On my arrival at the station on the left bank, I noticed the crowd

hurrying on in the fear of being late. Railroads, besides many other

advantages, possess that of teaching the French punctuality. They will

submit to the clock when they are convinced that it is their master; they

will learn to wait when they find they will not be waited for. Social

virtues, are, in a great degree, good habits. How many great qualities

are grafted into nations by their geographical position, by political

necessity, and by institutions! Avarice was destroyed for a time among

the Lacedaemonians by the creation of an iron coinage, too heavy and too

bulky to be conveniently hoarded.

I found myself in a carriage with two middle-aged women belonging to the

domestic and retired class of Parisians I have spoken of above. A few

civilities were sufficient to gain me their confidence, and after some

minutes I was acquainted with their whole history.

They were two poor sisters, left orphans at fifteen, and had lived ever

since, as those who work for their livelihood must live, by economy and

privation. For the last twenty or thirty years they had worked in jewelry

in the same house; they had seen ten masters succeed one another, and

make their fortunes in it, without any change in their own lot. They had

always lived in the same room, at the end of one of the passages in the

Rue St. Denis, where the air and the sun are unknown. They began their

work before daylight, went on with it till after nightfall, and saw year

succeed to year without their lives being marked by any other events than

the Sunday service, a walk, or an illness.

The younger of these worthy work-women was forty, and obeyed her sister

as she did when a child. The elder looked after her, took care of her,

and scolded her with a mother's tenderness. At first it was amusing;

afterward one could not help seeing something affecting in these two

gray-haired children, one unable to leave off the habit of obeying, the

other that of protecting.

And it was not in that alone that my two companions seemed younger than

their years; they knew so little that their wonder never ceased. We had

hardly arrived at Clamart before they involuntarily exclaimed, like the

king in the children's game, that they "did not think the world was so

great"!

It was the first time they had trusted themselves on a railroad, and it

was amusing to see their sudden shocks, their alarms, and their

courageous determinations: everything was a marvel to them! They had

remains of youth within them, which made them sensible to things which

usually only strike us in childhood. Poor creatures! they had still the

feelings of another age, though they had lost its charms.

But was there not something holy in this simplicity, which had been

preserved to them by abstinence from all the joys of life? Ah! accursed

be he who first had the had courage to attach ridicule to that name of

"old maid," which recalls so many images of grievous deception, of

dreariness, and of abandonment! Accursed be he who can find a subject for

sarcasm in involuntary misfortune, and who can crown gray hairs with

thorns!

The two sisters were called Frances and Madeleine. This day's journey was

a feat of courage without example in their lives. The fever of the times

had infected them unawares. Yesterday Madeleine had suddenly proposed the

idea of the expedition, and Frances had accepted it immediately. Perhaps

it would have been better not to yield to the great temptation offered by

her younger sister; but "we have our follies at all ages," as the prudent

Frances philosophically remarked. As for Madeleine, there are no regrets

or doubts for her; she is the life-guardsman of the establishment.

"We really must amuse ourselves," said she; "we live but once."

And the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean maxim. It was evident that

the fever of independence was at its crisis in both of them.

And in truth it would have been a great pity if any scruple had

interfered with their happiness, it was so frank and genial! The sight of

the trees, which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, caused them

unceasing admiration. The meeting a train passing in the contrary

direction, with the noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shut

their eyes and utter a cry; but it had already disappeared! They look

around, take courage again, and express themselves full of astonishment

at the marvel.

Madeleine declares that such a sight is worth the expense of the journey,

and Frances would have agreed with her if she had not recollected, with

some little alarm, the deficit which such an expense must make in their

budget. The three francs spent upon this single expedition were the

savings of a whole week of work. Thus the joy of the elder of the two

sisters was mixed with remorse; the prodigal child now and then turned

its eyes toward the back street of St. Denis.

But the motion and the succession of objects distract her. See the bridge

of the Val surrounded by its lovely landscape: on the right, Paris with

its grand monuments, which rise through the fog, or sparkle in the sun;

on the left, Meudon, with its villas, its woods, its vines, and its royal

castle! The two work-women look from one window to the other with

exclamations of delight. One fellow-passenger laughs at their childish

wonder; but to me it is deeply touching, for I see in it the sign of a

long and monotonous seclusion: they are the prisoners of work, who have

recovered liberty and fresh air for a few hours.

At last the train stops, and we get out. I show the two sisters the path

that leads to Sevres, between the railway and the gardens, and they go on

before, while I inquire about the time of returning.

I soon join them again at the next station, where they have stopped at

the little garden belonging to the gatekeeper; both are already in deep

conversation with him while he digs his garden-borders, and marks out the

places for flower-seeds. He informs them that it is the time for hoeing

out weeds, for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, and for

destroying the insects on the rose-trees. Madeleine has on the sill of

her window two wooden boxes, in which, for want of air and sun, she has

never been able to make anything grow but mustard and cress; but she

persuades herself that, thanks to this information, all other plants may

henceforth thrive in them. At last the gatekeeper, who is sowing a border

with mignonette, gives her the rest of the seeds which he does not want,

and the old maid goes off delighted, and begins to act over again the

dream of Paired and her can of milk, with these flowers of her

imagination.

On reaching the grove of acacias, where the fair was going on, I lost

sight of the two sisters. I went alone among the sights: there were

lotteries going on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drinking, and

for shooting with the cross-bow. I have always been struck by the spirit

of these out-of-door festivities. In drawing-room entertainments, people

are cold, grave, often listless, and most of those who go there are

brought together by habit or the obligations of society; in the country

assemblies, on the contrary, you only find those who are attracted by the

hope of enjoyment. There, it is a forced conscription; here, they are

volunteers for gayety! Then, how easily they are pleased! How far this

crowd of people is yet from knowing that to be pleased with nothing, and

to look down on everything, is the height of fashion and good taste!

Doubtless their amusements are often coarse; elegance and refinement are

wanting in them; but at least they have heartiness. Oh, that the hearty

enjoyments of these merry-makings could be retained in union with less

vulgar feeling! Formerly religion stamped its holy character on the

celebration of country festivals, and purified the pleasures without

depriving them of their simplicity.

The hour arrives at which the doors of the porcelain manufactory and the

museum of pottery are open to the public. I meet Frances and Madeleine

again in the first room. Frightened at finding themselves in the midst of

such regal magnificence, they hardly dare walk; they speak in a low tone,

as if they were in a church.

"We are in the king's house," said the eldest sister, forgetting that

there is no longer a king in France.

I encourage them to go on; I walk first, and they make up their minds to

follow me.

What wonders are brought together in this collection! Here we see clay

moulded into every shape, tinted with every color, and combined with

every sort of substance!

Earth and wood are the first substances worked upon by man, and seem more

particularly meant for his use. They, like the domestic animals, are the

essential accessories of his life; therefore there must be a more

intimate connection between them and us. Stone and metals require long

preparations; they resist our first efforts, and belong less to the

individual than to communities. Earth and wood are, on the contrary, the

principal instruments of the isolated being who must feed and shelter

himself.

This, doubtless, makes me feel so much interested in the collection I am

examining. These cups, so roughly modelled by the savage, admit me to a

knowledge of some of his habits; these elegant yet incorrectly formed

vases of the Indian tell me of a declining intelligence,--in which still

glimmers the twilight of what was once bright sunshine; these jars,

loaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the Arab rudely and ignorantly

copied by the Spaniard! We find here the stamp of every race, every

country, and every age.

My companions seemed little interested in these historical associations;

they looked at all with that credulous admiration which leaves no room

for examination or discussion. Madeleine read the name written under

every piece of workmanship, and her sister answered with an exclamation

of wonder.

In this way we reached a little courtyard, where they had thrown away the

fragments of some broken china.

Frances perceived a colored saucer almost whole, of which she took

possession as a record of the visit she was making; henceforth she would

have a specimen of the Sevres china, "which is only made for kings!" I

would not undeceive her by telling her that the products of the

manufactory are sold all over the world, and that her saucer, before it

was cracked, was the same as those that are bought at the shops for

sixpence! Why should I destroy the illusions of her humble existence? Are

we to break down the hedge-flowers that perfume our paths? Things are

oftenest nothing in themselves; the thoughts we attach to them alone give

them value. To rectify innocent mistakes, in order to recover some

useless reality, is to be like those learned men who will see nothing in

a plant but the chemical elements of which it is composed.

On leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who had taken possession of

me with the freedom of artlessness, invited me to share the luncheon they

had brought with them. I declined at first, but they insisted with so

much good-nature, that I feared to pain them, and with some awkwardness

gave way.

We had only to look for a convenient spot. I led them up the hill, and we

found a plot of grass enamelled with daisies, and shaded by two

walnut-trees.

Madeleine could not contain herself for joy. All her life she had dreamed

of a dinner out on the grass! While helping her sister to take the

provisions from the basket, she tells me of all her expeditions into the

country that had been planned, and put off. Frances, on the other hand,

was brought up at Montmorency, and before she became an orphan she had

often gone back to her nurse's house. That which had the attraction of

novelty for her sister, had for her the charm of recollection. She told

of the vintage harvests to which her parents had taken her; the rides on

Mother Luret's donkey, that they could not make go to the right without

pulling him to the left; the cherry-gathering; and the sails on the lake

in the innkeeper's boat.

These recollections have all the charm and freshness of childhood.

Frances recalls to herself less what she has seen than what she has felt.

While she is talking the cloth is laid, and we sit down under a tree.

Before us winds the valley of Sevres, its many-storied houses abutting

upon the gardens and the slopes of the hill; on the other side spreads

out the park of St. Cloud, with its magnificent clumps of trees

interspersed with meadows; above stretch the heavens like an immense

ocean, in which the clouds are sailing! I look at this beautiful country,

and I listen to these good old maids; I admire, and I am interested; and

time passes gently on without my perceiving it.

At last the sun sets, and we have to think of returning. While Madeleine

and Frances clear away the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to ask

the hour. The merrymaking is at its height; the blasts of the trombones

resound from the band under the acacias. For a few moments I forget

myself with looking about; but I have promised the two sisters to take

them back to the Bellevue station; the train cannot wait, and I make

haste to climb the path again which leads to the walnut-trees.

Just before I reached them, I heard voices on the other side of the

hedge. Madeleine and Frances were speaking to a poor girl whose clothes

were burned, her hands blackened, and her face tied up with bloodstained

bandages. I saw that she was one of the girls employed at the gunpowder

mills, which are built further up on the common. An explosion had taken

place a few days before; the girl's mother and elder sister were killed;

she herself escaped by a miracle, and was now left without any means of

support. She told all this with the resigned and unhopeful manner of one

who has always been accustomed to suffer. The two sisters were much

affected; I saw them consulting with each other in a low tone: then

Frances took thirty sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which was all

they had left, and gave them to the poor girl. I hastened on to that side

of the hedge; but, before I reached it, I met the two old sisters, who

called out to me that they would not return by the railway, but on foot!

I then understood that the money they had meant for the journey had just

been given to the beggar! Good, like evil, is contagious: I run to the

poor wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for my own place, and

return to Frances and Madeleine, and tell them I will walk with them.

..........................

I am just come back from taking them home; and have left them delighted

with their day, the recollection of which will long make them happy. This

morning I was pitying those whose lives are obscure and joyless; now, I

understand that God has provided a compensation with every trial. The

smallest pleasure derives from rarity a relish otherwise unknown.

Enjoyment is only what we feel to be such, and the luxurious man feels no

longer: satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation preserves to

the other that first of earthly blessings: the being easily made happy.

Oh, that I could persuade every one of this! that so the rich might not

abuse their riches, and that the poor might have patience. If happiness

is the rarest of blessings, it is because the reception of it is the

rarest of virtues.

Madeleine and Frances! ye poor old maids whose courage, resignation, and

generous hearts are your only wealth, pray for the wretched who give

themselves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and envy; and for the

unfeeling into whose enjoyments no pity enters.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Brought them up to poverty

Carn-ival means, literally, "farewell to flesh!"

Coffee is the grand work of a bachelor's housekeeping

Defeat and victory only displace each other by turns

Did not think the world was so great

Do they understand what makes them so gay?

Each of us regards himself as the mirror of the community

Ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness

Every one keeps his holidays in his own way

Favorite and conclusive answer of his class--"I know"

Fear of losing a moment from business

Finishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to repent

Her kindness, which never sleeps

Hubbub of questions which waited for no reply

Moderation is the great social virtue

No one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give

Our tempers are like an opera-glass

Poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress

Prisoners of work

Question is not to discover what will suit us

Ruining myself, but we must all have our Carnival

Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation

What a small dwelling joy can live

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)

By EMILE SOUVESTRE

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER VI

UNCLE MAURICE

June 7th, Four O'clock A.M.

I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing so

joyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in a

top story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really are up

among the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and the

breeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that a

wandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attic,

and that the songs of the industrious work-woman welcome the dawn of day.

The lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, while

here labor, light, and song already reign.

What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search for

food, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrows

shake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in the

sunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcome the

morning with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, when

everything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of day

strikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wand

struck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood! It is a moment of

rest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and a

breath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! it is

but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course: the

great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, its

collisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.

The tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of our

first years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air is

fragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our life's

morning-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Where do

this sadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from?

The course seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: at

starting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal,

the bitter disappointment or reality! The road, which began among

hawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices! Why

is there so much confidence at first, so much doubt at last? Has, then,

the knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness?

Must we condemn ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope? Is the

world and is the individual man intended, after all, to find rest only in

an eternal childhood?

How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has the

advantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply into

the same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always give the

same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it to the

subject which occupies another mind, or interests another's feelings; and

so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever to knock at the

same doors!

I interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order. I hate the look of

disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or an unaptness

for spiritual life. To arrange the things among which we have to live, is

to establish the relation of property and of use between them and us: it

is to lay the foundation of those habits without which man tends to the

savage state. What, in fact, is social organization but a series of

habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of our nature?

I distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whom

disorder is of no consequence--who can live at ease in an Augean stable.

What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. The

mind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything,

still throw some light around. If our tastes did not reveal our

character, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts.

While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on the

little almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. I looked for the day of the

month, and I saw these words written in large letters: "FETE DIEU!"

It is to-day! In this great city, where there are no longer any public

religious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is, in

truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The day

kept in honor of the Creator," says Chateaubriand, "happens at a time

when the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods and

fields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;

there is not a single widowed plant in the fields."

What recollections these words have just awakened! I left off what I was

about, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my

two hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the first days

of my childhood were passed.

The 'Fete Dieu' was then one of the great events of my life! It was

necessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserve

to share in it. I still recollect with what raptures of expectation I got

up on the morning of the day. There was a holy joy in the air. The

neighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures,

worked in tapestry, along the streets. I went from one to another, by

turns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythological

compositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV,

and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour. All this world of phantoms

seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silent

and motionless--at the holy ceremony. I looked, alternately in fear and

wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those

beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and

those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of

the perpetually smiling shepherdess. Sometimes, when the wind blew behind

these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures themselves

moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from the wall, and

take their places in the procession! But these impressions were vague and

transitory. The feeling that predominated over every other was that of an

overflowing yet quiet joy. In the midst of all the floating draperies,

the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which,

like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt transported in spite of

yourself. The joyful sounds of the festival were repeated in your heart,

in a thousand melodious echoes. You were more indulgent, more holy, more

loving! For God was not only manifesting himself without, but also within

us.

And then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphal

arches made of green boughs! What competition among the different

parishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession was

to halt! It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautiful

of his possessions!

It was there I made my first sacrifice!

The wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and the

Tabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown the

whole! All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked. I alone possessed

a flower worthy of such a place. It was on the rose-tree given me by my

mother on my birthday. I had watched it for several months, and there was

no other bud to blow on the tree. There it was, half open, in its mossy

nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all a child's pride! I

hesitated for some moments. No one had asked me for it; I might easily

avoid losing it. I should hear no reproaches, but one rose noiselessly

within me. When every one else had given all they had, ought I alone to

keep back my treasure? Ought I to grudge to God one of the gifts which,

like all the rest, I had received from him? At this last thought I

plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put at the top of the

Tabernacle. Ah! why does the recollection of this sacrifice, which was so

hard and yet so sweet to me, now make me smile? Is it so certain that the

value of a gift is in itself, rather than in the intention? If the cup of

cold water in the gospel is remembered to the poor man, why should not

the flower be remembered to the child? Let us not look down upon the

child's simple act of generosity; it is these which accustom the soul to

self-denial and to sympathy. I cherished this moss-rose a long time as a

sacred talisman; I had reason to cherish it always, as the record of the

first victory won over myself.

It is now many years since I witnessed the celebration of the 'Fete

Dieu'; but should I again feel in it the happy sensations of former days?

I still remember how, when the procession had passed, I walked through

the streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. I felt

intoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed with the

fragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and I seemed no longer to

touch the ground as I went along. I smiled at everything; the whole world

was Paradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that God was floating in the

air!

Moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might be

more intense on certain days, but at the same time it continued through

the ordinary course of my life. Many years thus passed for me in an

expansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if not

from coming, at least from staying with me. Sure of not being alone, I

soon took heart again, like the child who recovers its courage, because

it hears its mother's voice close by. Why have I lost that confidence of

my childhood? Shall I never feel again so deeply that God is here?

How strange the association of our thoughts! A day of the month recalls

my infancy, and see, all the recollections of my former years are growing

up around me! Why was I so happy then? I consider well, and nothing is

sensibly changed in my condition. I possess, as I did then, health and my

daily bread; the only difference is, that I am now responsible for

myself! As a child, I accepted life when it came; another cared and

provided for me. So long as I fulfilled my present duties I was at peace

within, and I left the future to the prudence of my father! My destiny

was a ship, in the directing of which I had no share, and in which I

sailed as a common passenger. There was the whole secret of childhood's

happy security. Since then worldly wisdom has deprived me of it. When my

lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I thought to make myself

master of it by means of a long insight into the future. I have filled

the present hour with anxieties, by occupying my thoughts with the

future; I have put my judgment in the place of Providence, and the happy

child is changed into the anxious man.

A melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson. Who knows that, if

I had trusted more to Him who rules the world, I should not have been

spared all this anxiety? It may be that happiness is not possible here

below, except on condition of living like a child, giving ourselves up to

the duties of each day as it comes, and trusting in the goodness of our

heavenly Father for all besides.

This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice! Whenever I have need to strengthen

myself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see again the

gentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear his

voice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembrance of

him protects my life, and gives it light. He, too, was a saint and martyr

here below. Others have pointed out the path of heaven; he has taught us

to see those of earth aright.

But, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrifices

performed in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has ever

heard of my Uncle Maurice? Perhaps I alone remember his name, and still

recall his history.

Well! I will write it, not for others, but for myself! They say that, at

the sight of the Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a more

dignified attitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raised

and ennobled by the recollection of a good man's life!

A ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which I write; the

breeze brings me in the scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheel

about my window with joyful twitterings. The image of my Uncle Maurice

will be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and the

fragrance.

Seven o'clock.--It is with men's lives as with days: some dawn radiant

with a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds. That of my Uncle

Maurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly, when he came into the

world, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding these

anticipations, which might be called hopes, he continued to live,

suffering and deformed.

He was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attractions of

childhood. He was oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for his

deformity. In vain the little hunchback opened his arms to the world: the

world scoffed at him, and went its way.

However, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the child

directed all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. With her he

found shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man must

take his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with that

which others had refused with contempt. His education would have

qualified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk--[The

octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]--in

one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town.

He was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with no

relaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mother's visits.

On fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under the

shade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent,

her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard the

clinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournful

profile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; he

could every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowed neck,

and exchange a smile with her!

This comfort was soon to be taken from him. His old mother fell sick, and

at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. Maurice was overcome

at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave him alone on

earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He knelt by the bedside

of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, he pressed her in

his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mother tried to return

his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold, her voice was

already gone. She could only press her lips against the forehead of her

son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!

They tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himself

on that now motionless form.

"Dead!" cried he; "dead! She who had never left me, she who was the only

one in the world who loved me! You, my mother, dead! What then remains

for me here below?"

A stifled voice replied:

"God!"

Maurice, startled, raised himself! Was that a last sigh from the dead, or

his own conscience, that had answered him? He did not seek to know, but

he understood the answer, and accepted it.

It was then that I first knew him. I often went to see him in his little

toll-house. He joined in my childish games, told me his finest stories,

and let me gather his flowers. Deprived as he was of all external

attractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came to

him, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcome for

everyone. Deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with a gentle

patience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid the

insults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, "Father, forgive

them, for they know not what they do."

No other clerk showed so much honesty, zeal, and intelligence; but those

who otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved were

repelled by his deformity. As he had no patrons, he found his claims were

always disregarded. They preferred before him those who were better able

to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favor when

letting him keep the humble office which enabled him to live. Uncle

Maurice bore injustice as he had borne contempt; unfairly treated by men,

he raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of Him who cannot

be deceived.

He lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poor

but not as forlorn as he, also lodged. Among these neighbors there was a

single woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which came

both wind and rain. She was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothing

to recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it. She was

never seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret.

She worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloom

seemed to envelop her like a shroud. Her dejection affected Maurice; he

attempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words. It was

easy to see that she preferred her silence and her solitude to the little

hunchback's good-will; he perceived it, and said no more.

But Toinette's needle was hardly sufficient for her support, and

presently work failed her! Maurice learned that the poor girl was in want

of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit. He

immediately went to them privately and engaged to pay them for what they

supplied Toinette with.

Things went on in this way for several months. The young dressmaker

continued out of work, until she was at last frightened at the bills she

had contracted with the shopkeepers. When she came to an explanation with

them, everything was discovered. Her first impulse was to run to Uncle

Maurice, and thank him on her knees. Her habitual reserve had given way

to a burst of deepest feeling. It seemed as if gratitude had melted all

the ice of that numbed heart.

Being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchback could

give greater efficacy to his good offices. Toinette became to him a

sister, for whose wants he had a right to provide. It was the first time

since the death of his mother that he had been able to share his life

with another. The young woman received his attentions with feeling, but

with reserve. All Maurice's efforts were insufficient to dispel her

gloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed her

sense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. Her heart was a closed

book, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read. In

truth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness of

being no longer alone, and took Toinette such as her long trials had made

her; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but still to

enjoy her company.

This thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusion of

all besides. The poor girl was as forlorn as himself; she had become

accustomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look on

him with an affectionate sympathy! What more could he wish for? Until

then, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had been

repelled by Maurice as a dream; but chance seemed willing to make it a

reality. After much hesitation he took courage, and decided to speak to

her.

It was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed his

steps toward the work-woman's garret just as he was about to enter, he

thought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maiden's name. He

quickly pushed open the door, and perceived Toinette weeping, and leaning

on the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor.

At the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran to him,

crying out:

"Ah! come in--come in! It is he that I thought was dead: it is Julien; it

is my betrothed!"

Maurice tottered, and drew back. A single word had told him all!

It seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about to break;

but the same voice that he had heard by his mother's deathbed again

sounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. God was still his

friend!

He himself accompanied the newly-married pair on the road when they left

the town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denied to

him, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb.

It was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he said

by the Father which is in heaven. He felt His presence everywhere; it was

to him in the place of all else. When he died, it was with a smile, and

like an exile setting out for his own country. He who had consoled him in

poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustice and forsaken

by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him.

Eight o'clock.--All I have just written has pained me! Till now I have

looked into life for instruction how to live. Is it then true that human

maxims are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, prudence,

moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth,

which alone can face great misfortunes? and that, if man has need of

virtues for others, he has need of religion for himself?

When, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry heart, as the Scripture

expresses it, we think we are sufficient for ourselves; strong, happy,

and beloved, we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape every

storm in spite of the gods. But later in life, when the back is bowed,

when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affections grow

chill-then, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out our

arms, like the child overtaken by night, and we call for help to Him who

is everywhere.

I was asking this morning why this growing confusion alike for society

and for the individual? In vain does human reason from hour to hour light

some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow ever darker!

Is it not because we are content to withdraw farther and farther from

God, the Sun of spirits?

But what do these hermit's reveries signify to the world? The inward

turmoils of most men are stifled by the outward ones; life does not give

them time to question themselves. Have they time to know what they are,

and what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the next lease or

the last price of stock? Heaven is very high, and wise men look only at

the earth.

But I--poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek neither power nor

riches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelter of my

spirit--I can go back with impunity to these recollections of my

childhood; and, if this our great city no longer honors the name of God

with a festival, I will strive still to keep the feast to Him in my

heart.

CHAPTER VII

THE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME

Sunday, July 1st

Yesterday the month dedicated to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romans ended.

To-day we enter on July.

In ancient Rome this latter month was called Quintiles (the fifth),

because the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began in

March. When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this name of

Quintiles was preserved, as well as those that followed--Sexteles,

September, October, November, December--although these designations did

not accord with the newly arranged order of the months. At last, after a

time the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was called

Julius, whence we have July. Thus this name, placed in the calendar, is

become the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal epitaph

on Time's highway, engraved by the admiration of man.

How many similar inscriptions are there! Seas, continents, mountains,

stars, and monuments, have all in succession served the same purpose! We

have turned the whole world into a Golden Book, like that in which the

state of Venice used to enroll its illustrious names and its great deeds.

It seems that mankind feels a necessity for honoring itself in its elect

ones, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosing heroes from

among its own race. The human family love to preserve the memory; of the

parvenus of glory, as we cherish that of a great ancestor, or of a

benefactor.

In fact, the talents granted to a single individual do not benefit

himself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, for

everyone suffers or benefits by his actions. Genius is a lighthouse,

meant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock upon

which this lighthouse is built.

I love to dwell upon these thoughts; they explain to me in what consists

our admiration for glory. When glory has benefited men, that admiration

is gratitude; when it is only remarkable in itself, it is the pride of

race; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples of

humanity.

Who knows whether we do not obey the same instinct in submitting to the

hand of power? Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, or

the consequences of a conquest, the multitude delight to surround their

chiefs with privileges--whether it be that their vanity makes them thus

to aggrandize one of their own creations, or whether they try to conceal

the humiliation of subjection by exaggerating the importance of those who

rule them. They wish to honor themselves through their master; they

elevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround him with a

halo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon themselves.

It is still the fable of the dog who contents himself with the chain and

collar, so that they are of gold.

This servile vanity is not less natural or less common than the vanity of

dominion. Whoever feels himself incapable of command, at least desires to

obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to consider themselves

dishonored when they became the property of a mere count after having

been that of a prince, and Saint-Simon mentions a valet who would only

wait upon marquises.

July 7th, seven o'clock P. M.--I have just now been up the Boulevards; it

was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in the Rue

Lepelletier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossing

recognized the persons in some of these as we went by, and mentioned

their names; they were those of celebrated or powerful men, the

successful ones of the day.

Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes,

whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious looks

these possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on his

lips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind.

"Look at them, the lucky fellows!" thought he; "all the pleasures of

wealth, all the enjoyments of pride, are theirs. Their names are

renowned, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sovereigns of the

world, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor and

unknown, toil painfully along the road below, they wing their way over

the mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of prosperity."

I have come home in deep thought. Is it true that there are these

inequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men?

Do genius and authority really wear life as a crown, while the greater

part of mankind receive it as a yoke? Is the difference of rank but a

different use of men's dispositions and talents, or a real inequality in

their destinies? A solemn question, as it regards the verification of

God's impartiality.

July 8th, noon.--I went this morning to call upon a friend from the same

province as myself, who is the first usher-in-waiting to one of our

ministers. I took him some letters from his family, left for him by a

traveller just come from Brittany. He wished me to stay.

"To-day," said he, "the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day of

rest with his family. His younger sisters are arrived; he will take them

this morning to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friends

to a private ball. I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of the day.

We can dine together; read the news while you are waiting for me."

I sat down at a table covered with newspapers, all of which I looked over

by turns. Most of them contained severe criticisms on the last political

acts of the minister; some of them added suspicions as to the honor of

the minister himself.

Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take them to

his master.

He was then about to read these accusations, to suffer silently the abuse

of all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation or to

scorn! Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to endure the insults

of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies, his

ignorance, or his vices.

But, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be found

poisoned? Would not one reach some spot in his heart where the wound

would be incurable? What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacks of

envious hatred or furious conviction? The Christians yielded only the

fragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man in

power gives up his peace, his affections, his honor, to the cruel bites

of the pen.

While I was musing upon these dangers of greatness, the usher entered

hastily. Important news had been received: the minister is just summoned

to the council; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud.

I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at the

door, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to the

council. The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much family

happiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesman

in it.

The usher came back discontented and disappointed. The more or less of

liberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer of the political

atmosphere. If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at his post,

the country is in danger. His opinion on public affairs is but a

calculation of his own interest. My friend is almost a statesman.

I had some conversation with him, and he told me several curious

particulars of public life.

The new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though he

still retains his personal regard for them. Though separated from them by

the colors he fights under, they remain united by old associations; but

the exigencies of party forbid him to meet them. If their intercourse

continued, it would awaken suspicion; people would imagine that some

dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be held to be

traitors desirous to sell themselves, and he the corrupt minister

prepared to buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to break off

friendships of twenty years' standing, and to sacrifice attachments which

had become a second nature.

Sometimes, however, the minister still gives way to his old feelings; he

receives or visits his friends privately; he shuts himself up with them,

and talks of the times when they could be open friends. By dint of

precautions they have hitherto succeeded in concealing this blot of

friendship against policy; but sooner or later the newspapers will be

informed of it, and will denounce him to the country as an object of

distrust.

For whether hatred be honest or dishonest, it never shrinks from any

accusation. Sometimes it even proceeds to crime. The usher assured me

that several warnings had been given the minister which had made him fear

the vengeance of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out on foot.

Then, from one thing to another, I learned what temptations came in to

mislead or overcome his judgment; how he found himself fatally led into

obliquities which he could not but deplore. Misled by passion,

over-persuaded by entreaties, or compelled for reputation's sake, he has

many times held the balance with an unsteady hand. How sad the condition

of him who is in authority! Not only are the miseries of power imposed

upon him, but its vices also, which, not content with torturing, succeed

in corrupting him.

We prolonged our conversation till it was interrupted by the minister's

return. He threw himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers,

and with an anxious manner went into his own room. An instant afterward

his bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to all

those invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; they spoke

mysteriously of bad news transmitted by the telegraph, and in such

circumstances an entertainment would seem to insult the public sorrow.

I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seen

is an answer to my doubts the other day. Now I know with what pangs men

pay for their dignities; now I understand

That Fortune sells what we believe she gives.

This explains to me the reason why Charles V. aspired to the repose of

the cloister.

And yet I have only glanced at some of the sufferings attached to power.

What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitated

from the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that path

of pain along which they must forever bear the burden of their

responsibility? of that chain of decorums and ennuis which encompasses

every act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?

The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies. If

men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keep him

separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with a continual

worship, and, by a constant ceremonial, keep up for him the superhuman

part they have granted him. Our masters cannot remain absolute, except on

condition of being treated as idols.

But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they must

lead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment to

themselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used to

regulate, hour by hour, the actions of the king and queen; "so that,"

says Voltaire, "by reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns of

Spain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment." It

was by this law that Philip III, when sick, was obliged to endure such an

excess of heat that he died in consequence, because the Duke of Uzeda,

who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber,

happened to be absent.

When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, she

was about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquette

forbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endangered their

lives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whom

they had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon for

their crime. Every one knows the anecdote related by Madame Campan of

Marie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, when

the chemise was about to be presented to her by one of the assistants, a

lady of very ancient family entered and claimed the honor, as she had the

right by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil her duty,

a lady of higher rank appeared, and in her turn took the garment she was

about to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still higher title came

in her turn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no other than the

king's sister. The chemise was in this manner passed from hand to hand,

with ceremonies, courtesies, and compliments, before it came to the

queen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with cold for the

great honor of etiquette.

12th, seven o'clock, P.M.--On coming home this evening, I saw, standing

at the door of a house, an old man, whose appearance and features

reminded me of my father. There was the same beautiful smile, the same

deep and penetrating eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and the

same careless attitude.

I began living over again the first years of my life, and recalling to

myself the conversations of that guide whom God in his mercy had given

me, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn.

When my father spoke, it was not only to bring our two minds together by

an interchange of thought, but his words always contained instruction.

Not that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father feared everything

that had the appearance of a lesson. He used to say that virtue could

make herself devoted friends, but she did not take pupils: therefore he

was not desirous to teach goodness; he contented himself with sowing the

seeds of it, certain that experience would make them grow.

How often has good grain fallen thus into a corner of the heart, and,

when it has been long forgotten, all at once put forth the blade and come

into ear! It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, and we do

not know its value till we find ourselves in need of it.

Among the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings,

there is one which now returns to my memory, doubtless because the time

is come to derive its lesson from it.

My father, who was apprenticed at the age of twelve to one of those

trading collectors who call themselves naturalists, because they put all

creation under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had always led a

life of poverty and labor. Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turns

shop-boy, clerk, and laborer, he was made to bear alone all the work of a

trade of which his master reaped all the profits. In truth, this latter

had a peculiar talent for making the most of the labor of other people.

Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, no one knew

better how to sell it. His words were a net, in which people found

themselves taken before they were aware. And since he was devoted to

himself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and the buyer as

prey, he used them both with that obstinate perseverance which avarice

teaches.

My father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own only

on Sunday. The master naturalist, who used to spend the day at the house

of an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on condition that he

dined out, and at his own expense. But my father used secretly to take

with him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and,

leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valley

of Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of the Marne.

Excited by the fresh air, the penetrating perfume of the growing

vegetation, or the fragrance of the honeysuckles, he would walk on until

hunger or fatigue made itself felt. Then he would sit under a hedge, or

by the side of a stream, and would make a rustic feast, by turns on

watercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from the hedges;

he would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then in

greatest vogue, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques,

of whom he possessed three old volumes. The day was thus passed

alternately in activity and rest, in pursuit and meditation, until the

declining sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he would

arrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a whole

week.

One day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close to

it, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in sorting the plants

he had just gathered. He was an elderly man with an honest face; but his

eyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows, had a somewhat

uneasy and timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, a gray

waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stockings, and held an

ivory-headed cane under his arm. His appearance was that of a small

retired tradesman who was living on his means, and rather below the

golden mean of Horace.

My father, who had great respect for age, civilly raised his hat to him

as he passed. In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; the

stranger stooped to take it up, and recognized it.

"It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos," said he; "I have not yet seen any of

them in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?"

My father replied that it was to be found in abundance on the top of the

hill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium.

"That, too!" repeated the old man more briskly. "Ah! I shall go and look

for them; I have gathered them formerly on the hillside of Robaila."

My father proposed to take him. The stranger accepted his proposal with

thanks, and hastened to collect together the plants he had gathered; but

all of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple. He observed to his

companion that the road he was going was halfway up the hill, and led in

the direction of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue; that by

going to the top he would consequently turn out of his road, and that it

was not right he should take this trouble for a stranger.

My father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the more

eagerness he showed, the more obstinately the old man refused; it even

seemed to my father that his good intention at last excited his

suspicion. He therefore contented himself with pointing out the road to

the stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him.

Many hours passed by, and he thought no more of the meeting. He had

reached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossy

glade, he read once more the last volume of Emile. The delight of reading

it had so completely absorbed him that he had ceased to see or hear

anything around him. With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist, he

repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him.

An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; he raised

his head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before on

the crossroad at Viroflay.

He was loaded with plants, the collection of which seemed to have put him

into high good-humor.

"A thousand thanks, sir," said he to my father. "I have found all that

you told me of, and I am indebted to you for a charming walk."

My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply. The stranger had

grown quite familiar, and even asked if his young "brother botanist" did

not think of returning to Paris. My father replied in the affirmative,

and opened his tin box to put his book back in it.

The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence ask

the name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseau's Emile.

The stranger immediately became grave.

They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with the

warmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work had

made him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent. The former

extolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had made

him a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of great

thinkers, who reign in spite of time and space, and gather together a

people of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly

interrupted him:

"And how do you know," said he, mildly, "whether Jean Jacques would not

exchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of the

wood-cutters whose chimneys' smoke we see? What has fame brought him

except persecution? The unknown friends whom his books may have made for

him content themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while the

declared enemies that they have drawn upon him pursue him with violence

and calumny! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times has

it been wounded by satire? And be assured that human pride is like the

Sybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf. The

activity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost always

turns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he grows

older; the ideal he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual; he

is like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blemishes

in the most beautiful face. I will not speak of stronger temptations and

of deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what

virtuous man is not afraid of being a king? He who feels only his great

powers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing for

great failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is

no object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart,

pity him!"

My father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion

pronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.

Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to

that of Versailles; a carriage was passing.

The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation

of surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:

"There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!"

Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.

My father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wide

open, and his hands clasped.

Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned toward

him:

"You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later

misfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself:

he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to all

he is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signify

less if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as

soon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes

public property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial

actions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which

every passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps you will

say that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my

Confessions. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my house

through the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opened the doors and

windows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir.

Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seen

Rousseau."

Nine o'clock.--Ah! now I understand my father's story! It contains the

answer to one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I now feel

that fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, when they

dazzle the soul, both are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but 'un

deuil eclatant de bonheur!

'Tis better to be lowly born,

And range with humble livers in content,

Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,

And wear a golden sorrow.

[Henry VIII., Act II., Scene 3.]

CHAPTER VIII

MISANTHROPY AND REPENTANCE

August 3d, Nine O'clock P.M.

There are days when everything appears gloomy to us; the world, like the

sky, is covered by a dark fog. Nothing seems in its place; we see only

misery, improvidence, and cruelty; the world seems without God, and given

up to all the evils of chance.

Yesterday I was in this unhappy humor. After a long walk in the

faubourgs, I returned home, sad and dispirited.

Everything I had seen seemed to accuse the civilization of which we are

so proud! I had wandered into a little by-street, with which I was not

acquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the middle of those dreadful

abodes where the poor are born, to languish and die. I looked at those

decaying walls, which time has covered with a foul leprosy; those

windows, from which dirty rags hang out to dry; those fetid gutters,

which coil along the fronts of the houses like venomous reptiles! I felt

oppressed with grief, and hastened on.

A little farther on I was stopped by the hearse of a hospital; a dead

man, nailed down in his deal coffin, was going to his last abode, without

funeral pomp or ceremony, and without followers. There was not here even

that last friend of the outcast--the dog, which a painter has introduced

as the sole attendant at the pauper's burial! He whom they were preparing

to commit to the earth was going to the tomb, as he had lived, alone;

doubtless no one would be aware of his end. In this battle of society,

what signifies a soldier the less?

But what, then, is this human society, if one of its members can thus

disappear like a leaf carried away by the wind?

The hospital was near a barrack, at the entrance of which old men, women,

and children were quarrelling for the remains of the coarse bread which

the soldiers had given them in charity! Thus, beings like ourselves daily

wait in destitution on our compassion till we give them leave to live!

Whole troops of outcasts, in addition to the trials imposed on all God's

children, have to endure the pangs of cold, hunger, and humiliation.

Unhappy human commonwealth! Where man is in a worse condition than the

bee in its hive, or the ant in its subterranean city!

Ah! what then avails our reason? What is the use of so many high

faculties, if we are neither the wiser nor the happier for them? Which of

us would not exchange his life of labor and trouble with that of the

birds of the air, to whom the whole world is a life of joy?

How well I understand the complaint of Mao, in the popular tales of the

'Foyer Breton' who, when dying of hunger and thirst, says, as he looks at

the bullfinches rifling the fruit-trees:

"Alas! those birds are happier than Christians; they have no need of

inns, or butchers, or bakers, or gardeners. God's heaven belongs to them,

and earth spreads a continual feast before them! The tiny flies are their

game, ripe grass their cornfields, and hips and haws their store of

fruit. They have the right of taking everywhere, without paying or asking

leave: thus comes it that the little birds are happy, and sing all the

livelong day!"

But the life of man in a natural state is like that of the birds; he

equally enjoys nature. "The earth spreads a continual feast before him."

What, then, has he gained by that selfish and imperfect association which

forms a nation? Would it not be better for every one to turn again to the

fertile bosom of nature, and live there upon her bounty in peace and

liberty?

August 20th, four o'clock A.M.--The dawn casts a red glow on my

bed-curtains; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below.

Here I am again leaning on my elbows by the windows, inhaling the

freshness and gladness of this first wakening of the day.

My eye always passes over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, and

sunlight, with the same pleasure; but to-day it stops at the end of a

buttress which separates our house from the next.

The storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, and dust

carried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and, being fixed there

by the rain, has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some green grass

has sprung up. Among it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day is

surmounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head.

This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall to the

neighboring sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich crops which are

now falling beneath the sickle; it has recalled to me the beautiful walks

I took as a child through my native province, when the threshing-floors

at the farmhouses resounded from every part with the sound of a flail,

and when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, came in by all the roads.

I still remember the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness of the old

men, the open-hearted merriment of the laborers. There was, at that time,

something in their looks both of pride and feeling. The latter came from

thankfulness to God, the former from the sight of the harvest, the reward

of their labor. They felt indistinctly the grandeur and the holiness of

their part in the general work of the world; they looked with pride upon

their mountains of corn-sheaves, and they seemed to say, Next to God, it

is we who feed the world!

What a wonderful order there is in all human labor!

While the husbandman furrows his land, and prepares for every one his

daily bread, the town artizan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he is

to be clothed; the miner seeks underground the iron for his plow; the

soldier defends him against the invader; the judge takes care that the

law protects his fields; the tax-comptroller adjusts his private

interests with those of the public; the merchant occupies himself in

exchanging his products with those of distant countries; the men of

science and of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, which

draws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains of

our iron roads! Thus all unite together, all help one another; the toil

of each one benefits himself and all the world; the work has been

apportioned among the different members of the whole of society by a

tacit agreement. If, in this apportionment, errors are committed, if

certain individuals have not been employed according to their capacities,

those defects of detail diminish in the sublime conception of the whole.

The poorest man included in this association has his place, his work, his

reason for being there; each is something in the whole.

There is nothing like this for man in the state of nature. As he depends

only upon himself, it is necessary that he be sufficient for everything.

All creation is his property; but he finds in it as many hindrances as

helps. He must surmount these obstacles with the single strength that God

has given him; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance and

opportunity. No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him; he is

nothing to any one. He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his own

single powers; while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the whole

of society.

But, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of some

vices in detail, I cursed the latter, and almost envied the life of the

savage.

One of the infirmities of our nature is always to mistake feeling for

evidence, and to judge of the season by a cloud or a ray of sunshine.

Was the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, really

the effect of civilization? Must we accuse society of having created

these evils, or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has alleviated

them? Could the women and children, who were receiving the coarse bread

from the soldier, hope in the desert for more help or pity? That dead

man, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares of a

hospital, a coffin and the humble grave where he was about to rest?

Alone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in his

den, and would now be serving as food for vultures! These benefits of

human society are shared, then, by the most destitute. Whoever eats the

bread that another has reaped and kneaded, is under an obligation to his

brother, and cannot say he owes him nothing in return. The poorest of us

has received from society much more than his own single strength would

have permitted him to wrest from nature.

But cannot society give us more? Who doubts it? Errors have been

committed in this distribution of tasks and workers. Time will diminish

the number of them; with new lights a better division will arise; the

elements of society go on toward perfection, like everything else. The

difficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time,

whose progress can never be forced on without danger.

August 14th, six o'clock A.M.--My garret window rises upon the roof like

a massive watch-tower. The corners are covered by large sheets of lead,

which run into the tiles; the successive action of cold and heat has made

them rise, and so a crevice has been formed in an angle on the right

side. There a sparrow has built her nest.

I have followed the progress of this aerial habitation from the first

day. I have seen the bird successively bring the straw, moss, and wool

designed for the construction of her abode; and I have admired the

persevering skill she expended in this difficult work. At first, my new

neighbor spent her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden, and

in chirping along the gutters; a fine lady's life seemed the only one to

suit her. Then all of a sudden, the necessity of preparing a shelter for

her brood transformed our idler into a worker; she no longer gave herself

either rest or relaxation. I saw her always either flying, fetching, or

carrying; neither rain nor sun stopped her. A striking example of the

power of necessity! We are indebted to it not only for most of our

talents, but for many of our virtues!

Is it not necessity that has given the people of less favored climates

that constant activity which has placed them so quickly at the head of

nations? As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, they have

supplied them by their industry; necessity has sharpened their

understanding, endurance awakened their foresight. While elsewhere man,

warmed by an ever brilliant sun, and loaded with the bounties of the

earth, was remaining poor, ignorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts he

did not attempt to explore, here he was forced by necessity to wrest his

food from the ground, to build habitations to defend himself from the

intemperance of the weather, and to warm his body by clothing himself

with the wool of animals. Work makes him both more intelligent and more

robust: disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher on the ladder of

creation, while those more favored by nature remain on the step nearest

to the brutes.

I made these reflections while looking at the bird, whose instinct seemed

to have become more acute since she had been occupied in work. At last

the nest was finished; she set up her household there, and I followed her

through all the phases of her new existence.

When she had sat on the eggs, and the young ones were hatched, she fed

them with the most attentive care. The corner of my window had become a

stage of moral action, which fathers and mothers might come to take

lessons from. The little ones soon became large, and this morning I have

seen them take their first flight. One of them, weaker than the others,

was not able to clear the edge of the roof, and fell into the gutter. I

caught him with some difficulty, and placed him again on the tile in

front of his house, but the mother has not noticed him. Once freed from

the cares of a family, she has resumed her wandering life among the trees

and along the roofs. In vain I have kept away from my window, to take

from her every excuse for fear; in vain the feeble little bird has called

to her with plaintive cries; his bad mother has passed by, singing and

fluttering with a thousand airs and graces. Once only the father came

near; he looked at his offspring with contempt, and then disappeared,

never to return!

I crumbled some bread before the little orphan, but he did not know how

to peck it with his bill. I tried to catch him, but he escaped into the

forsaken nest. What will become of him there, if his mother does not come

back!

August 15th, six o'clock.--This morning, on opening my window, I found

the little bird dying upon the tiles; his wounds showed me that he had

been driven from the nest by his unworthy mother. I tried in vain to warm

him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; his eyes

were already closed, and his wings hung down! I placed him on the roof in

a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window. The struggle of life against

death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us.

Happily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my old

neighbor; his conversation will distract my thoughts.

It was my portress. Excellent woman! She wished me to read a letter from

her son the sailor, and begged me to answer it for her.

I kept it, to copy it in my journal. Here it is:

"DEAR MOTHER: This is to tell you that I have been very well ever

since the last time, except that last week I was nearly drowned with

the boat, which would have been a great loss, as there is not a

better craft anywhere.

"A gust of wind capsized us; and just as I came up above water, I

saw the captain sinking. I went after him, as was my duty, and,

after diving three times, I brought him to the surface, which

pleased him much; for when we were hoisted on board, and he had

recovered his senses, he threw his arms round my neck, as he would

have done to an officer.

"I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this has delighted me.

But it isn't all; it seems that fishing up the captain has reminded

them that I had a good character, and they have just told me that I

am promoted to be a sailor of the first class! Directly I knew it,

I cried out, 'My mother shall have coffee twice a day!' And really,

dear mother, there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now have

a larger allowance to send you.

"I include by begging you to take care of yourself if you wish to do

me good; for nothing makes me feel so well as to think that you want

for nothing.

"Your son, from the bottom of my heart,

"JACQUES."

This is the answer that the portress dictated to me:

"MY GOOD JACQUOT: It makes me very happy to see that your heart is

still as true as ever, and that you will never shame those who have

brought you up. I need not tell you to take care of your life,

because you know it is the same as my own, and that without you,

dear child, I should wish for nothing but the grave; but we are not

bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty.

"Do not fear for my health, good Jacques; I was never better! I do

not grow old at all, for fear of making you unhappy. I want

nothing, and I live like a lady. I even had some money over this

year, and as my drawers shut very badly, I put it into the savings'

bank, where I have opened an account in your name. So, when you

come back, you will find yourself with an income. I have also

furnished your chest with new linen, and I have knitted you three

new sea-jackets.

"All your friends are well. Your cousin is just dead, leaving his

widow in difficulties. I gave her your thirty francs' remittance

and said that you had sent it her; and the poor woman remembers you

day and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put that money in

another sort of savings' bank; but there it is our hearts that get

the interest.

"Good-bye, dear Jacquot. Write to me often, and always remember the

good God, and your old mother,

"PHROSINE MILLOT."

Good son, and worthy mother! how such examples bring us back to a love

for the human race! In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy the

fate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; but

impartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes. We find, on

examination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the good so

far abounds that we are not in the habit of noticing it, while the evil

strikes us precisely on account of its being the exception. If nothing is

perfect, nothing is so bad as to be without its compensation or its

remedy. What spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evils of

society! how much does the moral world redeem the material!

That which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is his

power of deliberate affection and of enduring self-sacrifice. The mother

who took care of her brood in the corner of my window devoted to them the

necessary time for accomplishing the laws which insure the preservation

of her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not a rational choice. When

she had accomplished the mission appointed her by Providence, she cast

off the duty as we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to her

selfish liberty. The other mother, on the contrary, will go on with her

task as long as God shall leave her here below: the life of her son will

still remain, so to speak, joined to her own; and when she disappears

from the earth, she will leave there that part of herself.

Thus, the affections make for our species an existence separate from all

the rest of creation. Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrial

immortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man alone

perpetuates himself.

CHAPTER IX

THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT

September 15th, Eight O'clock

This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in,

and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For the

nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in

her little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but

Mother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm,

and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our

acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my

patronage has become her property.

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a

joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again

immediately to send him to me.

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:

but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as

usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?

Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that

she might think she had received her full share already. Were I to live a

hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her

known to me, and which obtained for her my respect.

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had noticed

her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its

forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have always

instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but

it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in

poverty. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to

those whose very existence is in peril--the only means by which some

orphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of the tradesman is not to

enrich himself, but to live! The purchase you make of him is more than an

exchange--it is a good action.

Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost that

fresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among the

poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working to become,

according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, a worshipper of

Saint Monday. The wages of the week, which was always reduced to two or

three working days, were completely dedicated by him to the worship of

this god of the Barriers,--[The cheap wine shops are outside the

Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]--and Genevieve was

obliged herself to provide for all the wants of the household.

One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I heard

a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices of several

women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by sobs. On

looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a child in her

arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be claiming her

wages from her. The poor woman, who without doubt had exhausted every

explanation and every excuse, was crying in silence, and one of her

neighbors was trying in vain to appease the countrywoman. Excited by that

love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse,

and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was

launching forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of

myself, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not

thinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door.

The joiner had just come from the Barriers, where he had passed part of

the day at a public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and untied at the

throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in his hand he held his

cap, which he had just picked up out of the mud; his hair was in

disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face. He

came reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called Genevieve.

She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at the

sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, she

pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with tears.

The countrywoman and the neighbor had followed her.

"Come! come!" cried the former in a rage, "do you intend to pay me, after

all?"

"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from the

next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the

counter.

The countrywoman looked at him.

"Ah! he is the father," returned she. "Well, what idle beggars! not to

have a penny to pay honest people; and get tipsy with wine in that way."

The drunkard raised his head.

"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had

nothing but brandy! But I am going back again to get some wine! Wife,

give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at the 'Pere la

Tuille'."

Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the till, and

began to rummage in it.

"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbor to the

countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takes all?"

"Is that my fault?" replied the nurse, angrily. "They owe to me, and

somehow or other they must pay me!"

And letting loose her tongue, as these women out of the country do, she

began relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, and all

the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she recalled all she had

done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of her rights, and

to increase her anger. The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her

violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put

it into its cradle.

Whether it is that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination to

escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot say; but

she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling,

with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. The joiner, who was

still rummaging in the till, was startled, and raised his head.

At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her arms

the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She ran

toward the counter, and throwing herself behind her husband, cried:

"Michael, defend your son!"

The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.

"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"

His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over

his features.

"Robert," resumed he; "it is Robert!"

He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but

he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage.

"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she. "It is I who have

fed and brought it up: if you don't pay me for what has made it live, it

ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not go until I

have my due, or the baby."

"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert

against her bosom.

"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the

hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its

little ones."

At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. With

her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her

two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained

with her back against it, like a lioness defending her young. The

neighbor and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we could

interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visible

effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon Genevieve and the

child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but when he turned toward us,

he again became stupid and hesitating.

At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried out, "Wait!"

And going to a tub filled with water, he plunged his face into it several

times.

Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed

astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had

partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then he

turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up.

"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his arms.

"Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him."

The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and stayed

before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child would have

a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and renewed her

claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. At first Michael listened

to her attentively, and when he comprehended her meaning, he gave the

child back to its mother.

"How much do we owe you?" asked he.

The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which

amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of his

pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted by

frowns; low curses began to escape him. All of a sudden he rummaged in

his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up above his head:

"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he with a joyful laugh; "a watch,

a good one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry day; but it

is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! ah! go and sell it

for me, neighbor, and if that is not enough, I have my earrings. Eh!

Genevieve, take them off for me; the earrings will square all! They shall

not say you have been disgraced on account of the child--no, not even if

I must pledge a bit of my flesh! My watch, my earrings, and my ring--get

rid of all of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the

little fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve; I will put him to bed."

And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him with a

firm step to his cradle.

It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from this

day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early every

morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to finish the

day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not leave them at all,

and he hired a place near the fruit-shop, and worked in it on his own

account.

They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been for

the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up to his

education. He had gone through the regular school training, had studied

mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had only begun to

work a few months ago. Till now, they had been exhausting every resource

which their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in his

business; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: the

seed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by.

While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael had

come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were wanted.

During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also

scrutinizing the joiner.

The excesses of his youth and the labor of his manhood have deeply marked

his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stoop, his legs are

shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in his whole

being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and despondency. He

answers my questions by monosyllables, and like a man who wishes to avoid

conversation. Whence comes this dejection, when one would think he had

all he could wish for? I should like to know!

Ten o'clock.--Michael is just gone downstairs to look for a tool he has

forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the secret of his

and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause of it!

Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is idle

or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them any more.

The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made glad their

lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father prepared

everything to receive their dear associate in their toils; and at the

moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all their sacrifices,

Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just engaged himself to a

contractor at Versailles.

Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward the

necessity of initiating himself into all the details of an important

contract, the facilities he should have in his new position of improving

himself in his trade, and the hopes he had of turning his knowledge to

advantage. At, last, when his mother, having come to the end of her

arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed her, and went away that he

might avoid any further remonstrances.

He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes of

his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he only

stayed a few moments with them.

"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael said to

me just now. "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, and God has

given me an ambitious and avaricious one! I had always said to myself

that when once he was grown up we should have him always with us, to

recall our youth and to enliven our hearts. His mother was always

thinking of getting him married, and having children again to care for.

You know women always will busy themselves about others. As for me, I

thought of him working near my bench, and singing his new songs; for he

has learnt music, and is one of the best singers at the Orpheon.

"A dream, sir, truly! Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight,

and remembers neither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the

day we expected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robert

to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain to

arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, after the

customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could have guessed how it would

have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my likings and my money, for

nearly twenty years, to the education of a thankless son! Was it for this

I took the trouble to cure myself of drinking, to break with my friends,

to become an example to the neighborhood? The jovial good fellow has made

a goose of himself. Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women

and children are our bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of

hope and affection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the

growth of a grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age,

and when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear is empty!"

While he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eyes fierce,

and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could only think of

commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. The joiner pretended he

needed a tool, and left me.

Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has

failed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not felt

this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at least once,

the mournful exclamation of Brutus?

But if virtue is only a word, what is there then in life that is true and

real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It does not always

give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings some other. In the

world everything is ruled by order, and has its proper and necessary

consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole exception to the general law.

If it had been prejudicial to those who practised it, experience would

have avenged them; but experience has, on the contrary, made it more

universal and more holy. We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor

because we demand an immediate payment, and one apparent to our senses.

We always consider life as a fairytale, in which every good action must

be rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peaceful

conscience, self-content, or a good name among men--treasures that are

more precious than any other, but the value of which we do not feel till

after we have lost them!

Michael is come back, and has returned to his work. His son has not yet

arrived.

By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he became

excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, always adding

something to his griefs. He had just wound up his confidential discourse

by speaking to me of a joiner's business which he had hoped to buy, and

work to good account with Robert's help. The present owner had made a

fortune by it, and, after thirty years of business, he was thinking of

retiring to one of the ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city,

a usual retreat for the frugal and successful workingman. Michael had not

indeed the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps he

could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence would have

been a security for him, for the young man could not fail to insure the

prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he had the power of

invention and bringing to perfection. His father had discovered among his

drawings a new plan for a staircase, which had occupied his thoughts for

a long time; and he even suspected him of having engaged himself to the

Versailles contractor for the very purpose of executing it. The youth was

tormented by this spirit of invention, which took possession of all his

thoughts, and, while devoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen

to his feelings.

Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. I

saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very pride made

him more sensitive to that son's neglect.

Six o'clock P.M.--I have just finished a happy day. How many events have

happened within a few hours, and what a change for Genevieve and Michael!

He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, while

I laid the cloth for my breakfast.

Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and

Genevieve entered with Robert.

The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it

immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure.

The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into his

arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, whose face

shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrain herself

with difficulty.

I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease and

civility.

"I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly.

"Forgive me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business at

St. Germain's. I was not able to come back till it was very late, and

then the master kept me."

The joiner looked at his son sidewise, and then took up his hammer again.

"All right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with other

people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would like better

to eat brown bread with their own knife than partridges with the silver

fork of a master."

"And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily, "but, as the

proverb says, 'you must shell the peas before you can eat them.' It was

necessary that I should first work in a great workshop--"

"To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael,

ironically.

"You must now say Monsieur Raymond's plan, father," replied Robert,

smiling.

"Why?"

"Because I have sold it to him."

The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly.

"Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes.

"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him."

Michael threw down the board and tool.

"There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts an idea

into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells it

to a rich man, who will take the honor of it himself."

"Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve.

"What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion. "You understand nothing

about it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workman

never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier would

give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it for the

honor it does him! Ah, thunder! if I had ever made a discovery, rather

than put it up at auction I would have sold one of my eyes! Don't you see

that a new invention is like a child to a workman? He takes care of it,

he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it is only a

poor creature who sells it."

Robert colored a little.

"You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I sold

my plan."

"Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could no

longer keep silence.

"Never!" replied Michael.

"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he sold it only for our sakes!"

The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It was necessary

to come to an explanation. The latter related how he had entered into a

negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively refused to sell his

business unless one half of the two thousand francs were first paid down.

It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum that he had gone to work with

the contractor at Versailles; he had had an opportunity of trying his

invention, and of finding a purchaser. Thanks to the money he received

for it, he had just concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought

his father the key of the new work-yard.

This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty and

simplicity that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; Michael

pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he seemed to ask his

pardon for having unjustly accused him.

All was now explained with honor to Robert. The conduct which his parents

had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affection; he had neither

obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even the nobler

inspiration of inventive genius: his whole motive and single aim had been

the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for proving his gratitude

had come, and he had returned them sacrifice for sacrifice!

After the explanations and exclamations of joy were over, all three were

about to leave me; but, the cloth being laid, I added three more places,

and kept them to breakfast.

The meal was prolonged: the fare was only tolerable; but the

over-flowings of affection made it delicious. Never had I better

understood the unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment in

that happiness which is always shared with others; in that community of

interests which unites such various feelings; in that association of

existences which forms one single being of so many! What is man without

those home affections, which, like so many roots, fix him firmly in the

earth, and permit him to imbibe all the juices of life? Energy,

happiness--do not all these come from them? Without family life where

would man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself? A community in

little, is it not this which teaches us how to live in the great one?

Such is the holiness of home, that, to express our relation with God, we

have been obliged to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men

have named themselves the sons of a heavenly Father!

Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union. Do not let

us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the caprices of

chance and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this holy law; let us

carry the principles and the habits of home beyond set bounds; and, if it

may be, let us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentiles when he

exclaimed to the newborn children of Christ: "Be ye like-minded, having

the same love, being of one accord, of one mind."

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Always to mistake feeling for evidence

Fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought

Fortune sells what we believe she gives

Make himself a name: he becomes public property

My patronage has become her property

Not desirous to teach goodness

Power of necessity

Progress can never be forced on without danger

So much confidence at first, so much doubt at las

The man in power gives up his peace

Virtue made friends, but she did not take pupils

We are not bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty

AN "ATTIC" PHILOSOPHER

(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)

By EMILE SOUVESTRE

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER X

OUR COUNTRY

October 12th, Seven O'clock A.M.

The nights are already become cold and long; the sun, shining through my

curtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even when

my eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast under my

counterpane. Every morning there begins a long argument between my

activity and my indolence; and, snugly wrapped up to the eyes, I wait

like the Gascon, until they have succeeded in coming to an agreement.

This morning, however, a light, which shone from my door upon my pillow,

awoke me earlier than usual. In vain I turned on my side; the persevering

light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into every position. At last,

quite out of patience, I sat up and hurled my nightcap to the foot of the

bed!

(I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions of

this pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbols

of the vehement emotions of the mind; for our language has borrowed its

most common images from them.)

But be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humor, grumbling at my new

neighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep.

We are all made thus; we do not understand that others may live on their

own account. Each one of us is like the earth, according to the old

system of Ptolemy, and thinks he can have the whole universe revolve

around himself. On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to:

'Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bonnet'.

I had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mine to the

other end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from the warm

bedclothes, while making a host of evil reflections upon the

inconvenience of having neighbors.

For more than a month I had not had to complain of those whom chance had

given me; most of them only came in to sleep, and went away again on

rising. I was almost always alone on this top story--alone with the

clouds and the sparrows!

But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, like

the seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take mere

passengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along the

landing-place belonging to our attics! How many companions of a few days

have disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the living

which whirls continually under the scourge of necessity, and others in

that resting-place of the dead, who sleep under the hand of God!

Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. Wrapped up in selfishness, he

lived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss was

neither mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; there

was merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied in

our house.

It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days.

To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is gone with my

nightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier than

suits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries his

misfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, with

cheerfulness and moderation.

But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wreck of a

man. In the place of one of his arms hangs an empty sleeve; his left leg

is made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; but

above these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon his

countenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,

the tone of which has, so to speak, the accent of goodness, we see that

the soul has remained entire in the half-destroyed covering. The fortress

is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrison is quite

hearty.

Decidedly, the more I think of this excellent man, the more I reproach

myself for the sort of malediction I bestowed on him when I awoke.

We are generally too indulgent in our secret wrongs toward our neighbor.

All ill-will which does not pass the region of thought seems innocent to

us, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse without examination the sin

which does not betray itself by action!

But are we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws? Besides

these external relations, is there not a real relation of feeling between

men? Do we not owe to all those who live under the same heaven as

ourselves the aid not only of our acts but of our purposes? Ought not

every human life to be to us like a vessel that we accompany with our

prayers for a happy voyage? It is not enough that men do not harm one

another; they must also help and love one another! The papal benediction,

'Urbi et orbi'! should be the constant cry from all hearts. To condemn

him who does not deserve it, even in the mind, even by a passing thought,

is to break the great law, that which has established the union of souls

here below, and to which Christ has given the sweet name of charity.

These thoughts came into my mind as I finished dressing, and I said to

myself that Father Chaufour had a right to reparation from me. To make

amends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him just now, I owed him

some explicit proof of sympathy. I heard him humming a tune in his room;

he was at work, and I determined that I would make the first neighborly

call.

Eight o'clock P.M.--I found Father Chaufour at a table lighted by a

little smoky lamp, without a fire, although it is already cold, and

making large pasteboard boxes; he was humming a popular song in a low

tone. I had hardly entered the room when he uttered an exclamation of

surprise and pleasure.

"Eh! is it you, neighbor? Come in, then! I did not think you got up so

early, so I put a damper on my music; I was afraid of waking you."

Excellent man! while I was sending him to the devil he was putting

himself out of his way for me!

This thought touched me, and I paid my compliments on his having become

my neighbor with a warmth which opened his heart.

"Faith! you seem to me to have the look of a good Christian," said he in

a voice of soldierlike cordiality, and shaking me by the hand. "I do not

like those people who look on a landing-place as a frontier line, and

treat their neighbors as if they were Cossacks. When men snuff the same

air, and speak the same lingo, they are not meant to turn their backs to

each other. Sit down there, neighbor; I don't mean to order you; only

take care of the stool; it has but three legs, and we must put good-will

in place of the fourth."

"It seems that that is a treasure which there is no want of here," I

observed.

"Good-will!" repeated Chaufour; "that is all my mother left me, and I

take it no son has received a better inheritance. Therefore they used to

call me Monsieur Content in the batteries."

"You are a soldier, then?"

"I served in the Third Artillery under the Republic, and afterward in the

Guard, through all the commotions. I was at Jemappes and at Waterloo; so

I was at the christening and at the burial of our glory, as one may say!"

I looked at him with astonishment.

"And how old were you then, at Jemappes?" asked I.

"Somewhere about fifteen," said he.

"How came you to think of being a soldier so early?"

"I did not really think about it. I then worked at toy-making, and never

dreamed that France would ask me for anything else than to make her

draught-boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls. But I had an old uncle

at Vincennes whom I went to see from time to time--a Fontenoy veteran in

the same rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to have risen to

that of a marshal. Unluckily, in those days there was no way for common

people to get on. My uncle, whose services would have got him made a

prince under the other, had then retired with the mere rank of

sub-lieutenant. But you should have seen him in his uniform, his cross of

St. Louis, his wooden leg, his white moustaches, and his noble

countenance. You would have said he was a portrait of one of those old

heroes in powdered hair which are at Versailles!

"Every time I visited him, he said something which remained fixed in my

memory. But one day I found him quite grave.

"'Jerome,' said he, 'do you know what is going on on the frontier?'