule, with many affected graces busy themselves in the midst

of the different groups, where ere long the miniature pipes are lighted.

Soon there arises a murmuring sound of discreet laughter, expressing

nothing, but having a pretty exotic ring about it, and then begins a

harmony of tap! tap! tap!--sharp, rapid taps against the edges of the

finely lacquered smoking-boxes. Pickled and spiced fruits are handed

round on trays of quaint and varied shapes. Then transparent china

teacups, no larger than half an egg-shell, make their appearance, and the

ladies are offered a few drops of sugarless tea, poured out of toy

kettles, or a sip of 'saki'--(a spirit made from rice which it is the

custom to serve hot, in elegantly shaped vases, long-necked like a

heron's throat).

Several mousmes execute, one after another, improvisations on the

'chamecen'. Others sing in sharp, high voices, hopping about continually,

like cicalas in delirium.

Madame Prune, no longer able to make a mystery of the long-pent up

feelings that agitate her, pays me the most marked and tender attentions,

and begs my acceptance of a quantity of little souvenirs: an image, a

little vase, a little porcelain goddess of the moon in Satsuma ware, a

marvellously grotesque ivory figure;--I tremblingly follow her into the

dark corners whither she calls me to give me these presents in

tete-a-tete.

About nine o'clock, with a silken rustling, arrive the three geishas in

vogue in Nagasaki: Mesdemoiselles Purete, Orange, and Printemps, whom I

have hired at four dollars each--an enormous price in this country.

These three geishas are indeed the very same little creatures I heard

singing on the rainy day of my arrival, through the thin panelling of the

Garden of Flowers. But as I have now become thoroughly Japanized, today

they appear to me more diminutive, less outlandish, and in no way

mysterious. I treat them rather as dancers that I have hired, and the

idea that I ever had thought of marrying one of them now makes me shrug

my shoulders--as it formerly made M. Kangourou.

The excessive heat caused by the respiration of the mousmes and the

burning lamps, brings out the perfume of the lotus, which fills the

heavy-laden atmosphere; and the scent of camellia-oil, which the ladies

use in profusion to make their hair glisten, is also strong in the room.

Mademoiselle Orange, the youngest geisha, tiny and dainty, her lips

outlined with gilt paint, executes some delightful steps, donning the

most extraordinary wigs and masks of wood or cardboard. She has masks

imitating old, noble ladies which are valuable works of art, signed by

well-known artists. She has also magnificent long robes, fashioned in the

old style, with trains trimmed at the bottom with thick pads, in order to

give to the movements of the costume something rigid and unnatural which,

however, is becoming.

Now the soft balmy breezes blow through the room, from one veranda to the

other, making the flames of the lamps flicker. They scatter the lotus

flowers faded by the artificial heat, which, falling in pieces from every

vase, sprinkle the guests with their pollen and large pink petals,

looking like bits of broken, opal-colored glass.

The sensational piece, reserved for the end, is a trio on the 'chamecen',

long and monotonous, that the geishas perform as a rapid pizzicato on the

highest strings, very sharply struck. It sounds like the very

quintessence, the paraphrase, the exasperation, if I may so call it, of

the eternal buzz of insects, which issues from the trees, old roofs, old

walls, from everything in fact, and which is the foundation of all

Japanese sounds.

Half-past ten! The programme has been carried out, and the reception is

over. A last general tap! tap! tap! the little pipes are stowed away in

their chased sheaths, tied up in the sashes, and the mousmes rise to

depart.

They light, at the end of short sticks, a quantity of red, gray, or blue

lanterns, and after a series of endless bows and curtseys, the guests

disperse in the darkness of the lanes and trees.

We also go down to the town, Yves, Chrysantheme, Oyouki and I--in order

to conduct my mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, and my youthful aunt, Madame

Nenufar, to their house.

We wish to take one last stroll together in our old familiar

pleasure-haunts, to drink one more iced sherbet at the house of the

Indescribable Butterflies, buy one more lantern at Madame Tres-Propre's,

and eat some parting waffles at Madame L'Heure's!

I try to be affected, moved, by this leave-taking, but without success.

In regard to Japan, as with the little men and women who inhabit it,

there is something decidedly wanting; pleasant enough as a mere pastime,

it begets no feeling of attachment.

On our return, when I am once more with Yves and the two mousmes climbing

up the road to Diou-djen-dji, which I shall probably never see again, a

vague feeling of melancholy pervades my last stroll.

It is, however, but the melancholy inseparable from all things that are

about to end without possibility of return.

Moreover, this calm and splendid summer is also drawing to a close for

us-since to-morrow we shall go forth to meet the autumn, in Northern

China. I am beginning, alas! to count the youthful summers I may still

hope for; I feel more gloomy each time another fades away, and flies to

rejoin the others already disappeared in the dark and bottomless abyss,

where all past things lie buried.

At midnight we return home, and my removal begins; while on board the

"amazingly tall friend" kindly takes my watch.

It is a nocturnal, rapid, stealthy removal--"doyobo (thieves) fashion,"

remarks Yves, who in visiting the mousmes has picked up a smattering of

the Nipponese language.

Messieurs the packers have, at my request, sent in the evening several

charming little boxes, with compartments and false bottoms, and several

paper bags (in the untearable Japanese paper), which close of themselves

and are fastened by strings, also in paper, arranged beforehand in the

most ingenious manner--quite the cleverest and most handy thing of its

kind; for little useful trifles these people are unrivalled.

It is a real treat to pack them, and everybody lends a helping

hand--Yves, Chrysantheme, Madame Prune, her daughter, and M. Sucre. By

the glimmer of the reception-lamps, which are still burning, every one

wraps, rolls, and ties up expeditiously, for it is already late.

Although Oyouki has a heavy heart, she can not prevent herself from

indulging in a few bursts of childish laughter while she works.

Madame Prune, bathed in tears, no longer restrains her feelings; poor old

lady, I really very much regret . . . .

Chrysantheme is absent-minded and silent.

But what a fearful amount of luggage! Eighteen cases or parcels,

containing Buddhas, chimeras, and vases, without mentioning the last

lotus that I carry away tied up in a pink cluster.

All this is piled up in the djins' carts, hired at sunset, which are

waiting at the door, while their runners lie asleep on the grass.

A starlit and exquisite night. We start off with lighted lanterns,

followed by the three sorrowful ladies who accompany us, and by abrupt

slopes, dangerous in the darkness, we descend toward the sea.

The djins, stiffening their muscular legs, hold back with all their might

the heavily loaded little cars which would run down by themselves if let

alone, and that so rapidly that they would rush into empty space with my

most valuable chattels. Chrysantheme walks by my side, and expresses, in

a soft and winning manner, her regret that the "wonderfully tall friend"

did not offer to replace me for the whole of my night-watch, as that

would have allowed me to spend this last night, even till morning, under

our roof.

"Listen!" she says, "come back to-morrow in the daytime, before getting

under way, to bid one good-by; I shall not return to my mother until

evening; you will find me still up there."

And I promise.

They stop at a certain turn, whence we have a bird's-eye view of the

whole harbor. The black, stagnant waters reflect innumerable distant

fires, and the ships--tiny, immovable objects, which, seen from our point

of view, take the shape of fish, seem also to slumber,--little objects

which serve to bear us elsewhere, to go far away, and to forget.

The three ladies are about to turn back home, for the night is already

far advanced and, farther down, the cosmopolitan quarters near the quays

are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to make

his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmes.

I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysantheme; I

listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, but it takes place in

the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that heartbreaking which will

be inevitable between Madame Prune and myself; I even notice in my mousme

an indifference, an unconcern which puzzles me; I positively am at a loss

to understand what it all means.

And I muse as I continue to descend toward the sea. "Her appearance of

sadness was not, therefore, on Yves's account. On whose, then?" and the

phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me goodby; I shall not

return to my mother until evening; you will find me still up there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet; and

little Chrysantheme was very charming just now, as she silently walked

beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the 'Triomphante' in a hired

sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of

sinking. The "very tall friend" gives over to me the watch that I must

keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make a

chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage.

CHAPTER LII

"FAREWELL!"

September 18th.

I intended to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my lost

sleep of last night.

But at eight o'clock three persons of the most extraordinary appearance,

led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with profound bows at the door of

my cabin. They are arrayed in long robes bedizened with dark patterns;

they have the flowing locks, high foreheads, and pallid countenances of

persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and, perched on the top

of their coiffures, they wear sailor hats of English shape tipped

jauntily on one side. Tucked under their arms, they carry portfolios

filled with sketches; in their hands are boxes of water-colors, pencils,

and, bound together like fasces, a bundle of fine stylets with the sharp

and glittering points.

At the first glance, even in the bewilderment of waking up, I gather from

their appearance what their errand is, and guessing with what visitors I

have to deal, I say: "Come in, Messieurs the tattooers!"

These are the specialists most in renown in Nagasaki; I had engaged them

two days ago, not knowing that we were about to leave, and since they are

here I will not turn them away.

My friendly and intimate relations with primitive man, in Oceania and

elsewhere, have imbued me with a deplorable taste for tattoo-work; and I

had wished to carry away on my own person, as a curiosity, an ornament, a

specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of

finish which is unequalled.

From their albums spread out upon my table I make my choice. There are

some remarkably odd designs among them, appropriate to the different

parts of the human body: emblems for the arms and legs, sprays of roses

for the shoulders, great grinning faces for the middle of the back. There

are even, to suit the taste of their clients who belong to foreign

navies, trophies of arms, American and French flags entwined, a "God Save

the Queen" amid encircling stars, and figures of women taken from

Grevin's sketches in the Journal Amusant.

My choice rests upon a singular blue and pink dragon two inches long,

which will have a fine effect upon my chest on the side opposite the

heart.

Then follows an hour and a half of irritation and positive pain.

Stretched out on my bunk and delivered over to the tender mercies of

these personages, I stiffen myself and submit to the million

imperceptible pricks they inflict. When by chance a little blood flows,

confusing the outline by a stream of red, one of the artists hastens to

stanch it with his lips, and I make no objections, knowing that this is

the Japanese manner, the method used by their doctors for the wounds of

both man and beast.

A piece of work, as minute and fine as that of an engraver upon stone, is

slowly executed on my person; and their lean hands harrow and worry me

with automatic precision.

Finally it is finished, and the tattooers, falling back with an air of

satisfaction to contemplate their work, declare it to be lovely.

I dress myself quickly to go on shore, to take advantage of my last hours

in Japan.

The heat is fearful to-day: the powerful September sun falls with a

certain melancholy upon the yellowing leaves; it is a day of clear

burning heat after an almost chilly morning.

As I did yesterday, I ascend to my lofty suburb, during the drowsy

noontime, by deserted pathways filled only with light and silence.

I noiselessly open the door of my dwelling, and enter cautiously on

tiptoe, for fear of Madame Prune.

At the foot of the staircase, upon the white mats, beside the little

sabots and tiny sandals which are always lying about in the vestibule, a

great array of luggage is ready for departure, which I recognize at a

glance-pretty, dark robes, familiar to my sight, carefully folded and

wrapped in blue towels tied at the four corners. I even fancy I feel a

little sad when I catch sight of a corner of the famous box of letters

and souvenirs peeping out of one of these bundles, in which my portrait

by Ureno now reposes among divers photographs of mousmes. A sort of

long-necked mandolin, also ready for departure, lies on the top of the

pile in its case of figured silk. It resembles the flitting of some

gipsy, or rather it reminds me of an engraving in a book of fables I

owned in my childhood: the whole thing is exactly like the slender

wardrobe and the long guitar which the cicala who had sung all the

summer, carried upon her back when she knocked at the door of her

neighbor the ant.

Poor little gipsy!

I mount the steps on tiptoe, and stop at the sound of singing that I hear

in my room.

It is undoubtedly Chrysantheme's voice, and the song is quite cheerful!

This chills me and changes the current of my thoughts. I am almost sorry

I have taken the trouble to come.

Mingled with the song is a noise I can not understand: Chink! chink! a

clear metallic ring as of coins flung vigorously on the floor. I am well

aware that this vibrating house exaggerates every sound during the

silence of night; but all the same, I am puzzled to know what my mousme

can be doing. Chink! chink! is she amusing herself with quoits, or the

'jeu du crapaud', or pitch-and-toss?

Nothing of the kind! I fancy I have guessed, and I continue my upward

progress still more gently, on all fours, with the precautions of a red

Indian, to give myself for the last time the pleasure of surprising her.

She has not heard me come in. In our great white room, emptied and swept

out, where the clear sunshine pours in, and the soft wind, and the

yellowed leaves of the garden, she is sitting all alone, her back turned

to the door; she is dressed for walking, ready to go to her mother's, her

rose-colored parasol beside her.

On the floor are spread out all the fine silver dollars which, according

to our agreement, I had given her the evening before. With the competent

dexterity of an old money-changer she fingers them, turns them over,

throws them on the floor, and, armed with a little mallet ad hoc, rings

them vigorously against her ear, singing the while I know not what little

pensive bird-like song which I daresay she improvises as she goes along.

Well, after all, it is even more completely Japanese than I could

possibly have imagined it--this last scene of my married life! I feel

inclined to laugh. How simple I have been, to allow myself to be taken in

by the few clever words she whispered yesterday, as she walked beside me,

by a tolerably pretty little phrase embellished as it was by the silence

of two o'clock in the morning, and all the wonderful enchantments of

night.

Ah! not more for Yves than for me, not more for me than for Yves, has any

feeling passed through that little brain, that little heart.

When I have looked at her long enough, I call:

"Hi! Chrysantheme!"

She turns confused, and reddening even to her ears at having been caught

at this work.

She is quite wrong, however, to be so much troubled, for I am, on the

contrary, delighted. The fear that I might be leaving her in some sadness

had almost given me a pang, and I infinitely prefer that this marriage

should end as it had begun, in a joke.

"That is a good idea of yours," I say; "a precaution which should always

be taken in this country of yours, where so many evil-minded people are

clever in forging money. Make haste and get through it before I start,

and if any false pieces have found their way into the number, I will

willingly replace them."

However, she refuses to continue before me, and I expected as much; to do

so would have been contrary to all her notions of politeness, hereditary

and acquired, all her conventionality, all her Japanesery. With a

disdainful little foot, clothed as usual in exquisite socks, with a

special hood for the great toe, she pushes away the piles of white

dollars and scatters them on the mats.

"We have hired a large, covered sampan," she says to change the

conversation, "and we are all going together--Campanule, Jonquille,

Touki, all your mousmes--to watch your vessel set sail. Pray sit down and

stay a few minutes."

"No, I really can not stay. I have several things to do in the town, you

see, and the order was given for every one to be on board by three

o'clock in time for muster before starting. Moreover, I would prefer to

escape, as you can imagine, while Madame Prune is still enjoying her

siesta; I should be afraid of being drawn into some corner, or of

provoking some heartrending parting scene."

Chrysantheme bows her head and says no more, but seeing that I am really

going, rises to escort me.

Without speaking, without the slightest noise, she follows me as we

descend the staircase and cross the garden full of sunshine, where the

dwarf shrubs and the deformed flowers seem, like the rest of the

household, plunged in warm somnolence.

At the outer gate I stop for the last adieu: the little sad pout has

reappeared, more accentuated than ever, on Chrysantheme's face; it is the

right thing, it is correct, and I should feel offended now were it

absent.

Well, little mousme, let us part good friends; one last kiss even, if you

like. I took you to amuse me; you have not perhaps succeeded very well,

but after all you have done what you could: given me your little face,

your little curtseys, your little music; in short, you have been pleasant

enough in your Japanese way. And who knows, perchance I may yet think of

you sometimes when I recall this glorious summer, these pretty, quaint

gardens, and the ceaseless concert of the cicalas.

She prostrates herself on the threshold of the door, her forehead against

the ground, and remains in this attitude of superlatively polite salute

as long as I am in sight, while I go down the pathway by which I am to

disappear for ever.

As the distance between us increases, I turn once or twice to look at her

again; but it is a mere civility, and meant to return as it deserves her

grand final salutation.

CHAPTER LIII

OFF FOR CHINA

When I entered the town, at the turn of the principal street, I had the

good luck to meet Number 415, my poor relative. I was just at that moment

in want of a speedy djin, and I at once got into his vehicle; besides, it

was an alleviation to my feelings, in this hour of departure, to take my

last drive in company with a member of my family.

Unaccustomed as I was to be out of doors during the hours of siesta, I

had never yet seen the streets of the town thus overwhelmed by the

sunshine, thus deserted in the silence and solitary brilliancy peculiar

to all hot countries.

In front of all the shops hang white shades, adorned here and there with

slight designs in black, in the quaintness of which lurks I know not

what--something mysterious: dragons, emblems, symbolical figures. The sky

is too glaring; the light crude, implacable; never has this old town of

Nagasaki appeared to me so old, so worm-eaten, so bald, notwithstanding

all its veneer of new papers and gaudy paintings. These little wooden

houses, of such marvellous cleanly whiteness inside, are black outside,

timeworn, disjointed and grimacing. When one looks closely, this grimace

is to be found everywhere: in the hideous masks laughing in the

shop-fronts of the innumerable curio-shops; in the grotesque figures, the

playthings, the idols, cruel, suspicious, mad; it is even found in the

buildings: in the friezes of the religious porticoes, in the roofs of the

thousand pagodas, of which the angles and cable-ends writhe and twist

like the yet dangerous remains of ancient and malignant beasts.

And the disturbing intensity of expression reigning over inanimate

nature, contrasts with the almost absolute blank of the human

countenance, with the smiling foolishness of the simple little folk who

meet one's gaze, as they patiently carry on their minute trades in the

gloom of their tiny open-fronted houses. Workmen squatted on their heels,

carving with their imperceptible tools the droll or odiously obscene

ivory ornaments, marvellous cabinet curiosities which have made Japan so

famous with the European amateurs who have never seen it. Unconscious

artists tracing with steady hand on a background of lacquer or of

porcelain traditional designs learned by heart, or transmitted to their

brains by a process of heredity through thousands of years; automatic

painters, whose storks are similar to those of M. Sucre, with the

inevitable little rocks, or little butterflies eternally the same. The

least of these illuminators, with his insignificant, eyeless face,

possesses at his fingers' ends the maximum of dexterity in this art of

decoration, light and wittily incongruous, which threatens to invade us

in France, in this epoch of imitative decadence, and which has become the

great resource of our manufacturers of cheap "objects of art."

Is it because I am about to leave this country, because I have no longer

any link to bind me to it, any resting-place on its soil, that my spirit

is ready on the wing? I know not, but it seems to me I have never as

clearly seen and comprehended it as to-day. And more even than ever do I

find it little, aged, with wornout blood and worn-out sap; I feel more

fully its antediluvian antiquity, its centuries of mummification, which

will soon degenerate into hopeless and grotesque buffoonery, as it comes

into contact with Western novelties.

It is getting late; little by little, the siestas are everywhere coming

to an end; the queer little streets brighten up and begin to swarm in the

sunshine with manycolored parasols. Now begins the procession of ugliness

of the most impossible description--a procession of long-robed, grotesque

figures capped with pot-hats or sailors' headgear. Business transactions

begin again, and the struggle for existence, close and bitter here as in

one of our own artisan quarters, but meaner and smaller.

At the moment of my departure, I find within myself only a smile of

careless mockery for the swarming crowd of this Lilliputian curtseying

people--laborious, industrious, greedy of gain, tainted with a

constitutional affectation, hereditary insignificance, and incurable

monkeyishness.

Poor cousin Number 415! how right I was to have held him in good esteem!

He was by far the best and most disinterested of my Japanese family. When

all my commissions are finished, he puts up his little vehicle under a

tree, and, much touched by my departure, insists upon escorting me on

board the 'Triomphante', to watch over my final purchases in the sampan

which conveys me to the ship, and to see them himself safely into my

cabin.

His, indeed, is the only hand I clasp with a really friendly feeling,

without a suppressed smile, on quitting Japan.

No doubt in this country, as in many others, there is more honest

friendship and less ugliness among the simple beings devoted to purely

physical work.

At five o'clock in the afternoon we set sail.

Along the line of the shore are two or three sampans; in them the

mousmes, shut up in the narrow cabins, peep at us through the tiny

windows, half hiding their faces on account of the sailors; these are our

wives, who have wished, out of politeness, to look upon us once more.

There are other sampans as well, in which other Japanese women are also

watching our departure. These stand upright, under great parasols

decorated with big black letters and daubed over with clouds of varied

and startling colors.

CHAPTER LIV

A FADING PICTURE

We move slowly out of the wide green bay. The groups of women grow

smaller in the distance. The country of round umbrellas with a thousand

ribs fades gradually from our sight.

Now the vast ocean opens before us, immense, colorless, solitary; a

solemn repose after so much that is too ingenious and too small.

The wooded mountains, the flowery capes disappear. And Japan remains

faithful to itself, with its picturesque rocks, its quaint islands on

which the trees tastefully arrange themselves in groups--studied,

perhaps, but charmingly pretty.

CHAPTER LV

A WITHERED LOTUS-FLOWER

One evening, in my cabin, in the midst of the Yellow Sea, my eyes fall

upon the lotus-blossoms brought from Diou-djen-dji; they had lasted

several days; but now they are withered, and strew my carpet pathetically

with their pale pink petals.

I, who have carefully kept so many faded flowers, fallen, alas! into

dust, stolen here and there, at moments of parting in different parts of

the world; I, who have kept so many that the collection is now an absurd,

an indistinguishable herbarium--I try hard, but without success, to

awaken some sentiment for these lotus--and yet they are the last living

souvenirs of my summer at Nagasaki.

I pick them up, however, with a certain amount of consideration, and I

open my port-hole.

From the gray misty sky a strange light falls upon the waters; a dim and

gloomy twilight descends, yellowish upon this Yellow Sea. We feel that we

are moving northward, that autumn is approaching.

I throw the poor lotus into the boundless waste of waters, making them my

best excuses for consigning them, natives of Japan, to a grave so solemn

and so vast.

An Appeal to the Gods

Oama-Terace-Omi-Kami, wash me clean

from this little marriage of mine,

in the waters of the river of Kamo!

ETEXT EDITORS BOOKMARKS:

Japanese habit of expressing myself with excessive politeness

Contemptuous pity, both for my suspicions and the cause of them

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE CHRYSANTHEME:

Ah! the natural perversity of inanimate things

Contemptuous pity, both for my suspicions and the cause of them

Dull hours spent in idle and diffuse conversation

Efforts to arrange matters we succeed often only in disarranging

Found nothing that answered to my indefinable expectations

Habit turns into a makeshift of attachment

I know not what lost home that I have failed to find

Irritating laugh which is peculiar to Japan

Japanese habit of expressing myself with excessive politeness

Ordinary, trivial, every-day objects

Prayers swallowed like pills by invalids at a distance

Seeking for a change which can no longer be found

Trees, dwarfed by a Japanese process

When the inattentive spirits are not listening

Which I should find amusing in any one else,--any one I loved

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)

By EMILE SOUVESTRE

With a Preface by JOSEPH BERTRAND, of the French Academy

EMILE SOUVESTRE

No one succeeds in obtaining a prominent place in literature, or in

surrounding himself with a faithful and steady circle of admirers drawn

from the fickle masses of the public, unless he possesses originality,

constant variety, and a distinct personality. It is quite possible to

gain for a moment a few readers by imitating some original feature in

another; but these soon vanish and the writer remains alone and

forgotten. Others, again, without belonging to any distinct group of

authors, having found their standard in themselves, moralists and

educators at the same time, have obtained undying recognition.

Of the latter class, though little known outside of France, is Emile

Souvestre, who was born in Morlaix, April 15, 1806, and died at Paris

July 5, 1854. He was the son of a civil engineer, was educated at the

college of Pontivy, and intended to follow his father's career by

entering the Polytechnic School. His father, however, died in 1823, and

Souvestre matriculated as a law-student at Rennes. But the young student

soon devoted himself entirely to literature. His first essay, a tragedy,

'Le Siege de Missolonghi' (1828), was a pronounced failure. Disheartened

and disgusted he left Paris and established himself first as a lawyer in

Morlaix. Then he became proprietor of a newspaper, and was afterward

appointed a professor in Brest and in Mulhouse. In 1836 he contributed to

the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' some sketches of life in Brittany, which

obtained a brilliant success. Souvestre was soon made editor of La Revue

de Paris, and in consequence early found a publisher for his first novel,

'L'Echelle de Femmes', which, as was the case with his second work, Riche

et Pauvre', met with a very favorable reception. His reputation was now

made, and between this period and his death he gave to France about sixty

volumes--tales, novels, essays, history, and drama.

A double purpose was always very conspicuous in his books: he aspired to

the role of a moralist and educator, and was likewise a most impressive

painter of the life, character, and morals of the inhabitants of

Brittany.

The most significant of his books are perhaps 'Les Derniers Bretons

(1835-1837, 4 vols.), Pierre Landais (1843, 2 vols.), Le Foyer Breton

(1844, 2 vols.), Un Philosophe sons les Toits, crowned by the Academy

(1850), Confessions d'un Ouvrier (1851), Recits et Souvenirs (1853),

Souvenirs d'un Vieillard (1854); also La Bretagne Pittoresque (1845),

and, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols.)'. His

comedies deserve honorable mention: 'Henri Hamelin, L'Oncle Baptiste

(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, etc'. In 1848, Souvestre was appointed

professor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devoted

to popular lectures. He held this post till 1853, lecturing partly in

Paris, partly in Switzerland.

His death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literary

world. A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow.

Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a

beacon-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the

works of Emile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their

morality and by their instructive character. They will always command the

entire respect and applause of mankind. And thus it happens that, like

many others, he was only fully appreciated after his death.

Even those of his 'confreres' who did not seem to esteem him, when alive,

suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise.

They expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneous literature

discovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy,

which had at its proper time crowned his 'Philosophe sons les Toits' as a

work contributing supremely to morals, kept his memory green by bestowing

on his widow the "Prix Lambert," designed for the "families of authors

who by their integrity, and by the probity of their efforts have well

deserved this token from the Republique des Lettres."

JOSEPH BERTRAND

de 'Academie Francaise.

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

NEW-YEAR'S GIFTS

January 1st

The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another year

is separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past!

The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister. But while all looks are

turned toward the future, mine revert to the past. Everyone smiles upon

the new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has just

wrapped in her winding-sheet. The past year!--at least I know what she

was, and what she has given me; while this one comes surrounded by all

the forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds that

mantle her? Is it the storm or the sunshine? Just now it rains, and I

feel my mind as gloomy as the sky. I have a holiday today; but what can

one do on a rainy day? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I

determine to light my fire.

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!

I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year? All those

who are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces--do

they understand what makes them so gay? Do they even know what is the

meaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year's gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of the

vulgar. I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and

I bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was Numa

Pompilius who added January and February. The former took its name from

Janus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened the new year, they

surrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom of

visits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year's gifts.

The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dry

figs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of "the sweetness of the auspices

under which the year should begin its course," and a small piece of money

called stips, which foreboded riches.)

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor. The little

speech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my

self-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I could now

enjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning's milk, and

the pot of preserves is empty! Anyone else would have been vexed: as for

me, I affect the most supreme indifference. There remains a hard crust,

which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man

far above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reason

of the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story of an

Englishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his tea

without sugar. There are hours in life when the most trifling cross takes

the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which makes

the object small or great according to the end you look through.

Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me. It is

a mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled

on one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks. It was

but yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the

first snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles and

stone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem no more

than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard; the

smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of the

panting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater;

and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower of

Montmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the

city.

My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man's house

which faces my attic.

The influence of New-Year's Day is visible there. The servants have an

air of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-Year's gifts,

received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the court

with the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; and the

visitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes,

or toys. Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawn

by thoroughbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps. They are, without

doubt, the New-Year's gift presented to the mistress of the house by her

husband; for she comes herself to look at the new equipage. Very soon she

gets into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathers and

velvets, and loaded with parcels which she goes to distribute as

New-Year's gifts. The door is shut, the windows are drawn up, the

carriage sets off.

Thus all the world are exchanging good wishes and presents to-day. I

alone have nothing to give or to receive. Poor Solitary! I do not even

know one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer.

Then let my wishes for a happy New Year go and seek out all my unknown

friends--lost in the multitude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet!

To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty have created

a solitude in the midst of the crowd! unhappy laborers, who are condemned

to toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in silence and desertion,

and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxicating pangs of love and

friendship!

To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turned toward

some polar star, while you tread with indifference over the rich harvests

of reality!

To you, honest fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain your

families! to you, poor widows, weeping and working by a cradle! to you,

young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, large

enough to lead through it the wife of your choice! to you, all brave

soldiers of work and of self-sacrifice!

To you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, who

pity the suffering; who walk through the world like the symbolical Virgin

of Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race!

Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings. I look

about me: my window is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs of

bread which in my brown study I had just scattered on the roof. At this

sight a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myself

just now, when I complained that I had nothing to give: thanks to me, the

sparrows of this part of the town will have their New-Year's gifts!

Twelve o'clock.--A knock at my door; a poor girl comes in, and greets me

by name. At first I do not recollect her; but she looks at me, and

smiles. Ah! it is Paulette! But it is almost a year since I have seen

her, and Paulette is no longer the same: the other day she was a child,

now she is almost a young woman.

Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has always the same

open and straightforward look--the same mouth, smiling at every word, as

if to court your sympathy--the same voice, somewhat timid, yet expressing

fondness. Paulette is not pretty--she is even thought plain; as for me, I

think her charming. Perhaps that is not on her account, but on my own.

Paulette appears to me as one of my happiest recollections.

It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal buildings were

illuminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the night

winds, and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts of flame into

the midst of the Champ de Mars. Suddenly, one of those unaccountable

alarms which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the dense crowd:

they cry out, they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall, and the

frightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive struggles. I

escaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, when the

cries of a perishing child arrested me: I reentered that human chaos,

and, after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it at the

peril of my life.

That was two years ago: since then I had not seen the child again but at

long intervals, and I had almost forgotten her; but Paulette's memory was

that of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the year to

offer me her wishes for my happiness. She brought me, besides, a

wallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted and reared it: it was

something that belonged wholly to herself; for it was by her care, her

perseverance, and her patience, that she had obtained it.

The wallflower had grown in a common pot; but Paulette, who is a

bandbox-maker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ornamented with

arabesques. These might have been in better taste, but I did not feel the

attention and good-will the less.

This unexpected present, the little girl's modest blushes, the

compliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind of

mist which had gathered round my mind; my thoughts suddenly changed from

the leaden tints of evening to the brightest colors of dawn. I made

Paulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart.

At first the little girl replied in monosyllables; but very soon the

tables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with short interjections

her long and confidential talk. The poor child leads a hard life. She was

left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives with an

old grandmother, who has "brought them up to poverty," as she always

calls it.

However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sister

Perrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice to

a printer. All would go well if it were not for losses and want of

work--if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which grow

larger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for nothing.

Paulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and that her wood

costs too much. The fireplace in their garret is so large that a fagot

makes no more show in it than a match; it is so near the roof that the

wind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon the hearth; so

they have left off using it. Henceforth they must be content with an

earthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals. The grandmother

had often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the broker's close by;

but he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for such an

expense: the family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for economy!

As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulness

and low spirits. The first disclosures of the little bandbox-maker

created within me a wish that soon became a plan. I questioned her about

her daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she must

go, with her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the different

people for whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I told the

child that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away with

fresh thanks.

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bid

it welcome; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, and

the day, which began so loweringly, had become bright. I sang as I moved

about my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out.

Three o'clock.--All is settled with my neighbor, the chimney-doctor; he

will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new. At

five o'clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette's grandmother's

room.

Midnight.--All has gone off well. At the hour agreed upon, I was at the

old bandbox-maker's; she was still out. My Piedmontese

[In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named "Piedmontese" or "Savoyard,"

as they usually come from that country.]

fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace,

taken from my winter stock. I shall make up for them by warming myself

with walking, or by going to bed earlier.

My heart beat at every step that was heard on the staircase; I trembled

lest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoil

my intended surprise. But no!--see everything ready: the lighted stove

murmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle of oil

for it is provided on the shelf. The chimney-doctor is gone. Now my fear

lest they should come is changed into impatience at their not coming. At

last I hear children's voices; here they are: they push open the door and

rush in--but they all stop in astonishment.

At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands there

like a magician in the midst of these wonders, they draw back almost

frightened. Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and the arrival of

the grandmother, who is more slowly mounting the stairs, finishes the

explanation. Then come tears, ecstasies, thanks!

But the wonders are not yet ended. The little sister opens the oven, and

discovers some chestnuts just roasted; the grandmother puts her hand on

the bottles of cider arranged on the dresser; and I draw forth from the

basket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some fresh

rolls.

Now their wonder turns into admiration; the little family have never seen

such a feast! They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat; it is a

complete banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it. I had

brought only the supper: and the bandbox-maker and her children supplied

the enjoyment.

What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a hubbub of questions which

waited for no reply, of replies which answered no question! The old woman

herself shared in the wild merriment of the little ones! I have always

been struck at the ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness.

Being used to live only for the present, they make a gain of every

pleasure as soon as it offers itself. But the surfeited rich are more

difficult to satisfy: they require time and everything to suit before

they will consent to be happy.

The evening has passed like a moment. The old woman told me the history

of her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sang

an old ballad with her fresh young voice. Henry told us what he knows of

the great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. At

last we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the part of

the happy family.

I have come home slowly, ruminating with a full heart, and pure

enjoyment, on the simple events of my evening. It has given me much

comfort and much instruction. Now, no New-Year's Day will come amiss to

me; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give and

nothing to receive.

As I came in, I met my rich neighbor's new equipage. She, too, had just

returned from her evening's party; and, as she sprang from the

carriage-step with feverish impatience, I heard her murmur "At last!"

I, when I left Paulette's family, said "So soon!"

CHAPTER II

THE CARNIVAL

February 20th

What a noise out of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts and cries?

Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the Carnival, and the maskers

are passing.

Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalian

festivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names. That which it

has given to these "days of liberty" announces the ending of the feasts,

and the month of fasting which should follow; carn-ival means, literally,

"farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days' farewell to the "blessed pullets

and fat hams," so celebrated by Pantagruel's minstrel. Man prepares for

privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to

repent.

Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one of

these mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires such an effort for

men to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest at

intervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by their

rule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talk

at once from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year to be

decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraint

during the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies and

wishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.

For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of the

Saturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family."

The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,

in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who can attract the most

attention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosity or

envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to the

employments and troubles of yesterday.

Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders; our

whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival! And yet man has need of

holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Can he

not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Economists have been

long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of the human

race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of its leisure! It

is easy enough to find it work; but who will find it relaxation? Work

supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness that gives it a relish.

O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find us amusements without

brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word, invent a Carnival

that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.

Three o'clock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. As

this is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. So I

light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of the

coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look in my

bookcase for one of my favorite authors.

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are too

fond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by always

bantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders one's laughter by making one

think:--Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, he

preaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to be

found in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees the

miseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks

without hating it.

Let us call up all the heroes of his book.... Gil Blas, Fabrice,

Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!

Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;

bring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are the

brilliant maskers!

Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollected I

had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my attic

neighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man,

and has a passion for pictures and prints. He comes home almost every day

with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know he lives

penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him shows his

poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and his

widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--had

written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translate the

letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he should have

this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.

The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into the

ink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I

perceive that I have not my dictionary. Now, a Parisian who would speak

English without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; the

ground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I run then

to the bookbinder's, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in the

square.

The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking, and I

see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. This latter has a

violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexed and out of

humor. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get up in the

morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.

I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money in one's

pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead of savings."

"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"

"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horse is

friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share of the

draught, and eat his feed by himself."

"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"

"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I'm going to the ball."

"You mean to leave him alone?"

"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summer

resort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply. "I

have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer's. Those who are sick

may take their broth; my physic is white wine."

So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume of

a waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.

In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man who

lay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with the

thoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hear

me. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproaching

instead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for the

consequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.

At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, and

stamped his foot. "Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water for

footbaths, pray?"

"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!" I replied.

"Let him go to the hospital, then!"

"How can he by himself?"

Pierre seemed to make up his mind.

"Well, I'm going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid of

him sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had not

taken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but the

bookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, half

supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.

I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatient

waterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine at

Courtville Gardens!

Six o'clock.--I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened it

himself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directed

to his son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sit

down.

It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.

Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed

of straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end of

the room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings without

frames turned against the wall.

At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hard

crusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'. He

perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little

ashamed.

"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with a

smile.

I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the

Carnival.

M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.

"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginning

again to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts of

epicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there are

some also for the ears and the eyes."

I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquet

which could make up to him for such a supper.

Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with the

magisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummaged

behind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which he

passed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.

It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, his

daughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicians

who appeared in the background. At first sight I recognized the subject,

which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be a

splendid copy of Jordaens.

"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor, and an original

retouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dress of

the young woman, and the accessories. One can count the pencil-strokes of

the Hercules of painters. It is not only a masterpiece, sir; it is a

treasure--a relic! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl, this is a

diamond!"

And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light, he

fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off the

wonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave the

crusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied his

glass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, his nostrils

expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for the eyes."

"You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with an

air of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this

is the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival."

"But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to be

worth a high price."

"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In good

times, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousand

francs."

I started back.

"And you have bought it?" cried I.

"For nothing," replied he, lowering his voice. "These brokers are asses;

mine mistook this for a student's copy; he let me have it for fifty

louis, ready money! This morning I took them to him, and now he wishes to

be off the bargain."

"This morning!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the letter

containing the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son's

widow, which was still on the little table.

He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the work

of Jordaens in an ecstasy.

"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust in

delight. "What relief! what fire! Where can one find such transparency of

color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!"

As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment for

admiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.

"You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!

What do you say to the bargain I have made?"

"Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have done

better."

M. Antoine raised his head.

"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived about

the merit or value of a painting?"

"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinking

that, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might have

had--"

"What then?"

"The family itself, sir."

The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt. In his

eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of

understanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up without

answering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its

hiding-place behind the prints.

It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.

Seven o'clock.--When I come in again, I find my water boiling over my

lamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my

coffee-things.

The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive of

domestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of a

bachelor's housekeeping.

Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritual

nourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the senses and

the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activity to

the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transports it

to the land of the Arabian Nights.

When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before a

blazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, which

seems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited by

the aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled down

over them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took a

distinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, I

see some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.

At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage on a

hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and through

the garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.

Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with

apple-trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for

their master! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the

sound of the axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf and

branches; and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a

figure of myself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!

The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off my

meditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that I

have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the

milkwoman's.

Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quite

young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone

back to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the

title they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her

worthy of the name of mother.

A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good

her humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leaving

the rest to God.

At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one of

the corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. They

wear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold large

slices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the eyes with

his, and that is the reason of their mirth.

Mother Denis points them out to me.

"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, putting

her hand on the head of the little glutton.

"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.

"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the streets

of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!"

"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.

"What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;

"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for

once they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will make

up for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountains

to me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."

Here her eyes filled with tears.

"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"

resumed I.

"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter of these

little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, and gives you

heart to live."

As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added

some apples and a handful of nuts to them.

"Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets against

to-morrow."

Then, turning to me:

"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have our

Carnival."

I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.

At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding the

egotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy

self-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all

kept their Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the

senses or the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.

CHAPTER III

WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW

March 3d

A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better have

compared it to a night of fever! What alternate fits of restlessness and

sleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!

what a chaos of mournful and confused fancies! We can neither sleep nor

wake; we seek in vain for repose, and we stop short on the brink of

action. Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and the

last third in repenting.

When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each of us

regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in our minds

infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man is like the

drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himself staggering.

And why am I uncertain and restless--I, a poor day-laborer in the

world--who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it

avails itself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseen

friend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom the

solitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologues

are addressed and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.

A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly opened in

the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,

and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, and I must

choose between them. One is only the continuation of that I have followed

till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects. On the

first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on the other are

great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is, whether I

shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for one of

those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Ever since

yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the two and I

remain undecided.

Where shall I find light--who will advise me?

Sunday, 4th.--See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!

Spring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and my

wallflower begins to blow again.

We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the

sixteenth century sang with so much feeling:

Now the gladsome month of May

All things newly doth array;

Fairest lady, let me too

In thy love my life renew.

The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter to

them every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens out

before me in all its splendor.

He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque

variety of such a view. He has never contemplated these tile-colored

heights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyes

these gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,

the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the

sparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled to a blaze of

fire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,

carpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriad

inhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect to the domestic

cat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;

he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; nor

the thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatre

with ever-changing scenes! How many times have my days of leisure passed

away in contemplating this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker or

brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for the

impressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower!

Nine o'clock.--But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up the

crumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away,

come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sight

of the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my presence

that frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand. Then,

why this fearful suspense? In vain I look around: the roof is clear, the

windows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from my

breakfast to attract them by an ampler feast. Their chirpings increase,

they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, but

without daring to alight.

Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panics

which make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are not

more reasonable than men!

With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenly I

perceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two

pricked-up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-cat showed

itself at the corner of the gutter. The cunning fellow was lying there in

wait, hoping the crumbs would bring him some game.

And I had accused my guests of cowardice! I was so sure that no danger

could menace them! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had only

forgotten the corner behind me!

In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from having forgotten

a single corner!

Ten o'clock.--I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have kept

it shut so long that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be able to

take possession of them again. My eyes search in succession all the

points of the jumbled and confused prospect, passing on or stopping

according to what they light upon.

Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they are

those of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have long

remarked.

One is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile is

shadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; the

other is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach my

attic by snatches. When their windows are open, that of the work-woman

discovers a humble but decent abode; the other, an elegantly furnished

room. But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they take

down the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now remember

that the young singer passed under my window this morning with her veil

down, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inward

trouble. Ah! I guess it all. Her means are exhausted in elegant fancies,

or have been taken away by some unexpected misfortune, and now she has

fallen from luxury to indigence. While the work-woman manages not only to

keep her little room, but also to furnish it with decent comfort by her

steady toil, that of the singer is become the property of brokers. The

one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; the other sails

slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laborious industry.

Alas! is there not here a lesson for us all? Is it really in hazardous

experiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, that

the wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom? Ought he to

consider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages, or as

a game in which the future is determined by a few throws? Why seek the

risk of extreme chances? For what end hasten to riches by dangerous

roads? Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliant

successes, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty? Ah! if men but knew

in what a small dwelling joy can live, and how little it costs to furnish

it!

Twelve o'clock.--I have been walking up and down my attic for a long

time, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground! My doubts increase,

like shadows encroaching more and more on some bright space; my fears

multiply; and the uncertainty becomes every moment more painful to me! It

is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening! I hold the

dice of my future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them.

Three o'clock.--The sky has become cloudy, and a cold wind begins to blow

from the west; all the windows which were opened to the sunshine of a

beautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite side of the street,

the lodger on the last story has not yet left his balcony.

One knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches,

and the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole. Indeed, one might have

guessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is the

ornament of his balcony in mid-air; for there are two things especially

loved by all old soldiers--flowers and children. They have been so long,

obliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut off

from the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin life

at an age when others end it. The tastes of their early years, which were

arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again with their

white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spend again in

old age. Besides, they have been condemned to be destroyers for so long

that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating, and seeing life

spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grace and an attraction the

more for those who have been the agents of unbending force; and the

watching over the frail germs of life has all the charms of novelty for

these old workmen of death.

Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his balcony. He

is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing the

seeds of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet-pea. Henceforth

he will come every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protect the

young shoots from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for the

tendrils to climb on, and carefully to regulate their supply of water and

heat!

How much labor to bring in the desired harvest! For that, how many times

shall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day! But

then, in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in clouds

through our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucco,

knows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heat upon us

to burning, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceive nothing

but green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze will come cool

and fresh to him through these perfumed shades. His assiduous care will

be rewarded at last.

We must sow the seeds, and tend the growth, if we would enjoy the flower.

Four o'clock.--The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon for a

long time are become darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain pours down!

Those who are caught in it fly in every direction, some laughing and some

crying.

I always find particular amusement in these helter-skelters, caused by a

sudden storm. It seems as if each one, when thus taken by surprise, loses

the factitious character that the world or habit has given him, and

appears in his true colors.

See, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenly forgets

his indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy! He is a

thrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is afraid to

spoil his hat.

That pretty woman yonder, on the contrary, whose looks are so modest, and

whose dress is so elaborate, slackens her pace with the increasing storm.

She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not think of her

velvet cloak spotted by the hail! She is evidently a lioness in sheep's

clothing.

Here, a young man, who was passing, stops to catch some of the hailstones

in his hand, and examines them. By his quick and business-like walk just

now, you would have taken him for a tax-gatherer on his rounds, when he

is a young philosopher, studying the effects of electricity. And those

schoolboys who leave their ranks to run after the sudden gusts of a March

whirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, but who now fly with bursts

of laughter; those national guards, who quit the martial attitude of

their days of duty to take refuge under a porch! The storm has caused all

these transformations.

See, it increases! The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter. I see every

one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a bill announces

is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few months. A year ago all

the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter were employed in

beautifying it, but their works are already destroyed by the leaving of

so many tenants; the cornices of the front are disfigured by mud; the

arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon them to

announce the sale of the effects. The splendid shop has lost some of its

embellishments with each change of the tenant. See it now empty, and left

open to the passersby. How much does its fate resemble that of so many

who, like it, only change their occupation to hasten the faster to ruin!

I am struck by this last reflection: since the morning everything seems

to speak to me, and with the same warning tone. Everything says: "Take

care! be content with your happy, though humble lot; happiness can be

retained only by constancy; do not forsake your old patrons for the

protection of those who are unknown!"

Are they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warning come

from within? Is it not I myself who give this language to all that

surrounds me? The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound at

will. But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom? The low voice

that speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tells us

what we are, that is to say, what is our capability. Bad conduct results,

for the most part, from mistaking our calling. There are so many fools

and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves. The

question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we are

suited!

What should I do among these many experienced financial speculators? I am

only a poor sparrow, born among the housetops, and should always fear the

enemy crouching in the dark corner; I am a prudent workman, and should

think of the business of my neighbors who so suddenly disappeared; I am a

timid observer, and should call to mind the flowers so slowly raised by

the old soldier, or the shop brought to ruin by constant change of

masters. Away from me, ye banquets, over which hangs the sword of

Damocles! I am a country mouse. Give me my nuts and hollow tree, and I

ask nothing besides--except security.

And why this insatiable craving for riches? Does a man drink more when he

drinks from a large glass? Whence comes that universal dread of

mediocrity, the fruitful mother of peace and liberty? Ah! there is the

evil which, above every other, it should be the aim of both public and

private education to anticipate! If that were got rid of, what treasons

would be spared, what baseness avoided, what a chain of excess and crime

would be forever broken! We award the palm to charity, and to

self-sacrifice; but, above all, let us award it to moderation, for it is

the great social virtue. Even when it does not create the others, it

stands instead of them.

Six o'clock.--I have written a letter of thanks to the promoters of the

new speculation, and have declined their offer! This decision has

restored my peace of mind. I stopped singing, like the cobbler, as long

as I entertained the hope of riches: it is gone, and happiness is come

back!

O beloved and gentle Poverty! pardon me for having for a moment wished to

fly from thee, as I would from Want. Stay here forever with thy charming

sisters, Pity, Patience, Sobriety, and Solitude; be ye my queens and my

instructors; teach me the stern duties of life; remove far from my abode

the weakness of heart and giddiness of head which follow prosperity. Holy

Poverty! teach me to endure without complaining, to impart without

grudging, to seek the end of life higher than in pleasure, farther off

than in power. Thou givest the body strength, thou makest the mind more

firm; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which the rich attach themselves

as to a rock, becomes a bark of which death may cut the cable without

awakening all our fears. Continue to sustain me, O thou whom Christ hath

called Blessed!

CHAPTER IV

LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER

April 9th

The fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth their

shoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets of

the flower-girls--all the world have begun their walks again on the quays

and boulevards. After dinner, I, too, descend from my attic to breathe

the evening air.

It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the day the

plaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness;

heavily laden carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; the

eager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business,

cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether has

something harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, as soon as the

stars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses is

quenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rolling but that

of the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only the

lounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure.

Now each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business of

the day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure! See

the ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along the

walks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspaper

criers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and the apron;

after the day spent in work, it must have the evening for enjoyment; like

the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious matter till tomorrow.

I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety,

but to contemplate it. If the enjoyments of others embitter jealous

minds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine,

which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.

Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feel

myself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is my

own kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother's

share in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthly

battle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?

If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others,

let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, "Those,

too, are Alexanders."

While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me. I

crossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stopped

before the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there are to

learn in the streets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits,

foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of all

climates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations! It is the

world seen in samples!

Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the

shop-windows and the tradesman's display of goods. Nothing has been

taught them, but they have a rude notion of everything. They have seen

pineapples at Chevet's, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes,

sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in the

Valentine Hall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to

smoke the calumet of peace; they have seen Carter's lions fed; they know

the principal national costumes contained in Babin's collection; Goupil's

display of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittings

of the English Parliament before their eyes; they have become acquainted

with Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the

office-door of the Illustrated News. We can certainly instruct them, but

not astonish them; for nothing is completely new to them. You may take

the Paris ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at every

wonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle the matter

with that favorite and conclusive answer of his class--"I know."

But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world,

does not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walks through it;

it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of the

ladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how many

voyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, what

pictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths,

with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled with

magnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, described

by the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.

Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin to

tire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces you see in

the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! A half-seen

glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open a thousand

vistas to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what these imperfect

disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipher the

mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a history on a

gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, which

finds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.

Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a great

house, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man was

sitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out his

hat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had that

look of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a long

struggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt.

His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, as

if he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remained

mute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,

who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escape

complaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.

Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,

lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,

and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could just

distinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a

ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the

pale face of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and

followed the rich man's equipage until it disappeared in the night.

I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, and

passed on quickly.

I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of the

disease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of him who

suffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives in

affluence.

All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, and

retired into my own heart. The animated and moving sight in the streets

gave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which have

been written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each human

struggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in our days.

I pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat and

victory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealots

who have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history of

Cain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walked on

as chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew me out

from my own thoughts.

I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live in

comfort and without ostentation, and who love serious reflection, delight

to find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; one

heard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of the

inhabitants returning quietly home.

I instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only once

before.

That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of the

Seine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of a

lake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, when

I was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they had gathered

round a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked the cause of his

tears.

"It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries," said a mason, who

was returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; "the servant who

took care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to wait

for him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made him

more thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his way

home."

"Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?"

"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, that

he is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval--there are

twelve hundred Duvals in Paris."

"Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?"

"I should not think, indeed! Don't you see that he is a gentleman's

child? He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; he

does not know what to do by himself."

Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above the

others.

"We cannot leave him in the street," said some.

"The child-stealers would carry him off," continued others.

"We must take him to the overseer."

"Or to the police-office."

"That's the thing. Come, little one!"

But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at the

names of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward the

parapet. In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resist

the more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of a

little boy was heard through the confusion.

"I know him well--I do," said he, looking at the lost child; "he belongs

in our part of the town."

"What part is it?"

"Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards--Rue des Magasins."

"And you have seen him before?"

"Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, where

there is an iron gate with gilt points."

The child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying. The little boy

answered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details as

left no room for doubt. The other child understood him, for he went up to

him as if to put himself under his protection.

"Then you can take him to his parents?" asked the mason, who had listened

with real interest to the little boy's account.

"I don't care if I do," replied he; "it's the way I'm going."

"Then you will take charge of him?"

"He has only to come with me."

And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set off

toward the postern-gate of the Louvre.

The lost child followed him.

"I hope he will take him right," said I, when I saw them go away.

"Never fear," replied the mason; "the little one in the blouse is the

same age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;'

poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!"

The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thought

came into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against any

mistake.

I was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side,

talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The contrast in

their dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fanciful

children's dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coat

was skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits from

his waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons,

and his ringlets were half hid by a velvet cap. The appearance of his

guide, on the contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the extreme

borders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with no

surrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades,

indicated the perseverance of an industrious mother struggling against

the wear and tear of time; his trousers were become too short, and showed

his stockings darned over and over again; and it was evident that his

shoes were not made for him.

The countenances of the two children were not less different than their

dress. That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blue eye,

his fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look of

innocence and happiness. The features of the other, on the contrary, had

something rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexion

dark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened by

too early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streets

thronged by carriages, and followed their countless turnings without

hesitation.

I found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father,

who was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsible

duty had made him careful and prudent. He had learned those hard but

forcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply the place

of. Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him from school,

and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped before the

printshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of the

engravings. In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, which

the little wanderer seemed to know again. Notwithstanding his fatigue, he

hurried on; he was agitated by mixed feelings; at the sight of his house

he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the gilt points; a

lady who was standing at the entrance received him in her arms, and from

the exclamations of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soon perceived she

was his mother.

Not seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search of

them in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety.

I explained to her in a few words what had happened. She thanked me

warmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized and

brought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared.

It was for the first time since then that I had come into this part of

Paris. Did the mother continue grateful? Had the children met again, and

had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them that

barrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not divide

them?

While putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixed

my eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw it

open, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown, I

recognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found near

the parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of the

latter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and even

spruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; he

wore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap.

Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunch

of lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses and

primroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by.

M. Duval's son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the corner

of the street.

Then I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; he

looked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me.

"Forgive me if I do not make you a bow," said he, merrily, "but I want

both my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me."

"You are, then, become great friends?" said I.

"Oh! I should think so," said the child; "and now my father is rich too!"

"How's that?"

"Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he works

on his own account; and, as for me, I go to school."

"Yes," replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decorated

his little coat; "and I see that you are head-boy!"

"Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first in

the class."

"Are you now going to your lessons?"

"Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we play

together, and where my mother can always have flowers."

"Then it is the same as if it were partly your own."

"So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by,

sir."

He nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared.

I went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief. If I

had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluence and want,

here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Hearty good-will

had smoothed down the more rugged inequalities on both sides, and had

opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between the humble

workshop and the stately mansion. Instead of hearkening to the voice of

interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice, and there was

no place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of the beggar in rags,

that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man, I had found here

the happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers and blessing him! The

problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine into with no regard but

for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love.

CHAPTER V

COMPENSATION

Sunday, May 27th

Capital cities have one thing peculiar to them: their days of rest seem

to be the signal for a general dispersion and flight. Like birds that are

just restored to liberty, the people come out of their stone cages, and

joyfully fly toward the country. It is who shall find a green hillock for

a seat, or the shade of a wood for a shelter; they gather May flowers,

they run about the fields; the town is forgotten until the evening, when

they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn in their hats, and their

hearts gladdened by pleasant thoughts and recollections of the past day;

the next day they return again to their harness and to work.

These rural adventures are most remarkable at Paris. When the fine

weather comes, clerks, shop keepers, and workingmen look forward

impatiently for the Sunday as the day for trying a few hours of this

pastoral life; they walk through six miles of grocers' shops and

public-houses in the faubourgs, in the sole hope of finding a real

turnip-field. The father of a family begins the practical education of

his son by showing him wheat which has not taken the form of a loaf, and

cabbage "in its wild state." Heaven only knows the encounters, the

discoveries, the adventures that are met with! What Parisian has not had

his Odyssey in an excursion through the suburbs, and would not be able to

write a companion to the famous Travels by Land and by Sea from Paris to

St. Cloud?

We do not now speak of that floating population from all parts, for whom

our French Babylon is the caravansary of Europe: a phalanx of thinkers,

artists, men of business, and travellers, who, like Homer's hero, have

arrived in their intellectual country after beholding "many peoples and

cities;" but of the settled Parisian, who keeps his appointed place, and

lives on his own floor like the oyster on his rock, a curious vestige of

the credulity, the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages.

For one of the singularities of Paris is, that it unites twenty

populations completely different in character and manners. By the side of

the gypsies of commerce and of art, who wander through all the several

stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet race of people with an

independence, or with regular work, whose existence resembles the dial of

a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to the same hours. If no

other city can show more brilliant and more stirring forms of life, no

other contains more obscure and more tranquil ones. Great cities are like

the sea: storms agitate only the surface; if you go to the bottom, you

find a region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise.

For my part, I have settled on the verge of this region, but do not

actually live in it. I am removed from the turmoil of the world, and live

in the shelter of solitude, but without being able to disconnect my

thoughts from the struggle going on. I follow at a distance all its

events of happiness or grief; I join the feasts and the funerals; for how

can he who looks on, and knows what passes, do other than take part?

Ignorance alone can keep us strangers to the life around us: selfishness

itself will not suffice for that.

These reflections I made to myself in my attic, in the intervals of the

various household works to which a bachelor is forced when he has no

other servant than his own ready will. While I was pursuing my

deductions, I had blacked my boots, brushed my coat, and tied my cravat;

I had at last arrived at the important moment when we pronounce

complacently that all is finished, and that well.

A grand resolve had just decided me to depart from my usual habits. The

evening before, I had seen by the advertisements that the next day was a

holiday at Sevres, and that the china manufactory would be open to the

public. I was tempted by the beauty of the morning, and suddenly decided

to go there.