{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3996/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3996","id":"gutenberg_3996","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3996","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Paris (France) -- Fiction"],"text":"Ver.07/27/01*END*\n\n\n\n\nThis etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>\n\n\n\n\n\n[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the\nfile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an\nentire meal of them.  D.W.]\n\n\n\n\n\nAN \"ATTIC\" PHILOSOPHER\n(Un Philosophe sous les Toits)\n\nBy EMILE SOUVESTRE\n\n\nWith a Preface by JOSEPH BERTRAND, of the French Academy\n\n\n\nBOOK 1.\n\n\nEMILE SOUVESTRE\n\nNo one succeeds in obtaining a prominent place in literature, or in\nsurrounding himself with a faithful and steady circle of admirers drawn\nfrom the fickle masses of the public, unless he possesses originality,\nconstant variety, and a distinct personality.  It is quite possible to\ngain for a moment a few readers by imitating some original feature in\nanother; but these soon vanish and the writer remains alone and\nforgotten.  Others, again, without belonging to any distinct group of\nauthors, having found their standard in themselves, moralists and\neducators at the same time, have obtained undying recognition.\n\nOf the latter class, though little known outside of France, is Emile\nSouvestre, who was born in Morlaix, April 15, 1806, and died at Paris\nJuly 5, 1854.  He was the son of a civil engineer, was educated at the\ncollege of Pontivy, and intended to follow his father's career by\nentering the Polytechnic School.  His father, however, died in 1823, and\nSouvestre matriculated as a law-student at Rennes.  But the young student\nsoon devoted himself entirely to literature.  His first essay, a tragedy,\n'Le Siege de Missolonghi' (1828), was a pronounced failure.  Disheartened\nand disgusted he left Paris and established himself first as a lawyer in\nMorlaix.  Then he became proprietor of a newspaper, and was afterward\nappointed a professor in Brest and in Mulhouse.  In 1836 he contributed\nto the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' some sketches of life in Brittany, which\nobtained a brilliant success.  Souvestre was soon made editor of La Revue\nde Paris, and in consequence early found a publisher for his first novel,\n'L'Echelle de Femmes', which, as was the case with his second work,\nRiche et Pauvre', met with a very favorable reception.  His reputation\nwas now made, and between this period and his death he gave to France\nabout sixty volumes--tales, novels, essays, history, and drama.\n\nA double purpose was always very conspicuous in his books: he aspired to\nthe role of a moralist and educator, and was likewise a most impressive\npainter of the life, character, and morals of the inhabitants of\nBrittany.\n\nThe most significant of his books are perhaps 'Les Derniers Bretons\n(1835-1837, 4 vols.), Pierre Landais (1843, 2 vols.), Le Foyer Breton\n(1844, 2 vols.), Un Philosophe sons les Toits, crowned by the Academy\n(1850), Confessions d'un Ouvrier (1851), Recits et Souvenirs (1853),\nSouvenirs d'un Vieillard (1854); also La Bretagne Pittoresque (1845),\nand, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols.)'.  His\ncomedies deserve honorable mention: 'Henri Hamelin, L'Oncle Baptiste\n(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, etc'.  In 1848, Souvestre was appointed\nprofessor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devoted\nto popular lectures.  He held this post till 1853, lecturing partly in\nParis, partly in Switzerland.\n\nHis death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literary\nworld.  A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow.\nAlthough he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a beacon-\nlight in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the works of\nEmile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their morality and by\ntheir instructive character.  They will always command the entire respect\nand applause of mankind.  And thus it happens that, like many others, he\nwas only fully appreciated after his death.\n\nEven those of his 'confreres' who did not seem to esteem him, when alive,\nsuddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise.\nThey expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneous literature\ndiscovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy,\nwhich had at its proper time crowned his 'Philosophe sons les Toits' as a\nwork contributing supremely to morals, kept his memory green by bestowing\non his widow the \"Prix Lambert,\" designed for the \"families of authors\nwho by their integrity, and by the probity of their efforts have well\ndeserved this token from the Republique des Lettres.\"\n\n                                        JOSEPH BERTRAND\n                                   de 'Academie Francaise.\n\n\n\n\nAN \"ATTIC\" PHILOSOPHER\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nNEW-YEAR'S GIFTS\n\nJanuary 1st\n\nThe day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke.  Another year\nis separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past!\nThe crowd hasten to welcome her young sister.  But while all looks are\nturned toward the future, mine revert to the past.  Everyone smiles upon\nthe new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has just\nwrapped in her winding-sheet.  The past year!--at least I know what she\nwas, and what she has given me; while this one comes surrounded by all\nthe forebodings of the unknown.  What does she hide in the clouds that\nmantle her?  Is it the storm or the sunshine?  Just now it rains, and I\nfeel my mind as gloomy as the sky.  I have a holiday today; but what can\none do on a rainy day?  I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I\ndetermine to light my fire.\n\nUnfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!\nI throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.\n\nIn truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year?  All those\nwho are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces--do\nthey understand what makes them so gay?  Do they even know what is the\nmeaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year's gifts?\n\nHere my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of the\nvulgar.  I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and\nI bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.\n\n(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was Numa\nPompilius who added January and February.  The former took its name from\nJanus, to whom it was dedicated.  As it opened the new year, they\nsurrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom of\nvisits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year's gifts.\nThe presents given by the Romans were symbolic.  They consisted of dry\nfigs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of \"the sweetness of the auspices\nunder which the year should begin its course,\" and a small piece of money\ncalled stips, which foreboded riches.)\n\nHere I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor.  The little\nspeech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my self-\nsatisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others.  I could now\nenjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning's milk, and\nthe pot of preserves is empty!  Anyone else would have been vexed: as for\nme, I affect the most supreme indifference.  There remains a hard crust,\nwhich I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man\nfar above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.\n\nHowever, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reason\nof the difficulties of mastication.  I once read the story of an\nEnglishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his tea\nwithout sugar.  There are hours in life when the most trifling cross\ntakes the form of a calamity.  Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which\nmakes the object small or great according to the end you look through.\n\nUsually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me.  It is\na mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled\non one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks.  It was\nbut yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the\nfirst snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles and\nstone flues.  The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem no\nmore than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard;\nthe smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of the\npanting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater;\nand lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower of\nMontmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the\ncity.\n\nMy eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man's house\nwhich faces my attic.\n\nThe influence of New-Year's Day is visible there.  The servants have an\nair of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-Year's gifts,\nreceived or expected.  I see the master of the house crossing the court\nwith the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; and the\nvisitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes,\nor toys.  Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawn\nby thoroughbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps.  They are, without\ndoubt, the New-Year's gift presented to the mistress of the house by her\nhusband; for she comes herself to look at the new equipage.  Very soon\nshe gets into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathers\nand velvets, and loaded with parcels which she goes to distribute as New-\nYear's gifts.  The door is shut, the windows are drawn up, the carriage\nsets off.\n\nThus all the world are exchanging good wishes and presents to-day.  I\nalone have nothing to give or to receive.  Poor Solitary!  I do not even\nknow one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer.\n\nThen let my wishes for a happy New Year go and seek out all my unknown\nfriends--lost in the multitude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet!\n\nTo you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty have created\na solitude in the midst of the crowd!  unhappy laborers, who are\ncondemned to toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in silence and\ndesertion, and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxicating pangs of love\nand friendship!\n\nTo you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turned toward\nsome polar star, while you tread with indifference over the rich harvests\nof reality!\n\nTo you, honest fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain your\nfamilies! to you, poor widows, weeping and working by a cradle! to you,\nyoung men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, large\nenough to lead through it the wife of your choice! to you, all brave\nsoldiers of work and of self-sacrifice!\n\nTo you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, who\npity the suffering; who walk through the world like the symbolical Virgin\nof Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race!\n\nHere I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings.  I look\nabout me: my window is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs of\nbread which in my brown study I had just scattered on the roof.  At this\nsight a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart.  I deceived myself\njust now, when I complained that I had nothing to give: thanks to me, the\nsparrows of this part of the town will have their New-Year's gifts!\n\nTwelve o'clock.--A knock at my door; a poor girl comes in, and greets me\nby name.  At first I do not recollect her; but she looks at me, and\nsmiles.  Ah! it is Paulette!  But it is almost a year since I have seen\nher, and Paulette is no longer the same: the other day she was a child,\nnow she is almost a young woman.\n\nPaulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has always the same\nopen and straightforward look--the same mouth, smiling at every word, as\nif to court your sympathy--the same voice, somewhat timid, yet expressing\nfondness.  Paulette is not pretty--she is even thought plain; as for me,\nI think her charming.  Perhaps that is not on her account, but on my own.\nPaulette appears to me as one of my happiest recollections.\n\nIt was the evening of a public holiday.  Our principal buildings were\nilluminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the night\nwinds, and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts of flame into\nthe midst of the Champ de Mars.  Suddenly, one of those unaccountable\nalarms which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the dense crowd:\nthey cry out, they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall, and the\nfrightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive struggles.  I\nescaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, when the\ncries of a perishing child arrested me: I reentered that human chaos,\nand, after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it at the\nperil of my life.\n\nThat was two years ago: since then I had not seen the child again but at\nlong intervals, and I had almost forgotten her; but Paulette's memory was\nthat of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the year to\noffer me her wishes for my happiness.  She brought me, besides, a\nwallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted and reared it: it was\nsomething that belonged wholly to herself; for it was by her care, her\nperseverance, and her patience, that she had obtained it.\n\nThe wallflower had grown in a common pot; but Paulette, who is a bandbox-\nmaker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ornamented with\narabesques.  These might have been in better taste, but I did not feel\nthe attention and good-will the less.\n\nThis unexpected present, the little girl's modest blushes, the\ncompliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind of\nmist which had gathered round my mind; my thoughts suddenly changed from\nthe leaden tints of evening to the brightest colors of dawn.  I made\nPaulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart.\n\nAt first the little girl replied in monosyllables; but very soon the\ntables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with short interjections\nher long and confidential talk.  The poor child leads a hard life.  She\nwas left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives with\nan old grandmother, who has \"brought them up to poverty,\" as she always\ncalls it.\n\nHowever, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sister\nPerrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice to\na printer.  All would go well if it were not for losses and want of work\n--if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which grow\nlarger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for nothing.\nPaulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and that her wood\ncosts too much.  The fireplace in their garret is so large that a fagot\nmakes no more show in it than a match; it is so near the roof that the\nwind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon the hearth; so\nthey have left off using it.  Henceforth they must be content with an\nearthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals.  The grandmother\nhad often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the broker's close by;\nbut he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for such an\nexpense: the family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for economy!\n\nAs Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulness\nand low spirits.  The first disclosures of the little bandbox-maker\ncreated within me a wish that soon became a plan.  I questioned her about\nher daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she must\ngo, with her brother, her sister, and grandmother, to the different\npeople for whom they work.  My plan was immediately settled.  I told the\nchild that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away with\nfresh thanks.\n\nI placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bid\nit welcome; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, and\nthe day, which began so loweringly, had become bright.  I sang as I moved\nabout my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out.\n\nThree o'clock.--All is settled with my neighbor, the chimney-doctor;\nhe will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new.\nAt five o'clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette's\ngrandmother's room.\n\nMidnight.--All has gone off well.  At the hour agreed upon, I was at the\nold bandbox-maker's; she was still out.  My Piedmontese\n\n     [In Paris a chimney-sweeper is named \"Piedmontese\" or \"Savoyard,\"\n     as they usually come from that country.]\n\nfixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace,\ntaken from my winter stock.  I shall make up for them by warming myself\nwith walking, or by going to bed earlier.\n\nMy heart beat at every step that was heard on the staircase; I trembled\nlest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoil\nmy intended surprise.  But no!--see everything ready: the lighted stove\nmurmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle of oil\nfor it is provided on the shelf.  The chimney-doctor is gone.  Now my\nfear lest they should come is changed into impatience at their not\ncoming.  At last I hear children's voices; here they are: they push open\nthe door and rush in--but they all stop in astonishment.\n\nAt the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands there\nlike a magician in the midst of these wonders, they draw back almost\nfrightened.  Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and the arrival of\nthe grandmother, who is more slowly mounting the stairs, finishes the\nexplanation.  Then come tears, ecstasies, thanks!\n\nBut the wonders are not yet ended.  The little sister opens the oven, and\ndiscovers some chestnuts just roasted; the grandmother puts her hand on\nthe bottles of cider arranged on the dresser; and I draw forth from the\nbasket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some fresh\nrolls.\n\nNow their wonder turns into admiration; the little family have never seen\nsuch a feast!  They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat; it is a\ncomplete banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it.  I had\nbrought only the supper: and the bandbox-maker and her children supplied\nthe enjoyment.\n\nWhat bursts of laughter at nothing!  What a hubbub of questions which\nwaited for no reply, of replies which answered no question!  The old\nwoman herself shared in the wild merriment of the little ones!  I have\nalways been struck at the ease with which the poor forget their\nwretchedness.  Being used to live only for the present, they make a gain\nof every pleasure as soon as it offers itself.  But the surfeited rich\nare more difficult to satisfy: they require time and everything to suit\nbefore they will consent to be happy.\n\nThe evening has passed like a moment.  The old woman told me the history\nof her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes.  Perrine sang\nan old ballad with her fresh young voice.  Henry told us what he knows of\nthe great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs.  At\nlast we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the part of\nthe happy family.\n\nI have come home slowly, ruminating with a full heart, and pure\nenjoyment, on the simple events of my evening.  It has given me much\ncomfort and much instruction.  Now, no New-Year's Day will come amiss to\nme; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give and\nnothing to receive.\n\nAs I came in, I met my rich neighbor's new equipage.  She, too, had just\nreturned from her evening's party; and, as she sprang from the carriage-\nstep with feverish impatience, I heard her murmur \"At last!\"\n\nI, when I left Paulette's family, said \"So soon!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE CARNIVAL\n\nFebruary 20th\n\nWhat a noise out of doors!  What is the meaning of these shouts and\ncries?  Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the Carnival, and the\nmaskers are passing.\n\nChristianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalian\nfestivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names.  That which\nit has given to these \"days of liberty\" announces the ending of the\nfeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; carn-ival means,\nliterally, \"farewell to flesh!\"  It is a forty days' farewell to the\n\"blessed pullets and fat hams,\" so celebrated by Pantagruel's minstrel.\nMan prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughly\nbefore he begins to repent.\n\nWhy, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one of\nthese mad festivals?  Must we believe that it requires such an effort for\nmen to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest at\nintervals?  The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by their\nrule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talk\nat once from the rising to the setting of the sun.\n\nPerhaps it is the same in the world.  As we are obliged all the year to\nbe decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraint\nduring the Carnival.  It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies and\nwishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.\nFor a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of the\nSaturnalia, and all is given up to the \"fools of the family.\"\n\nThe shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,\nin carriages, and on horseback.  It is now who can attract the most\nattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosity\nor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to the\nemployments and troubles of yesterday.\n\nAlas!  thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;\nour whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival!  And yet man has need\nof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart.  Can\nhe not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures?  Economists have\nbeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of the\nhuman race.  Ah!  if I could only discover the best disposal of its\nleisure!  It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find it\nrelaxation?  Work supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness that\ngives it a relish.  O philosophers!  go in quest of pleasure!  find us\namusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word,\ninvent a Carnival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.\n\n\nThree o'clock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire.  As\nthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too.  So\nI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of\nthe coffee that my portress's son brought from the Levant, and I look in\nmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors.\n\nFirst, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are too\nfond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by always\nbantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders one's laughter by making one\nthink:--Lesage; let us stop at him.  Being profound rather than grave, he\npreaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to be\nfound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees the\nmiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks\nwithout hating it.\n\nLet us call up all the heroes of his book....  Gil Blas, Fabrice,\nSangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!\nYe gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;\nbring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are the\nbrilliant maskers!\n\nUnfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollected\nI had a letter to write which could not be put off.  One of my attic\nneighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it.  He is a cheerful old man,\nand has a passion for pictures and prints.  He comes home almost every\nday with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know he\nlives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him shows\nhis poverty.  His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and\nhis widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--\nhad written to beg for a home.  M. Antoine asked me first to translate\nthe letter, and then to write a refusal.  I had promised that he should\nhave this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.\n\nThe sheet of \"Bath\" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into the\nink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I\nperceive that I have not my dictionary.  Now, a Parisian who would speak\nEnglish without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; the\nground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step.  I run then\nto the bookbinder's, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in the\nsquare.\n\nThe door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking,\nand I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger.  This\nlatter has a violent fever and delirium.  Pierre looks at him perplexed\nand out of humor.  I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get\nup in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.\n\nI ask whether they have sent for a doctor.\n\n\"Oh, yes, indeed!\"  replied Pierre, roughly; \"one must have money in\none's pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead of\nsavings.\"\n\n\"But you,\" said I, rather astonished; \"are you not his friend?\"\n\n\"Friend!\"  interrupted the bookbinder.  \"Yes, as much as the shaft-horse\nis friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share of\nthe draught, and eat his feed by himself.\"\n\n\"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?\"\n\n\"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I'm going to the ball.\"\n\n\"You mean to leave him alone?\"\n\n\"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summer\nresort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?\"  asked Pierre, sharply.\n\"I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer's.  Those who are\nsick may take their broth; my physic is white wine.\"\n\nSo saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume of\na waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.\n\nIn vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man who\nlay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with the\nthoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hear\nme.  At last his coarse selfishness provoked me.  I began reproaching\ninstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for the\nconsequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.\n\nAt this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, and\nstamped his foot.  \"Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water for\nfootbaths, pray?\"\n\n\"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!\"  I replied.\n\n\"Let him go to the hospital, then!\"\n\n\"How can he by himself?\"\n\nPierre seemed to make up his mind.\n\n\"Well, I'm going to take him,\" resumed he; \"besides, I shall get rid of\nhim sooner.  Come, get up, comrade!\"  He shook his comrade, who had not\ntaken off his clothes.  I observed that he was too weak to walk, but the\nbookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, half\nsupported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.\nI saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatient\nwaterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine at\nCourtville Gardens!\n\n\nSix o'clock.--I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened it\nhimself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directed\nto his son's widow.  M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sit\ndown.\n\nIt was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.\nCurtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed\nof straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture.  At the end of\nthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings without\nframes turned against the wall.\n\nAt the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hard\ncrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'.  He\nperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little\nashamed.\n\n\"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor,\" said he, with a\nsmile.\n\nI replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the\nCarnival.\n\nM. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.\n\n\"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way,\" resumed he, beginning\nagain to dip a crust into his glass.  \"There are several sorts of\nepicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there are\nsome also for the ears and the eyes.\"\n\nI looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquet\nwhich could make up to him for such a supper.\n\nWithout doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with the\nmagisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummaged\nbehind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which he\npassed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.\n\nIt represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, his\ndaughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicians\nwho appeared in the background.  At first sight I recognized the subject,\nwhich I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be a\nsplendid copy of Jordaens.\n\n\"A copy!\"  cried M. Antoine; \"say an original, neighbor, and an original\nretouched by Rubens!  Look closer at the head of the old man, the dress\nof the young woman, and the accessories.  One can count the pencil-\nstrokes of the Hercules of painters.  It is not only a masterpiece, sir;\nit is a treasure--a relic!  The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl,\nthis is a diamond!\"\n\nAnd resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light,\nhe fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off the\nwonderful picture.  One would have said that the sight of it gave the\ncrusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied his\nglass by little sips.  His shrivelled features became smooth, his\nnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, \"a feast for the\neyes.\"\n\n\"You see that I also have my treat,\" he resumed, nodding his head with an\nair of triumph.  \"Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this\nis the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival.\"\n\n\"But if this painting is really so precious,\" replied I, \"it ought to be\nworth a high price.\"\n\n\"Eh! eh!\"  said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference.  \"In good\ntimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousand\nfrancs.\"\n\nI started back.\n\n\"And you have bought it?\"  cried I.\n\n\"For nothing,\" replied he, lowering his voice.  \"These brokers are asses;\nmine mistook this for a student's copy; he let me have it for fifty\nlouis, ready money!  This morning I took them to him, and now he wishes\nto be off the bargain.\"\n\n\"This morning!\"  repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the letter\ncontaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son's\nwidow, which was still on the little table.\n\nHe took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the work\nof Jordaens in an ecstasy.\n\n\"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!\"  he murmured, biting his last crust in\ndelight.  \"What relief! what fire!  Where can one find such transparency\nof color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!\"\n\nAs I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment for\nadmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.\n\n\"You are dazzled,\" said he merrily; \"you did not expect such a treasure!\nWhat do you say to the bargain I have made?\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" replied I, gravely; \"but I think you might have done\nbetter.\"\n\nM. Antoine raised his head.\n\n\"How!\" cried he; \"do you take me for a man likely to be deceived about\nthe merit or value of a painting?\"\n\n\"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinking\nthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might have\nhad--\"\n\n\"What then?\"\n\n\"The family itself, sir.\"\n\nThe old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.\nIn his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of\nunderstanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them.  He got up without\nanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its\nhiding-place behind the prints.\n\nIt was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.\n\n\nSeven o'clock.--When I come in again, I find my water boiling over my\nlamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-\nthings.\n\nThe getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive of\ndomestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of a\nbachelor's housekeeping.\n\nCoffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritual\nnourishment.  It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the senses\nand the thoughts.  Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activity\nto the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transports\nit to the land of the Arabian Nights.\n\nWhen I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before a\nblazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, which\nseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited by\nthe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled down\nover them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took a\ndistinct form.  As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, I\nsee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.\n\nAt first the vapor increases, and its color deepens.  I see a cottage on\na hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and through\nthe garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.\n\nThen the view opens still more.  See those fields planted with apple-\ntrees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for their\nmaster!  Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound of\nthe axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf and branches;\nand, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure of\nmyself gliding about.  It is my ghost walking in my dream!\n\nThe bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off my\nmeditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot.  I then remember that I\nhave no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the\nmilkwoman's.\n\nMother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quite\nyoung; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone\nback to it again.  She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the\ntitle they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her\nworthy of the name of mother.\n\nA brave creature!  Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good\nher humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leaving\nthe rest to God.\n\nAt the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter.  In one of\nthe corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground.  They\nwear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold large\nslices of bread and cheese.  The youngest is besmeared up to the eyes\nwith his, and that is the reason of their mirth.\n\nMother Denis points them out to me.\n\n\"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!\"  said she, putting\nher hand on the head of the little glutton.\n\n\"He has had no breakfast,\" puts in one of the others by way of excuse.\n\n\"Poor little thing,\" said the milkwoman; \"he is left alone in the streets\nof Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!\"\n\n\"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?\" I replied, gently.\n\n\"What I do is little enough,\" said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;\n\"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for\nonce they may have enough to eat.  Dear children! their mothers will make\nup for it in heaven.  Not to mention that they recall my native mountains\nto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again.\"\n\nHere her eyes filled with tears.\n\n\"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?\"\nresumed I.\n\n\"Yes!  yes!\"  said she, \"and by their happiness, too!  The laughter of\nthese little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, and\ngives you heart to live.\"\n\nAs she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added\nsome apples and a handful of nuts to them.\n\n\"Come, my little dears,\" she cried, \"put these into your pockets against\nto-morrow.\"\n\nThen, turning to me:\n\n\"To-day I am ruining myself,\" added she; \"but we must all have our\nCarnival.\"\n\nI came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.\n\nAt last I have discovered what true pleasure is.  After beholding the\negotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-\nsacrifice of goodness.  Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kept\ntheir Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the senses\nor the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nWHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW\n\nMarch 3d\n\nA poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better have\ncompared it to a night of fever!  What alternate fits of restlessness and\nsleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!\nwhat a chaos of mournful and confused fancies!  We can neither sleep nor\nwake; we seek in vain for repose, and we stop short on the brink of\naction.  Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and the\nlast third in repenting.\n\nWhen I say human existence, I mean my own!  We are so made that each of\nus regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in our\nminds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe.  Every man is\nlike the drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himself\nstaggering.\n\nAnd why am I uncertain and restless--I, a poor day-laborer in the world--\nwho fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it avails\nitself of, without heeding the workman?  I will tell you, my unseen\nfriend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom the\nsolitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologues\nare addressed and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.\n\nA great event has happened in my life!  A crossroad has suddenly opened\nin the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,\nand without thinking of it.  Two roads present themselves, and I must\nchoose between them.  One is only the continuation of that I have\nfollowed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects.\nOn the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on the\nother are great dangers and great fortune.  Briefly, the question is,\nwhether I shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for\none of those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker!  Ever\nsince yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the two and\nI remain undecided.\n\nWhere shall I find light--who will advise me?\n\n\nSunday, 4th.--See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!\nSpring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and my\nwallflower begins to blow again.\n\nWe are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the\nsixteenth century sang with so much feeling:\n\n                    Now the gladsome month of May\n                    All things newly doth array;\n                    Fairest lady, let me too\n                    In thy love my life renew.\n\nThe chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter to\nthem every morning.  I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens\nout before me in all its splendor.\n\nHe who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque\nvariety of such a view.  He has never contemplated these tile-colored\nheights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyes\nthese gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,\nthe deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the\nsparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled to a blaze of\nfire.  He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,\ncarpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriad\ninhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect to the domestic\ncat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;\nhe has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; nor\nthe thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatre\nwith ever-changing scenes!  How many times have my days of leisure passed\naway in contemplating this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker or\nbrighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for the\nimpressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower!\n\n\nNine o'clock.--But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up the\ncrumbs I have scattered for them before my window?  I see them fly away,\ncome back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sight\nof the feast they are usually so ready to devour!  It is not my presence\nthat frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand.  Then,\nwhy this fearful suspense?  In vain I look around: the roof is clear, the\nwindows near are closed.  I crumble the bread that remains from my\nbreakfast to attract them by an ampler feast.  Their chirpings increase,\nthey bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, but\nwithout daring to alight.\n\nCome, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panics\nwhich make the funds fall at the Bourse!  It is plain that birds are not\nmore reasonable than men!\n\nWith this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenly I\nperceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-\nup ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-cat showed itself\nat the corner of the gutter.  The cunning fellow was lying there in wait,\nhoping the crumbs would bring him some game.\n\nAnd I had accused my guests of cowardice!  I was so sure that no danger\ncould menace them!  I thought I had looked well everywhere!  I had only\nforgotten the corner behind me!\n\nIn life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from having forgotten\na single corner!\n\n\nTen o'clock.--I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have kept\nit shut so long that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be able to\ntake possession of them again.  My eyes search in succession all the\npoints of the jumbled and confused prospect, passing on or stopping\naccording to what they light upon.\n\nAh! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they are\nthose of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have long\nremarked.\n\nOne is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile is\nshadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; the\nother is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach my\nattic by snatches.  When their windows are open, that of the work-woman\ndiscovers a humble but decent abode; the other, an elegantly furnished\nroom.  But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they take\ndown the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now remember\nthat the young singer passed under my window this morning with her veil\ndown, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inward\ntrouble.  Ah! I guess it all.  Her means are exhausted in elegant\nfancies, or have been taken away by some unexpected misfortune, and now\nshe has fallen from luxury to indigence.  While the work-woman manages\nnot only to keep her little room, but also to furnish it with decent\ncomfort by her steady toil, that of the singer is become the property of\nbrokers.  The one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; the\nother sails slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laborious\nindustry.\n\nAlas! is there not here a lesson for us all?  Is it really in hazardous\nexperiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, that\nthe wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom?  Ought he\nto consider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages,\nor as a game in which the future is determined by a few throws?  Why seek\nthe risk of extreme chances?  For what end hasten to riches by dangerous\nroads?  Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliant\nsuccesses, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty?  Ah! if men but knew\nin what a small dwelling joy can live, and how little it costs to furnish\nit!\n\n\nTwelve o'clock.--I have been walking up and down my attic for a long\ntime, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground!  My doubts increase,\nlike shadows encroaching more and more on some bright space; my fears\nmultiply; and the uncertainty becomes every moment more painful to me!\nIt is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening!  I hold\nthe dice of my future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them.\n\n\nThree o'clock.--The sky has become cloudy, and a cold wind begins to blow\nfrom the west; all the windows which were opened to the sunshine of a\nbeautiful day are shut again.  Only on the opposite side of the street,\nthe lodger on the last story has not yet left his balcony.\n\nOne knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches,\nand the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole.  Indeed, one might have\nguessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is the\nornament of his balcony in mid-air; for there are two things especially\nloved by all old soldiers--flowers and children.  They have been so long,\nobliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut off\nfrom the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin life\nat an age when others end it.  The tastes of their early years, which\nwere arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again with\ntheir white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spend\nagain in old age.  Besides, they have been condemned to be destroyers for\nso long that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating, and seeing\nlife spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grace and an\nattraction the more for those who have been the agents of unbending\nforce; and the watching over the frail germs of life has all the charms\nof novelty for these old workmen of death.\n\nTherefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his balcony.\nHe is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing the\nseeds of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet-pea.  Henceforth\nhe will come every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protect the\nyoung shoots from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for the\ntendrils to climb on, and carefully to regulate their supply of water and\nheat!\n\nHow much labor to bring in the desired harvest!  For that, how many times\nshall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day!  But\nthen, in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in clouds\nthrough our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucco,\nknows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heat upon us\nto burning, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceive nothing\nbut green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze will come cool\nand fresh to him through these perfumed shades.  His assiduous care will\nbe rewarded at last.\n\nWe must sow the seeds, and tend the growth, if we would enjoy the flower.\n\n\nFour o'clock.--The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon for a\nlong time are become darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain pours down!\nThose who are caught in it fly in every direction, some laughing and some\ncrying.\n\nI always find particular amusement in these helter-skelters, caused by a\nsudden storm.  It seems as if each one, when thus taken by surprise,\nloses the factitious character that the world or habit has given him,\nand appears in his true colors.\n\nSee, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenly forgets\nhis indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy!  He is a\nthrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is afraid to\nspoil his hat.\n\nThat pretty woman yonder, on the contrary, whose looks are so modest,\nand whose dress is so elaborate, slackens her pace with the increasing\nstorm.  She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not think of\nher velvet cloak spotted by the hail!  She is evidently a lioness in\nsheep's clothing.\n\nHere, a young man, who was passing, stops to catch some of the hailstones\nin his hand, and examines them.  By his quick and business-like walk just\nnow, you would have taken him for a tax-gatherer on his rounds, when he\nis a young philosopher, studying the effects of electricity.  And those\nschoolboys who leave their ranks to run after the sudden gusts of a March\nwhirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, but who now fly with bursts\nof laughter; those national guards, who quit the martial attitude of\ntheir days of duty to take refuge under a porch!  The storm has caused\nall these transformations.\n\nSee, it increases!  The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter.  I see\nevery one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a bill\nannounces is to let.  It is for the fourth time within a few months.\nA year ago all the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter were\nemployed in beautifying it, but their works are already destroyed by the\nleaving of so many tenants; the cornices of the front are disfigured by\nmud; the arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon them\nto announce the sale of the effects.  The splendid shop has lost some of\nits embellishments with each change of the tenant.  See it now empty, and\nleft open to the passersby.  How much does its fate resemble that of so\nmany who, like it, only change their occupation to hasten the faster to\nruin!\n\nI am struck by this last reflection: since the morning everything seems\nto speak to me, and with the same warning tone.  Everything says: \"Take\ncare! be content with your happy, though humble lot; happiness can be\nretained only by constancy; do not forsake your old patrons for the\nprotection of those who are unknown!\"\n\nAre they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warning come\nfrom within?  Is it not I myself who give this language to all that\nsurrounds me?  The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound at\nwill.  But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom?  The low voice\nthat speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tells us\nwhat we are, that is to say, what is our capability.  Bad conduct\nresults, for the most part, from mistaking our calling.  There are so\nmany fools and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves.\nThe question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we are\nsuited!\n\nWhat should I do among these many experienced financial speculators?  I\nam only a poor sparrow, born among the housetops, and should always fear\nthe enemy crouching in the dark corner; I am a prudent workman, and\nshould think of the business of my neighbors who so suddenly disappeared;\nI am a timid observer, and should call to mind the flowers so slowly\nraised by the old soldier, or the shop brought to ruin by constant change\nof masters.  Away from me, ye banquets, over which hangs the sword of\nDamocles!  I am a country mouse.  Give me my nuts and hollow tree, and I\nask nothing besides--except security.\n\nAnd why this insatiable craving for riches?  Does a man drink more when\nhe drinks from a large glass?  Whence comes that universal dread of\nmediocrity, the fruitful mother of peace and liberty?  Ah!  there is the\nevil which, above every other, it should be the aim of both public and\nprivate education to anticipate!  If that were got rid of, what treasons\nwould be spared, what baseness avoided, what a chain of excess and crime\nwould be forever broken!  We award the palm to charity, and to self-\nsacrifice; but, above all, let us award it to moderation, for it is the\ngreat social virtue.  Even when it does not create the others, it stands\ninstead of them.\n\n\nSix o'clock.--I have written a letter of thanks to the promoters of the\nnew speculation, and have declined their offer!  This decision has\nrestored my peace of mind.  I stopped singing, like the cobbler, as long\nas I entertained the hope of riches: it is gone, and happiness is come\nback!\n\nO beloved and gentle Poverty!  pardon me for having for a moment wished\nto fly from thee, as I would from Want.  Stay here forever with thy\ncharming sisters, Pity, Patience, Sobriety, and Solitude; be ye my queens\nand my instructors; teach me the stern duties of life; remove far from my\nabode the weakness of heart and giddiness of head which follow\nprosperity.  Holy Poverty!  teach me to endure without complaining, to\nimpart without grudging, to seek the end of life higher than in pleasure,\nfarther off than in power.  Thou givest the body strength, thou makest\nthe mind more firm; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which the rich\nattach themselves as to a rock, becomes a bark of which death may cut the\ncable without awakening all our fears.  Continue to sustain me, O thou\nwhom Christ hath called Blessed!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nLET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER\n\nApril 9th\n\nThe fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth their\nshoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets of\nthe flower-girls--all the world have begun their walks again on the quays\nand boulevards.  After dinner, I, too, descend from my attic to breathe\nthe evening air.\n\nIt is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty.  During the day the\nplaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness;\nheavily laden carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; the\neager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business,\ncross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether has\nsomething harsh, restless, and flurried about it.  But, as soon as the\nstars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses is\nquenched in the gathering shades; you hear no more any rolling but that\nof the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only the\nlounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure.\nNow each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business of\nthe day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure!  See\nthe ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along the\nwalks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspaper\ncriers.  Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and the\napron; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening for\nenjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious matter\ntill tomorrow.\n\nI love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety,\nbut to contemplate it.  If the enjoyments of others embitter jealous\nminds, they strengthen the humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine,\nwhich open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.\n\nAlthough alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feel\nmyself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is my\nown kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother's\nshare in their happiness.  We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthly\nbattle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall?\nIf Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others,\nlet us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, \"Those,\ntoo, are Alexanders.\"\n\nWhile making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me.  I\ncrossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stopped\nbefore the shops or to read the handbills.  How many things there are to\nlearn in the streets of Paris!  What a museum it is!  Unknown fruits,\nforeign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of all\nclimates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations!  It is the\nworld seen in samples!\n\nLet us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-\nwindows and the tradesman's display of goods.  Nothing has been taught\nthem, but they have a rude notion of everything.  They have seen\npineapples at Chevet's, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-\ncanes selling on the Pont-Neuf.  The Redskins, exhibited in the Valentine\nHall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to smoke the\ncalumet of peace; they have seen Carter's lions fed; they know the\nprincipal national costumes contained in Babin's collection; Goupil's\ndisplay of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittings\nof the English Parliament before their eyes; they have become acquainted\nwith Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the office-\ndoor of the Illustrated News.  We can certainly instruct them, but not\nastonish them; for nothing is completely new to them.  You may take the\nParis ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at every\nwonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle the matter\nwith that favorite and conclusive answer of his class--\"I know.\"\n\nBut this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world,\ndoes not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walks through it;\nit is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of the\nladder always set up before us in a vision.  When we see them, how many\nvoyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, what\npictures do we sketch!  I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths,\nwith its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled with\nmagnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, described\nby the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.\n\nThen, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin to\ntire you, look around you!  What contrasts of figures and faces you see\nin the crowd!  What a vast field for the exercise of meditation!  A half-\nseen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open a\nthousand vistas to your imagination.  You wish to comprehend what these\nimperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipher\nthe mutilated inscription on some old monument, you build up a history on\na gesture or on a word!  These are the stirring sports of the mind, which\nfinds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.\n\nAlas!  as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a great\nhouse, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories.  A man was\nsitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out his\nhat for the charity of those who passed.  His threadbare coat had that\nlook of neatness which marks that destitution has been met by a long\nstruggle.  He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt.\nHis face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, as\nif he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remained\nmute and motionless.  Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,\nwho sat in silence and darkness!  They had been so lucky as to escape\ncomplaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.\n\nSuddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,\nlighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,\nand took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain.  I could just\ndistinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a ball-\ndress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the pale\nface of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and followed\nthe rich man's equipage until it disappeared in the night.\n\nI dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, and\npassed on quickly.\n\nI had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of the\ndisease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of him who\nsuffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives in\naffluence.\n\nAll the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, and\nretired into my own heart.  The animated and moving sight in the streets\ngave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which have\nbeen written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each human\nstruggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in our days.\n\nI pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat and\nvictory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealots\nwho have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history of\nCain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walked on\nas chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew me out\nfrom my own thoughts.\n\nI had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live in\ncomfort and without ostentation, and who love serious reflection, delight\nto find a home.  There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; one\nheard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of the\ninhabitants returning quietly home.\n\nI instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only once\nbefore.\n\nThat was two years ago.  I was walking at the time by the side of the\nSeine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of a\nlake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, when\nI was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they had gathered\nround a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked the cause of his\ntears.\n\n\"It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries,\" said a mason, who\nwas returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; \"the servant who\ntook care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to wait\nfor him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made him\nmore thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his way\nhome.\"\n\n\"Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?\"\n\n\"They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, that\nhe is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval--there are\ntwelve hundred Duvals in Paris.\"\n\n\"Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?\"\n\n\"I should not think, indeed!  Don't you see that he is a gentleman's\nchild?  He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; he\ndoes not know what to do by himself.\"\n\nHere the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above the\nothers.\n\n\"We cannot leave him in the street,\" said some.\n\n\"The child-stealers would carry him off,\" continued others.\n\n\"We must take him to the overseer.\"\n\n\"Or to the police-office.\"\n\n\"That's the thing.  Come, little one!\"\n\nBut the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at the\nnames of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward the\nparapet.  In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resist\nthe more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of a\nlittle boy was heard through the confusion.\n\n\"I know him well--I do,\" said he, looking at the lost child; \"he belongs\nin our part of the town.\"\n\n\"What part is it?\"\n\n\"Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards--Rue des Magasins.\"\n\n\"And you have seen him before?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes!  he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, where\nthere is an iron gate with gilt points.\"\n\nThe child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying.  The little boy\nanswered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details as\nleft no room for doubt.  The other child understood him, for he went up\nto him as if to put himself under his protection.\n\n\"Then you can take him to his parents?\"  asked the mason, who had\nlistened with real interest to the little boy's account.\n\n\"I don't care if I do,\" replied he; \"it's the way I'm going.\"\n\n\"Then you will take charge of him?\"\n\n\"He has only to come with me.\"\n\nAnd, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set off\ntoward the postern-gate of the Louvre.\n\nThe lost child followed him.\n\n\"I hope he will take him right,\" said I, when I saw them go away.\n\n\"Never fear,\" replied the mason; \"the little one in the blouse is the\nsame age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;'\npoverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!\"\n\nThe crowd dispersed.  For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thought\ncame into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against any\nmistake.\n\nI was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side,\ntalking, and already quite familiar with each other.  The contrast in\ntheir dress then struck me.  Little Duval wore one of those fanciful\nchildren's dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coat\nwas skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits from\nhis waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons,\nand his ringlets were half hid by a velvet cap.  The appearance of his\nguide, on the contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the extreme\nborders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with no\nsurrender.  His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades,\nindicated the perseverance of an industrious mother struggling against\nthe wear and tear of time; his trousers were become too short, and showed\nhis stockings darned over and over again; and it was evident that his\nshoes were not made for him.\n\nThe countenances of the two children were not less different than their\ndress.  That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blue eye,\nhis fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look of\ninnocence and happiness.  The features of the other, on the contrary, had\nsomething rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexion\ndark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened by\ntoo early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streets\nthronged by carriages, and followed their countless turnings without\nhesitation.\n\nI found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father,\nwho was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsible\nduty had made him careful and prudent.  He had learned those hard but\nforcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply the place\nof.  Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him from\nschool, and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped before the\nprintshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of the\nengravings.  In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, which\nthe little wanderer seemed to know again.  Notwithstanding his fatigue,\nhe hurried on; he was agitated by mixed feelings; at the sight of his\nhouse he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the gilt\npoints; a lady who was standing at the entrance received him in her arms,\nand from the exclamations of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soon\nperceived she was his mother.\n\nNot seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search of\nthem in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety.\n\nI explained to her in a few words what had happened.  She thanked me\nwarmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized and\nbrought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared.\n\nIt was for the first time since then that I had come into this part of\nParis.  Did the mother continue grateful?  Had the children met again,\nand had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them that\nbarrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not divide\nthem?\n\nWhile putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixed\nmy eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived.  Suddenly I saw it\nopen, and two children appeared at the entrance.  Although much grown,\nI recognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found near\nthe parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide.  But the dress of the\nlatter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and even\nspruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; he\nwore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap.\nJust at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunch\nof lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses and\nprimroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by.\nM. Duval's son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the corner\nof the street.\n\nThen I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; he\nlooked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me.\n\n\"Forgive me if I do not make you a bow,\" said he, merrily, \"but I want\nboth my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me.\"\n\n\"You are, then, become great friends?\"  said I.\n\n\"Oh!  I should think so,\" said the child; \"and now my father is rich\ntoo!\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he works\non his own account; and, as for me, I go to school.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decorated\nhis little coat; \"and I see that you are head-boy!\"\n\n\"Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first in\nthe class.\"\n\n\"Are you now going to your lessons?\"\n\n\"Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we play\ntogether, and where my mother can always have flowers.\"\n\n\"Then it is the same as if it were partly your own.\"\n\n\"So it is!  Ah! they are good neighbors indeed.  But here I am; good-by,\nsir.\"\n\nHe nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared.\n\nI went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief.\nIf I had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluence and\nwant, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty.  Hearty\ngood-will had smoothed down the more rugged inequalities on both sides,\nand had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between the\nhumble workshop and the stately mansion.  Instead of hearkening to the\nvoice of interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice,\nand there was no place left for contempt or envy.  Thus, instead of the\nbeggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man,\nI had found here the happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers and\nblessing him!  The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine into\nwith no regard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nCOMPENSATION\n\nSunday, May 27th\n\nCapital cities have one thing peculiar to them: their days of rest seem\nto be the signal for a general dispersion and flight.  Like birds that\nare just restored to liberty, the people come out of their stone cages,\nand joyfully fly toward the country.  It is who shall find a green\nhillock for a seat, or the shade of a wood for a shelter; they gather May\nflowers, they run about the fields; the town is forgotten until the\nevening, when they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn in their hats,\nand their hearts gladdened by pleasant thoughts and recollections of the\npast day; the next day they return again to their harness and to work.\n\nThese rural adventures are most remarkable at Paris.  When the fine\nweather comes, clerks, shop keepers, and workingmen look forward\nimpatiently for the Sunday as the day for trying a few hours of this\npastoral life; they walk through six miles of grocers' shops and public-\nhouses in the faubourgs, in the sole hope of finding a real turnip-field.\nThe father of a family begins the practical education of his son by\nshowing him wheat which has not taken the form of a loaf, and cabbage \"in\nits wild state.\"  Heaven only knows the encounters, the discoveries, the\nadventures that are met with!  What Parisian has not had his Odyssey in\nan excursion through the suburbs, and would not be able to write a\ncompanion to the famous Travels by Land and by Sea from Paris to St.\nCloud?\n\nWe do not now speak of that floating population from all parts, for whom\nour French Babylon is the caravansary of Europe: a phalanx of thinkers,\nartists, men of business, and travellers, who, like Homer's hero, have\narrived in their intellectual country after beholding \"many peoples and\ncities;\" but of the settled Parisian, who keeps his appointed place, and\nlives on his own floor like the oyster on his rock, a curious vestige of\nthe credulity, the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages.\n\nFor one of the singularities of Paris is, that it unites twenty\npopulations completely different in character and manners.  By the\nside of the gypsies of commerce and of art, who wander through all the\nseveral stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet race of people with an\nindependence, or with regular work, whose existence resembles the dial\nof a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to the same hours.\nIf no other city can show more brilliant and more stirring forms of life,\nno other contains more obscure and more tranquil ones.  Great cities are\nlike the sea: storms agitate only the surface; if you go to the bottom,\nyou find a region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise.\n\nFor my part, I have settled on the verge of this region, but do not\nactually live in it.  I am removed from the turmoil of the world, and\nlive in the shelter of solitude, but without being able to disconnect my\nthoughts from the struggle going on.  I follow at a distance all its\nevents of happiness or grief; I join the feasts and the funerals; for how\ncan he who looks on, and knows what passes, do other than take part?\nIgnorance alone can keep us strangers to the life around us: selfishness\nitself will not suffice for that.\n\nThese reflections I made to myself in my attic, in the intervals of the\nvarious household works to which a bachelor is forced when he has no\nother servant than his own ready will.  While I was pursuing my\ndeductions, I had blacked my boots, brushed my coat, and tied my cravat;\nI had at last arrived at the important moment when we pronounce\ncomplacently that all is finished, and that well.\n\nA grand resolve had just decided me to depart from my usual habits.\nThe evening before, I had seen by the advertisements that the next day\nwas a holiday at Sevres, and that the china manufactory would be open to\nthe public.  I was tempted by the beauty of the morning, and suddenly\ndecided to go there.\n\nOn my arrival at the station on the left bank, I noticed the crowd\nhurrying on in the fear of being late.  Railroads, besides many other\nadvantages, possess that of teaching the French punctuality.  They will\nsubmit to the clock when they are convinced that it is their master;\nthey will learn to wait when they find they will not be waited for.\nSocial virtues, are, in a great degree, good habits.  How many great\nqualities are grafted into nations by their geographical position, by\npolitical necessity, and by institutions!  Avarice was destroyed for a\ntime among the Lacedaemonians by the creation of an iron coinage, too\nheavy and too bulky to be conveniently hoarded.\n\nI found myself in a carriage with two middle-aged women belonging to the\ndomestic and retired class of Parisians I have spoken of above.  A few\ncivilities were sufficient to gain me their confidence, and after some\nminutes I was acquainted with their whole history.\n\nThey were two poor sisters, left orphans at fifteen, and had lived ever\nsince, as those who work for their livelihood must live, by economy and\nprivation.  For the last twenty or thirty years they had worked in\njewelry in the same house; they had seen ten masters succeed one another,\nand make their fortunes in it, without any change in their own lot.  They\nhad always lived in the same room, at the end of one of the passages in\nthe Rue St. Denis, where the air and the sun are unknown.  They began\ntheir work before daylight, went on with it till after nightfall, and saw\nyear succeed to year without their lives being marked by any other events\nthan the Sunday service, a walk, or an illness.\n\nThe younger of these worthy work-women was forty, and obeyed her sister\nas she did when a child.  The elder looked after her, took care of her,\nand scolded her with a mother's tenderness.  At first it was amusing;\nafterward one could not help seeing something affecting in these two\ngray-haired children, one unable to leave off the habit of obeying, the\nother that of protecting.\n\nAnd it was not in that alone that my two companions seemed younger than\ntheir years; they knew so little that their wonder never ceased.  We had\nhardly arrived at Clamart before they involuntarily exclaimed, like the\nking in the children's game, that they \"did not think the world was so\ngreat\"!\n\nIt was the first time they had trusted themselves on a railroad, and it\nwas amusing to see their sudden shocks, their alarms, and their\ncourageous determinations: everything was a marvel to them!  They had\nremains of youth within them, which made them sensible to things which\nusually only strike us in childhood.  Poor creatures! they had still the\nfeelings of another age, though they had lost its charms.\n\nBut was there not something holy in this simplicity, which had been\npreserved to them by abstinence from all the joys of life?  Ah! accursed\nbe he who first had the had courage to attach ridicule to that name of\n\"old maid,\" which recalls so many images of grievous deception, of\ndreariness, and of abandonment!  Accursed be he who can find a subject\nfor sarcasm in involuntary misfortune, and who can crown gray hairs with\nthorns!\n\nThe two sisters were called Frances and Madeleine.  This day's journey\nwas a feat of courage without example in their lives.  The fever of the\ntimes had infected them unawares.  Yesterday Madeleine had suddenly\nproposed the idea of the expedition, and Frances had accepted it\nimmediately.  Perhaps it would have been better not to yield to the great\ntemptation offered by her younger sister; but \"we have our follies at all\nages,\" as the prudent Frances philosophically remarked.  As for\nMadeleine, there are no regrets or doubts for her; she is the life-\nguardsman of the establishment.\n\n\"We really must amuse ourselves,\" said she; \"we live but once.\"\n\nAnd the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean maxim.  It was evident that\nthe fever of independence was at its crisis in both of them.\n\nAnd in truth it would have been a great pity if any scruple had\ninterfered with their happiness, it was so frank and genial!  The sight\nof the trees, which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, caused them\nunceasing admiration.  The meeting a train passing in the contrary\ndirection, with the noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shut\ntheir eyes and utter a cry; but it had already disappeared!  They look\naround, take courage again, and express themselves full of astonishment\nat the marvel.\n\nMadeleine declares that such a sight is worth the expense of the journey,\nand Frances would have agreed with her if she had not recollected, with\nsome little alarm, the deficit which such an expense must make in their\nbudget.  The three francs spent upon this single expedition were the\nsavings of a whole week of work.  Thus the joy of the elder of the two\nsisters was mixed with remorse; the prodigal child now and then turned\nits eyes toward the back street of St. Denis.\n\nBut the motion and the succession of objects distract her.  See the\nbridge of the Val surrounded by its lovely landscape: on the right, Paris\nwith its grand monuments, which rise through the fog, or sparkle in the\nsun; on the left, Meudon, with its villas, its woods, its vines, and its\nroyal castle!  The two work-women look from one window to the other with\nexclamations of delight.  One fellow-passenger laughs at their childish\nwonder; but to me it is deeply touching, for I see in it the sign of a\nlong and monotonous seclusion: they are the prisoners of work, who have\nrecovered liberty and fresh air for a few hours.\n\nAt last the train stops, and we get out.  I show the two sisters the path\nthat leads to Sevres, between the railway and the gardens, and they go on\nbefore, while I inquire about the time of returning.\n\nI soon join them again at the next station, where they have stopped at\nthe little garden belonging to the gatekeeper; both are already in deep\nconversation with him while he digs his garden-borders, and marks out the\nplaces for flower-seeds.  He informs them that it is the time for hoeing\nout weeds, for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, and for\ndestroying the insects on the rose-trees.  Madeleine has on the sill of\nher window two wooden boxes, in which, for want of air and sun, she has\nnever been able to make anything grow but mustard and cress; but she\npersuades herself that, thanks to this information, all other plants may\nhenceforth thrive in them.  At last the gatekeeper, who is sowing a\nborder with mignonette, gives her the rest of the seeds which he does not\nwant, and the old maid goes off delighted, and begins to act over again\nthe dream of Paired and her can of milk, with these flowers of her\nimagination.\n\nOn reaching the grove of acacias, where the fair was going on, I lost\nsight of the two sisters.  I went alone among the sights: there were\nlotteries going on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drinking, and\nfor shooting with the cross-bow.  I have always been struck by the spirit\nof these out-of-door festivities.  In drawing-room entertainments, people\nare cold, grave, often listless, and most of those who go there are\nbrought together by habit or the obligations of society; in the country\nassemblies, on the contrary, you only find those who are attracted by the\nhope of enjoyment.  There, it is a forced conscription; here, they are\nvolunteers for gayety!  Then, how easily they are pleased!  How far this\ncrowd of people is yet from knowing that to be pleased with nothing, and\nto look down on everything, is the height of fashion and good taste!\nDoubtless their amusements are often coarse; elegance and refinement are\nwanting in them; but at least they have heartiness.  Oh, that the hearty\nenjoyments of these merry-makings could be retained in union with less\nvulgar feeling!  Formerly religion stamped its holy character on the\ncelebration of country festivals, and purified the pleasures without\ndepriving them of their simplicity.\n\nThe hour arrives at which the doors of the porcelain manufactory and the\nmuseum of pottery are open to the public.  I meet Frances and Madeleine\nagain in the first room.  Frightened at finding themselves in the midst\nof such regal magnificence, they hardly dare walk; they speak in a low\ntone, as if they were in a church.\n\n\"We are in the king's house,\" said the eldest sister, forgetting that\nthere is no longer a king in France.\n\nI encourage them to go on; I walk first, and they make up their minds to\nfollow me.\n\nWhat wonders are brought together in this collection!  Here we see clay\nmoulded into every shape, tinted with every color, and combined with\nevery sort of substance!\n\nEarth and wood are the first substances worked upon by man, and seem more\nparticularly meant for his use.  They, like the domestic animals, are the\nessential accessories of his life; therefore there must be a more\nintimate connection between them and us.  Stone and metals require long\npreparations; they resist our first efforts, and belong less to the\nindividual than to communities.  Earth and wood are, on the contrary, the\nprincipal instruments of the isolated being who must feed and shelter\nhimself.\n\nThis, doubtless, makes me feel so much interested in the collection I am\nexamining.  These cups, so roughly modelled by the savage, admit me to a\nknowledge of some of his habits; these elegant yet incorrectly formed\nvases of the Indian tell me of a declining intelligence,--in which still\nglimmers the twilight of what was once bright sunshine; these jars,\nloaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the Arab rudely and ignorantly\ncopied by the Spaniard!  We find here the stamp of every race, every\ncountry, and every age.\n\nMy companions seemed little interested in these historical associations;\nthey looked at all with that credulous admiration which leaves no room\nfor examination or discussion.  Madeleine read the name written under\nevery piece of workmanship, and her sister answered with an exclamation\nof wonder.\n\nIn this way we reached a little courtyard, where they had thrown away the\nfragments of some broken china.\n\nFrances perceived a colored saucer almost whole, of which she took\npossession as a record of the visit she was making; henceforth she would\nhave a specimen of the Sevres china, \"which is only made for kings!\"\nI would not undeceive her by telling her that the products of the\nmanufactory are sold all over the world, and that her saucer, before it\nwas cracked, was the same as those that are bought at the shops for\nsixpence!  Why should I destroy the illusions of her humble existence?\nAre we to break down the hedge-flowers that perfume our paths?  Things\nare oftenest nothing in themselves; the thoughts we attach to them alone\ngive them value.  To rectify innocent mistakes, in order to recover some\nuseless reality, is to be like those learned men who will see nothing in\na plant but the chemical elements of which it is composed.\n\nOn leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who had taken possession of\nme with the freedom of artlessness, invited me to share the luncheon they\nhad brought with them.  I declined at first, but they insisted with so\nmuch good-nature, that I feared to pain them, and with some awkwardness\ngave way.\n\nWe had only to look for a convenient spot.  I led them up the hill, and\nwe found a plot of grass enamelled with daisies, and shaded by two\nwalnut-trees.\n\nMadeleine could not contain herself for joy.  All her life she had\ndreamed of a dinner out on the grass!  While helping her sister to take\nthe provisions from the basket, she tells me of all her expeditions into\nthe country that had been planned, and put off.  Frances, on the other\nhand, was brought up at Montmorency, and before she became an orphan she\nhad often gone back to her nurse's house.  That which had the attraction\nof novelty for her sister, had for her the charm of recollection.  She\ntold of the vintage harvests to which her parents had taken her; the\nrides on Mother Luret's donkey, that they could not make go to the right\nwithout pulling him to the left; the cherry-gathering; and the sails on\nthe lake in the innkeeper's boat.\n\nThese recollections have all the charm and freshness of childhood.\nFrances recalls to herself less what she has seen than what she has felt.\nWhile she is talking the cloth is laid, and we sit down under a tree.\nBefore us winds the valley of Sevres, its many-storied houses abutting\nupon the gardens and the slopes of the hill; on the other side spreads\nout the park of St. Cloud, with its magnificent clumps of trees\ninterspersed with meadows; above stretch the heavens like an immense\nocean, in which the clouds are sailing!  I look at this beautiful\ncountry, and I listen to these good old maids; I admire, and I am\ninterested; and time passes gently on without my perceiving it.\n\nAt last the sun sets, and we have to think of returning.  While Madeleine\nand Frances clear away the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to ask\nthe hour.  The merrymaking is at its height; the blasts of the trombones\nresound from the band under the acacias.  For a few moments I forget\nmyself with looking about; but I have promised the two sisters to take\nthem back to the Bellevue station; the train cannot wait, and I make\nhaste to climb the path again which leads to the walnut-trees.\n\nJust before I reached them, I heard voices on the other side of the\nhedge.  Madeleine and Frances were speaking to a poor girl whose clothes\nwere burned, her hands blackened, and her face tied up with bloodstained\nbandages.  I saw that she was one of the girls employed at the gunpowder\nmills, which are built further up on the common.  An explosion had taken\nplace a few days before; the girl's mother and elder sister were killed;\nshe herself escaped by a miracle, and was now left without any means of\nsupport.  She told all this with the resigned and unhopeful manner of one\nwho has always been accustomed to suffer.  The two sisters were much\naffected; I saw them consulting with each other in a low tone: then\nFrances took thirty sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which was all\nthey had left, and gave them to the poor girl.  I hastened on to that\nside of the hedge; but, before I reached it, I met the two old sisters,\nwho called out to me that they would not return by the railway, but on\nfoot!\n\nI then understood that the money they had meant for the journey had just\nbeen given to the beggar!  Good, like evil, is contagious: I run to the\npoor wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for my own place, and\nreturn to Frances and Madeleine, and tell them I will walk with them.\n\n                    ..........................\n\nI am just come back from taking them home; and have left them delighted\nwith their day, the recollection of which will long make them happy.\nThis morning I was pitying those whose lives are obscure and joyless;\nnow, I understand that God has provided a compensation with every trial.\nThe smallest pleasure derives from rarity a relish otherwise unknown.\nEnjoyment is only what we feel to be such, and the luxurious man feels no\nlonger: satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation preserves to\nthe other that first of earthly blessings: the being easily made happy.\nOh, that I could persuade every one of this! that so the rich might not\nabuse their riches, and that the poor might have patience.  If happiness\nis the rarest of blessings, it is because the reception of it is the\nrarest of virtues.\n\nMadeleine and Frances! ye poor old maids whose courage, resignation, and\ngenerous hearts are your only wealth, pray for the wretched who give\nthemselves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and envy; and for the\nunfeeling into whose enjoyments no pity enters.\n\n\n\n\nETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:\n\nBrought them up to poverty\nCarn-ival means, literally, \"farewell to flesh!\"\nCoffee is the grand work of a bachelor's housekeeping\nDefeat and victory only displace each other by turns\nDid not think the world was so great\nDo they understand what makes them so gay?\nEach of us regards himself as the mirror of the community\nEase with which the poor forget their wretchedness\nEvery one keeps his holidays in his own way\nFavorite and conclusive answer of his class--\"I know\"\nFear of losing a moment from business\nFinishes his sin thoroughly before he begins to repent\nHer kindness, which never sleeps\nHubbub of questions which waited for no reply\nModeration is the great social virtue\nNo one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give\nOur tempers are like an opera-glass\nPoverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress\nPrisoners of work\nQuestion is not to discover what will suit us\nRuining myself, but we must all have our Carnival\nTwo thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation\nWhat a small dwelling joy can live","title":"An Attic Philosopher in Paris \u2014 Volume 1","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":16240}