{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3997/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3997","id":"gutenberg_3997","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3997","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\n\nBOOK 2.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nUNCLE MAURICE\n\nJune 7th, Four O'clock A.M.\n\nI am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing so\njoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in a\ntop story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really are up\namong the roofs.  It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and the\nbreeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that a\nwandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attic,\nand that the songs of the industrious work-woman welcome the dawn of day.\nThe lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, while\nhere labor, light, and song already reign.\n\nWhat life is around me!  See the swallow returning from her search for\nfood, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrows\nshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in the\nsunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcome the\nmorning with their fresh faces!  Delightful hour of waking, when\neverything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of day\nstrikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wand\nstruck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood!  It is a moment of\nrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and a\nbreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing.  But, alas!  it\nis but a short respite!  Everything will soon resume its wonted course:\nthe great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, its\ncollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.\n\nThe tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of our\nfirst years of life.  Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air is\nfragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our life's morning-\nsing around us.  Why do they fly away when we are older?  Where do this\nsadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from?  The\ncourse seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: at\nstarting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal,\nthe bitter disappointment or reality!  The road, which began among\nhawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices!  Why\nis there so much confidence at first, so much doubt at last?  Has, then,\nthe knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness?\nMust we condemn ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope?  Is the\nworld and is the individual man intended, after all, to find rest only in\nan eternal childhood?\n\nHow many times have I asked myself these questions!  Solitude has the\nadvantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply into\nthe same ideas.  As our discourse is only with ourself, we always give\nthe same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it to\nthe subject which occupies another mind, or interests another's feelings;\nand so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever to knock at the\nsame doors!\n\nI interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order.  I hate the look\nof disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or an\nunaptness for spiritual life.  To arrange the things among which we have\nto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between them\nand us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which man\ntends to the savage state.  What, in fact, is social organization but a\nseries of habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of our\nnature?\n\nI distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whom\ndisorder is of no consequence--who can live at ease in an Augean stable.\nWhat surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us.  The\nmind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything,\nstill throw some light around.  If our tastes did not reveal our\ncharacter, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts.\n\nWhile I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on the\nlittle almanac hanging over my chimney-piece.  I looked for the day of\nthe month, and I saw these words written in large letters: \"FETE DIEU!\"\n\nIt is to-day!  In this great city, where there are no longer any public\nreligious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is,\nin truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church.  \"The day\nkept in honor of the Creator,\" says Chateaubriand, \"happens at a time\nwhen the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods and\nfields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;\nthere is not a single widowed plant in the fields.\"\n\nWhat recollections these words have just awakened!  I left off what I was\nabout, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my\ntwo hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the first days\nof my childhood were passed.\n\nThe 'Fete Dieu' was then one of the great events of my life!  It was\nnecessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserve\nto share in it.  I still recollect with what raptures of expectation I\ngot up on the morning of the day.  There was a holy joy in the air.  The\nneighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures,\nworked in tapestry, along the streets.  I went from one to another, by\nturns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythological\ncompositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV,\nand the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour.  All this world of phantoms\nseemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silent\nand motionless--at the holy ceremony.  I looked, alternately in fear and\nwonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those\nbeautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and\nthose shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of\nthe perpetually smiling shepherdess.  Sometimes, when the wind blew\nbehind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures\nthemselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from the\nwall, and take their places in the procession!  But these impressions\nwere vague and transitory.  The feeling that predominated over every\nother was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy.  In the midst of all the\nfloating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and\nthe gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt\ntransported in spite of yourself.  The joyful sounds of the festival were\nrepeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes.  You were more\nindulgent, more holy, more loving!  For God was not only manifesting\nhimself without, but also within us.\n\nAnd then the altars for the occasion!  the flowery arbors!  the triumphal\narches made of green boughs!  What competition among the different\nparishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession was\nto halt!  It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautiful\nof his possessions!\n\nIt was there I made my first sacrifice!\n\nThe wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and the\nTabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown the\nwhole!  All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked.  I alone\npossessed a flower worthy of such a place.  It was on the rose-tree given\nme by my mother on my birthday.  I had watched it for several months, and\nthere was no other bud to blow on the tree.  There it was, half open, in\nits mossy nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all a\nchild's pride!  I hesitated for some moments.  No one had asked me for\nit; I might easily avoid losing it.  I should hear no reproaches, but one\nrose noiselessly within me.  When every one else had given all they had,\nought I alone to keep back my treasure?  Ought I to grudge to God one of\nthe gifts which, like all the rest, I had received from him?  At this\nlast thought I plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put at\nthe top of the Tabernacle.  Ah! why does the recollection of this\nsacrifice, which was so hard and yet so sweet to me, now make me smile?\nIs it so certain that the value of a gift is in itself, rather than in\nthe intention?  If the cup of cold water in the gospel is remembered to\nthe poor man, why should not the flower be remembered to the child?  Let\nus not look down upon the child's simple act of generosity; it is these\nwhich accustom the soul to self-denial and to sympathy.  I cherished this\nmoss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman; I had reason to cherish it\nalways, as the record of the first victory won over myself.\n\nIt is now many years since I witnessed the celebration of the 'Fete\nDieu'; but should I again feel in it the happy sensations of former days?\nI still remember how, when the procession had passed, I walked through\nthe streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs.  I felt\nintoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed with the\nfragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and I seemed no longer to\ntouch the ground as I went along.  I smiled at everything; the whole\nworld was Paradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that God was floating\nin the air!\n\nMoreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might be\nmore intense on certain days, but at the same time it continued through\nthe ordinary course of my life.  Many years thus passed for me in an\nexpansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if not\nfrom coming, at least from staying with me.  Sure of not being alone,\nI soon took heart again, like the child who recovers its courage, because\nit hears its mother's voice close by.  Why have I lost that confidence of\nmy childhood?  Shall I never feel again so deeply that God is here?\n\nHow strange the association of our thoughts!  A day of the month recalls\nmy infancy, and see, all the recollections of my former years are growing\nup around me!  Why was I so happy then?  I consider well, and nothing is\nsensibly changed in my condition.  I possess, as I did then, health and\nmy daily bread; the only difference is, that I am now responsible for\nmyself!  As a child, I accepted life when it came; another cared and\nprovided for me.  So long as I fulfilled my present duties I was at peace\nwithin, and I left the future to the prudence of my father!  My destiny\nwas a ship, in the directing of which I had no share, and in which I\nsailed as a common passenger.  There was the whole secret of childhood's\nhappy security.  Since then worldly wisdom has deprived me of it.  When\nmy lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I thought to make myself\nmaster of it by means of a long insight into the future.  I have filled\nthe present hour with anxieties, by occupying my thoughts with the\nfuture; I have put my judgment in the place of Providence, and the happy\nchild is changed into the anxious man.\n\nA melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson.  Who knows that,\nif I had trusted more to Him who rules the world, I should not have been\nspared all this anxiety?  It may be that happiness is not possible here\nbelow, except on condition of living like a child, giving ourselves up to\nthe duties of each day as it comes, and trusting in the goodness of our\nheavenly Father for all besides.\n\nThis reminds me of my Uncle Maurice!  Whenever I have need to strengthen\nmyself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see again the\ngentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear his\nvoice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer!  The remembrance\nof him protects my life, and gives it light.  He, too, was a saint and\nmartyr here below.  Others have pointed out the path of heaven; he has\ntaught us to see those of earth aright.\n\nBut, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrifices\nperformed in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has ever\nheard of my Uncle Maurice?  Perhaps I alone remember his name, and still\nrecall his history.\n\nWell!  I will write it, not for others, but for myself!  They say that,\nat the sight of the Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a more\ndignified attitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raised\nand ennobled by the recollection of a good man's life!\n\nA ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which I write; the\nbreeze brings me in the scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheel\nabout my window with joyful twitterings.  The image of my Uncle Maurice\nwill be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and the\nfragrance.\n\n\nSeven o'clock.--It is with men's lives as with days: some dawn radiant\nwith a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds.  That of my Uncle\nMaurice was one of the latter.  He was so sickly, when he came into the\nworld, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding these\nanticipations, which might be called hopes, he continued to live,\nsuffering and deformed.\n\nHe was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attractions of\nchildhood.  He was oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for his\ndeformity.  In vain the little hunchback opened his arms to the world:\nthe world scoffed at him, and went its way.\n\nHowever, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the child\ndirected all the feelings of a heart repelled by others.  With her he\nfound shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man must\ntake his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with that\nwhich others had refused with contempt.  His education would have\nqualified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk--\n[The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]\n--in one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town.\n\nHe was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with no\nrelaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mother's visits.\nOn fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under the\nshade of a clematis planted by Maurice.  And, even when she was silent,\nher presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard the\nclinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournful\nprofile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; he\ncould every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowed neck,\nand exchange a smile with her!\n\nThis comfort was soon to be taken from him.  His old mother fell sick,\nand at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope.  Maurice was\novercome at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave him\nalone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief.  He knelt by\nthe bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, he\npressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life.  His mother\ntried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold,\nher voice was already gone.  She could only press her lips against the\nforehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!\n\nThey tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himself\non that now motionless form.\n\n\"Dead!\"  cried he; \"dead!  She who had never left me, she who was the\nonly one in the world who loved me!  You, my mother, dead!  What then\nremains for me here below?\"\n\nA stifled voice replied:\n\n\"God!\"\n\nMaurice, startled, raised himself!  Was that a last sigh from the dead,\nor his own conscience, that had answered him?  He did not seek to know,\nbut he understood the answer, and accepted it.\n\nIt was then that I first knew him.  I often went to see him in his little\ntoll-house.  He joined in my childish games, told me his finest stories,\nand let me gather his flowers.  Deprived as he was of all external\nattractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came to\nhim, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcome for\neveryone.  Deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with a gentle\npatience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid the\ninsults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, \"Father, forgive\nthem, for they know not what they do.\"\n\nNo other clerk showed so much honesty, zeal, and intelligence; but those\nwho otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved were\nrepelled by his deformity.  As he had no patrons, he found his claims\nwere always disregarded.  They preferred before him those who were better\nable to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favor\nwhen letting him keep the humble office which enabled him to live.  Uncle\nMaurice bore injustice as he had borne contempt; unfairly treated by men,\nhe raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of Him who cannot\nbe deceived.\n\nHe lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poor\nbut not as forlorn as he, also lodged.  Among these neighbors there was a\nsingle woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which came\nboth wind and rain.  She was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothing\nto recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it.  She was\nnever seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret.\nShe worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloom\nseemed to envelop her like a shroud.  Her dejection affected Maurice; he\nattempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words.  It was\neasy to see that she preferred her silence and her solitude to the little\nhunchback's good-will; he perceived it, and said no more.\n\nBut Toinette's needle was hardly sufficient for her support, and\npresently work failed her!  Maurice learned that the poor girl was in\nwant of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit.\nHe immediately went to them privately and engaged to pay them for what\nthey supplied Toinette with.\n\nThings went on in this way for several months.  The young dressmaker\ncontinued out of work, until she was at last frightened at the bills she\nhad contracted with the shopkeepers.  When she came to an explanation\nwith them, everything was discovered.  Her first impulse was to run to\nUncle Maurice, and thank him on her knees.  Her habitual reserve had\ngiven way to a burst of deepest feeling.  It seemed as if gratitude had\nmelted all the ice of that numbed heart.\n\nBeing now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchback could\ngive greater efficacy to his good offices.  Toinette became to him a\nsister, for whose wants he had a right to provide.  It was the first time\nsince the death of his mother that he had been able to share his life\nwith another.  The young woman received his attentions with feeling, but\nwith reserve.  All Maurice's efforts were insufficient to dispel her\ngloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed her\nsense of it with warmth; but there she stopped.  Her heart was a closed\nbook, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read.  In\ntruth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness of\nbeing no longer alone, and took Toinette such as her long trials had made\nher; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but still to\nenjoy her company.\n\nThis thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusion of\nall besides.  The poor girl was as forlorn as himself; she had become\naccustomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look on\nhim with an affectionate sympathy!  What more could he wish for?  Until\nthen, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had been\nrepelled by Maurice as a dream; but chance seemed willing to make it a\nreality.  After much hesitation he took courage, and decided to speak to\nher.\n\nIt was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed his\nsteps toward the work-woman's garret just as he was about to enter, he\nthought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maiden's name.  He\nquickly pushed open the door, and perceived Toinette weeping, and leaning\non the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor.\n\nAt the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran to him,\ncrying out:\n\n\"Ah! come in--come in!  It is he that I thought was dead: it is Julien;\nit is my betrothed!\"\n\nMaurice tottered, and drew back.  A single word had told him all!\n\nIt seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about to break;\nbut the same voice that he had heard by his mother's deathbed again\nsounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself.  God was still his\nfriend!\n\nHe himself accompanied the newly-married pair on the road when they left\nthe town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denied to\nhim, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb.\n\nIt was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he said\nby the Father which is in heaven.  He felt His presence everywhere; it\nwas to him in the place of all else.  When he died, it was with a smile,\nand like an exile setting out for his own country.  He who had consoled\nhim in poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustice and\nforsaken by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him.\n\n\nEight o'clock.--All I have just written has pained me!  Till now I have\nlooked into life for instruction how to live.  Is it then true that human\nmaxims are not always sufficient?  that beyond goodness, prudence,\nmoderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth,\nwhich alone can face great misfortunes?  and that, if man has need of\nvirtues for others, he has need of religion for himself?\n\nWhen, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry heart, as the Scripture\nexpresses it, we think we are sufficient for ourselves; strong, happy,\nand beloved, we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape every\nstorm in spite of the gods.  But later in life, when the back is bowed,\nwhen happiness proves a fading flower, and the affections grow chill-\nthen, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out our arms, like\nthe child overtaken by night, and we call for help to Him who is\neverywhere.\n\nI was asking this morning why this growing confusion alike for society\nand for the individual?  In vain does human reason from hour to hour\nlight some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow ever\ndarker!  Is it not because we are content to withdraw farther and farther\nfrom God, the Sun of spirits?\n\nBut what do these hermit's reveries signify to the world?  The inward\nturmoils of most men are stifled by the outward ones; life does not give\nthem time to question themselves.  Have they time to know what they are,\nand what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the next lease or\nthe last price of stock?  Heaven is very high, and wise men look only at\nthe earth.\n\nBut I--poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek neither power nor\nriches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelter of my\nspirit--I can go back with impunity to these recollections of my\nchildhood; and, if this our great city no longer honors the name of God\nwith a festival, I will strive still to keep the feast to Him in my\nheart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME\n\nSunday, July 1st\n\nYesterday the month dedicated to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romans ended.\nTo-day we enter on July.\n\nIn ancient Rome this latter month was called Quintiles (the fifth),\nbecause the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began in\nMarch.  When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this name of\nQuintiles was preserved, as well as those that followed--Sexteles,\nSeptember, October, November, December--although these designations did\nnot accord with the newly arranged order of the months.  At last, after a\ntime the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was called\nJulius, whence we have July.  Thus this name, placed in the calendar, is\nbecome the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal epitaph\non Time's highway, engraved by the admiration of man.\n\nHow many similar inscriptions are there!  Seas, continents, mountains,\nstars, and monuments, have all in succession served the same purpose!  We\nhave turned the whole world into a Golden Book, like that in which the\nstate of Venice used to enroll its illustrious names and its great deeds.\nIt seems that mankind feels a necessity for honoring itself in its elect\nones, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosing heroes from\namong its own race.  The human family love to preserve the memory; of the\nparvenus of glory, as we cherish that of a great ancestor, or of a\nbenefactor.\n\nIn fact, the talents granted to a single individual do not benefit\nhimself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, for\neveryone suffers or benefits by his actions.  Genius is a lighthouse,\nmeant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock upon\nwhich this lighthouse is built.\n\nI love to dwell upon these thoughts; they explain to me in what consists\nour admiration for glory.  When glory has benefited men, that admiration\nis gratitude; when it is only remarkable in itself, it is the pride of\nrace; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples of\nhumanity.\n\nWho knows whether we do not obey the same instinct in submitting to the\nhand of power?  Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, or\nthe consequences of a conquest, the multitude delight to surround their\nchiefs with privileges--whether it be that their vanity makes them thus\nto aggrandize one of their own creations, or whether they try to conceal\nthe humiliation of subjection by exaggerating the importance of those who\nrule them.  They wish to honor themselves through their master; they\nelevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround him with a\nhalo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon themselves.\nIt is still the fable of the dog who contents himself with the chain and\ncollar, so that they are of gold.\n\nThis servile vanity is not less natural or less common than the vanity of\ndominion.  Whoever feels himself incapable of command, at least desires\nto obey a powerful chief.  Serfs have been known to consider themselves\ndishonored when they became the property of a mere count after having\nbeen that of a prince, and Saint-Simon mentions a valet who would only\nwait upon marquises.\n\n\nJuly 7th, seven o'clock P. M.--I have just now been up the Boulevards;\nit was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in the Rue\nLepelletier.  The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossing\nrecognized the persons in some of these as we went by, and mentioned\ntheir names; they were those of celebrated or powerful men, the\nsuccessful ones of the day.\n\nNear me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes,\nwhose thin black coat was threadbare.  He followed with envious looks\nthese possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on his\nlips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind.\n\n\"Look at them, the lucky fellows!\"  thought he; \"all the pleasures of\nwealth, all the enjoyments of pride, are theirs.  Their names are\nrenowned, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sovereigns of the\nworld, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor and\nunknown, toil painfully along the road below, they wing their way over\nthe mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of prosperity.\"\n\nI have come home in deep thought.  Is it true that there are these\ninequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men?\nDo genius and authority really wear life as a crown, while the greater\npart of mankind receive it as a yoke?  Is the difference of rank but a\ndifferent use of men's dispositions and talents, or a real inequality in\ntheir destinies?  A solemn question, as it regards the verification of\nGod's impartiality.\n\n\nJuly 8th, noon.--I went this morning to call upon a friend from the same\nprovince as myself, who is the first usher-in-waiting to one of our\nministers.  I took him some letters from his family, left for him by a\ntraveller just come from Brittany.  He wished me to stay.\n\n\"To-day,\" said he, \"the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day of\nrest with his family.  His younger sisters are arrived; he will take them\nthis morning to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friends\nto a private ball.  I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of the\nday.  We can dine together; read the news while you are waiting for me.\"\n\nI sat down at a table covered with newspapers, all of which I looked over\nby turns.  Most of them contained severe criticisms on the last political\nacts of the minister; some of them added suspicions as to the honor of\nthe minister himself.\n\nJust as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take them to\nhis master.\n\nHe was then about to read these accusations, to suffer silently the abuse\nof all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation or to\nscorn!  Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to endure the\ninsults of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies,\nhis ignorance, or his vices.\n\nBut, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be found\npoisoned?  Would not one reach some spot in his heart where the wound\nwould be incurable?  What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacks\nof envious hatred or furious conviction?  The Christians yielded only the\nfragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man in\npower gives up his peace, his affections, his honor, to the cruel bites\nof the pen.\n\nWhile I was musing upon these dangers of greatness, the usher entered\nhastily.  Important news had been received: the minister is just summoned\nto the council; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud.\n\nI saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at the\ndoor, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to the\ncouncil.  The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much family\nhappiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesman\nin it.\n\nThe usher came back discontented and disappointed.  The more or less of\nliberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer of the political\natmosphere.  If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at his post,\nthe country is in danger.  His opinion on public affairs is but a\ncalculation of his own interest.  My friend is almost a statesman.\n\nI had some conversation with him, and he told me several curious\nparticulars of public life.\n\nThe new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though he\nstill retains his personal regard for them.  Though separated from them\nby the colors he fights under, they remain united by old associations;\nbut the exigencies of party forbid him to meet them.  If their\nintercourse continued, it would awaken suspicion; people would imagine\nthat some dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be held to\nbe traitors desirous to sell themselves, and he the corrupt minister\nprepared to buy them.  He has, therefore, been obliged to break off\nfriendships of twenty years' standing, and to sacrifice attachments which\nhad become a second nature.\n\nSometimes, however, the minister still gives way to his old feelings; he\nreceives or visits his friends privately; he shuts himself up with them,\nand talks of the times when they could be open friends.  By dint of\nprecautions they have hitherto succeeded in concealing this blot of\nfriendship against policy; but sooner or later the newspapers will be\ninformed of it, and will denounce him to the country as an object of\ndistrust.\n\nFor whether hatred be honest or dishonest, it never shrinks from any\naccusation.  Sometimes it even proceeds to crime.  The usher assured me\nthat several warnings had been given the minister which had made him fear\nthe vengeance of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out on foot.\n\nThen, from one thing to another, I learned what temptations came in to\nmislead or overcome his judgment; how he found himself fatally led into\nobliquities which he could not but deplore.  Misled by passion, over-\npersuaded by entreaties, or compelled for reputation's sake, he has many\ntimes held the balance with an unsteady hand.  How sad the condition of\nhim who is in authority!  Not only are the miseries of power imposed upon\nhim, but its vices also, which, not content with torturing, succeed in\ncorrupting him.\n\nWe prolonged our conversation till it was interrupted by the minister's\nreturn.  He threw himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers,\nand with an anxious manner went into his own room.  An instant afterward\nhis bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to all\nthose invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; they spoke\nmysteriously of bad news transmitted by the telegraph, and in such\ncircumstances an entertainment would seem to insult the public sorrow.\n\nI took leave of my friend, and here I am at home.  What I have just seen\nis an answer to my doubts the other day.  Now I know with what pangs men\npay for their dignities; now I understand\n\n          That Fortune sells what we believe she gives.\n\nThis explains to me the reason why Charles V aspired to the repose of the\ncloister.\n\nAnd yet I have only glanced at some of the sufferings attached to power.\nWhat shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitated\nfrom the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that path\nof pain along which they must forever bear the burden of their\nresponsibility? of that chain of decorums and ennuis which encompasses\nevery act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?\n\nThe partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies.\nIf men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keep\nhim separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with a\ncontinual worship, and, by a constant ceremonial, keep up for him the\nsuperhuman part they have granted him.  Our masters cannot remain\nabsolute, except on condition of being treated as idols.\n\nBut, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they must\nlead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment to\nthemselves.  Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used to\nregulate, hour by hour, the actions of the king and queen; \"so that,\"\nsays Voltaire, \"by reading it one can tell all that the sovereigns of\nSpain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment.\"  It\nwas by this law that Philip III, when sick, was obliged to endure such an\nexcess of heat that he died in consequence, because the Duke of Uzeda,\nwho alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber,\nhappened to be absent.\n\nWhen the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, she\nwas about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquette\nforbade them to touch the queen.  Two young officers endangered their\nlives for her by stopping the horse.  The prayers and tears of her whom\nthey had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon for\ntheir crime.  Every one knows the anecdote related by Madame Campan of\nMarie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI.  One day, being at her toilet, when\nthe chemise was about to be presented to her by one of the assistants, a\nlady of very ancient family entered and claimed the honor, as she had the\nright by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil her duty,\na lady of higher rank appeared, and in her turn took the garment she was\nabout to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still higher title came\nin her turn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no other than the\nking's sister.  The chemise was in this manner passed from hand to hand,\nwith ceremonies, courtesies, and compliments, before it came to the\nqueen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with cold for the\ngreat honor of etiquette.\n\n\n12th, seven o'clock, P.M.--On coming home this evening, I saw, standing\nat the door of a house, an old man, whose appearance and features\nreminded me of my father.  There was the same beautiful smile, the same\ndeep and penetrating eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and the\nsame careless attitude.\n\nI began living over again the first years of my life, and recalling to\nmyself the conversations of that guide whom God in his mercy had given\nme, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn.\n\nWhen my father spoke, it was not only to bring our two minds together by\nan interchange of thought, but his words always contained instruction.\n\nNot that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father feared everything\nthat had the appearance of a lesson.  He used to say that virtue could\nmake herself devoted friends, but she did not take pupils: therefore he\nwas not desirous to teach goodness; he contented himself with sowing the\nseeds of it, certain that experience would make them grow.\n\nHow often has good grain fallen thus into a corner of the heart, and,\nwhen it has been long forgotten, all at once put forth the blade and come\ninto ear!  It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, and we do\nnot know its value till we find ourselves in need of it.\n\nAmong the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings,\nthere is one which now returns to my memory, doubtless because the time\nis come to derive its lesson from it.\n\nMy father, who was apprenticed at the age of twelve to one of those\ntrading collectors who call themselves naturalists, because they put all\ncreation under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had always led a\nlife of poverty and labor.  Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turns\nshop-boy, clerk, and laborer, he was made to bear alone all the work of a\ntrade of which his master reaped all the profits.  In truth, this latter\nhad a peculiar talent for making the most of the labor of other people.\nThough unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, no one knew\nbetter how to sell it.  His words were a net, in which people found\nthemselves taken before they were aware.  And since he was devoted to\nhimself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and the buyer as\nprey, he used them both with that obstinate perseverance which avarice\nteaches.\n\nMy father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own only\non Sunday.  The master naturalist, who used to spend the day at the house\nof an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on condition that he\ndined out, and at his own expense.  But my father used secretly to take\nwith him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and,\nleaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valley\nof Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of the Marne.\nExcited by the fresh air, the penetrating perfume of the growing\nvegetation, or the fragrance of the honeysuckles, he would walk on until\nhunger or fatigue made itself felt.  Then he would sit under a hedge, or\nby the side of a stream, and would make a rustic feast, by turns on\nwatercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from the hedges;\nhe would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then in\ngreatest vogue, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques,\nof whom he possessed three old volumes.  The day was thus passed\nalternately in activity and rest, in pursuit and meditation, until the\ndeclining sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he would\narrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a whole\nweek.\n\nOne day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close to\nit, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in sorting the plants\nhe had just gathered.  He was an elderly man with an honest face; but his\neyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows, had a somewhat\nuneasy and timid expression.  He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, a\ngray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stockings, and held an ivory-\nheaded cane under his arm.  His appearance was that of a small retired\ntradesman who was living on his means, and rather below the golden mean\nof Horace.\n\nMy father, who had great respect for age, civilly raised his hat to him\nas he passed.  In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; the\nstranger stooped to take it up, and recognized it.\n\n\"It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos,\" said he; \"I have not yet seen any of\nthem in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?\"\n\nMy father replied that it was to be found in abundance on the top of the\nhill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium.\n\n\"That, too!\"  repeated the old man more briskly.  \"Ah!  I shall go and\nlook for them; I have gathered them formerly on the hillside of Robaila.\"\n\nMy father proposed to take him.  The stranger accepted his proposal with\nthanks, and hastened to collect together the plants he had gathered; but\nall of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple.  He observed to his\ncompanion that the road he was going was halfway up the hill, and led in\nthe direction of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue; that by\ngoing to the top he would consequently turn out of his road, and that it\nwas not right he should take this trouble for a stranger.\n\nMy father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the more\neagerness he showed, the more obstinately the old man refused; it even\nseemed to my father that his good intention at last excited his\nsuspicion.  He therefore contented himself with pointing out the road to\nthe stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him.\n\nMany hours passed by, and he thought no more of the meeting.  He had\nreached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossy\nglade, he read once more the last volume of Emile.  The delight of\nreading it had so completely absorbed him that he had ceased to see or\nhear anything around him.  With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist,\nhe repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him.\n\nAn exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; he raised\nhis head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before on\nthe crossroad at Viroflay.\n\nHe was loaded with plants, the collection of which seemed to have put him\ninto high good-humor.\n\n\"A thousand thanks, sir,\" said he to my father.  \"I have found all that\nyou told me of, and I am indebted to you for a charming walk.\"\n\nMy father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply.  The stranger had\ngrown quite familiar, and even asked if his young \"brother botanist\" did\nnot think of returning to Paris.  My father replied in the affirmative,\nand opened his tin box to put his book back in it.\n\nThe stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence ask\nthe name of it.  My father answered that it was Rousseau's Emile.\n\nThe stranger immediately became grave.\n\nThey walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with the\nwarmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work had\nmade him feel; his companion remaining cold and silent.  The former\nextolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had made\nhim a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of great\nthinkers, who reign in spite of time and space, and gather together a\npeople of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenly\ninterrupted him:\n\n\"And how do you know,\" said he, mildly, \"whether Jean Jacques would not\nexchange the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of the\nwood-cutters whose chimneys' smoke we see?  What has fame brought him\nexcept persecution?  The unknown friends whom his books may have made for\nhim content themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while the\ndeclared enemies that they have drawn upon him pursue him with violence\nand calumny!  His pride has been flattered by success: how many times has\nit been wounded by satire?  And be assured that human pride is like the\nSybarite who was prevented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf.  The\nactivity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost always\nturns against him who possesses it.  He expects more from it as he grows\nolder; the ideal he pursues continually disgusts him with the actual; he\nis like a man who, with a too-refined sight, discerns spots and blemishes\nin the most beautiful face.  I will not speak of stronger temptations and\nof deeper downfalls.  Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but what\nvirtuous man is not afraid of being a king?  He who feels only his great\npowers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing for\ngreat failures.  Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book is\nno object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeling heart,\npity him!\"\n\nMy father, astonished at the excitement with which his companion\npronounced these last words, did not know what to answer.\n\nJust then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle to\nthat of Versailles; a carriage was passing.\n\nThe ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamation\nof surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:\n\n\"There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!\"\n\nThen the carriage disappeared in the distance.\n\nMy father remained motionless, confounded, and amazed, his eyes wide\nopen, and his hands clasped.\n\nRousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turned toward\nhim:\n\n\"You see,\" said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his later\nmisfortunes had produced in him, \"Jean Jacques cannot even hide himself:\nhe is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to all\nhe is a public thing, at which they point the finger.  It would signify\nless if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, as\nsoon as a man has had the misfortune to make himself a name, he becomes\npublic property.  Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivial\nactions, and insults his feelings; he becomes like those walls, which\nevery passer-by may deface with some abusive writing.  Perhaps you will\nsay that I have myself encouraged this curiosity by publishing my\nConfessions.  But the world forced me to it.  They looked into my house\nthrough the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opened the doors and\nwindows, so that they should at least know me such as I am.  Adieu, sir.\nWhenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seen\nRousseau.\"\n\n\nNine o'clock.--Ah! now I understand my father's story!  It contains the\nanswer to one of the questions I asked myself a week ago.  Yes, I now\nfeel that fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, when\nthey dazzle the soul, both are oftenest, as Madame de Stael says, but 'un\ndeuil eclatant de bonheur!\n\n                   'Tis better to be lowly born,\n                    And range with humble livers in content,\n                    Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,\n                    And wear a golden sorrow.\n\n                    [Henry VIII., Act II., Scene 3.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nMISANTHROPY AND REPENTANCE\n\nAugust 3d, Nine O'clock P.M.\n\nThere are days when everything appears gloomy to us; the world, like the\nsky, is covered by a dark fog.  Nothing seems in its place; we see only\nmisery, improvidence, and cruelty; the world seems without God, and given\nup to all the evils of chance.\n\nYesterday I was in this unhappy humor.  After a long walk in the\nfaubourgs, I returned home, sad and dispirited.\n\nEverything I had seen seemed to accuse the civilization of which we are\nso proud!  I had wandered into a little by-street, with which I was not\nacquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the middle of those dreadful\nabodes where the poor are born, to languish and die.  I looked at those\ndecaying walls, which time has covered with a foul leprosy; those\nwindows, from which dirty rags hang out to dry; those fetid gutters,\nwhich coil along the fronts of the houses like venomous reptiles!\nI felt oppressed with grief, and hastened on.\n\nA little farther on I was stopped by the hearse of a hospital; a dead\nman, nailed down in his deal coffin, was going to his last abode, without\nfuneral pomp or ceremony, and without followers.  There was not here even\nthat last friend of the outcast--the dog, which a painter has introduced\nas the sole attendant at the pauper's burial!  He whom they were\npreparing to commit to the earth was going to the tomb, as he had lived,\nalone; doubtless no one would be aware of his end.  In this battle of\nsociety, what signifies a soldier the less?\n\nBut what, then, is this human society, if one of its members can thus\ndisappear like a leaf carried away by the wind?\n\nThe hospital was near a barrack, at the entrance of which old men, women,\nand children were quarrelling for the remains of the coarse bread which\nthe soldiers had given them in charity!  Thus, beings like ourselves\ndaily wait in destitution on our compassion till we give them leave to\nlive!  Whole troops of outcasts, in addition to the trials imposed on all\nGod's children, have to endure the pangs of cold, hunger, and\nhumiliation.  Unhappy human commonwealth!  Where man is in a worse\ncondition than the bee in its hive, or the ant in its subterranean city!\n\nAh! what then avails our reason?  What is the use of so many high\nfaculties, if we are neither the wiser nor the happier for them?  Which\nof us would not exchange his life of labor and trouble with that of the\nbirds of the air, to whom the whole world is a life of joy?\n\nHow well I understand the complaint of Mao, in the popular tales of the\n'Foyer Breton' who, when dying of hunger and thirst, says, as he looks at\nthe bullfinches rifling the fruit-trees:\n\n\"Alas! those birds are happier than Christians; they have no need of\ninns, or butchers, or bakers, or gardeners.  God's heaven belongs to\nthem, and earth spreads a continual feast before them!  The tiny flies\nare their game, ripe grass their cornfields, and hips and haws their\nstore of fruit.  They have the right of taking everywhere, without paying\nor asking leave: thus comes it that the little birds are happy, and sing\nall the livelong day!\"\n\nBut the life of man in a natural state is like that of the birds; he\nequally enjoys nature.  \"The earth spreads a continual feast before him.\"\nWhat, then, has he gained by that selfish and imperfect association which\nforms a nation?  Would it not be better for every one to turn again to\nthe fertile bosom of nature, and live there upon her bounty in peace and\nliberty?\n\n\nAugust 20th, four o'clock A.M.--The dawn casts a red glow on my bed-\ncurtains; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below.  Here\nI am again leaning on my elbows by the windows, inhaling the freshness\nand gladness of this first wakening of the day.\n\nMy eye always passes over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, and\nsunlight, with the same pleasure; but to-day it stops at the end of a\nbuttress which separates our house from the next.\n\nThe storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, and dust\ncarried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and, being fixed there\nby the rain, has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some green grass\nhas sprung up.  Among it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day is\nsurmounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head.\n\nThis poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall to the\nneighboring sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich crops which are\nnow falling beneath the sickle; it has recalled to me the beautiful walks\nI took as a child through my native province, when the threshing-floors\nat the farmhouses resounded from every part with the sound of a flail,\nand when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, came in by all the roads.\nI still remember the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness of the old\nmen, the open-hearted merriment of the laborers.  There was, at that\ntime, something in their looks both of pride and feeling.  The latter\ncame from thankfulness to God, the former from the sight of the harvest,\nthe reward of their labor.  They felt indistinctly the grandeur and the\nholiness of their part in the general work of the world; they looked with\npride upon their mountains of corn-sheaves, and they seemed to say, Next\nto God, it is we who feed the world!\n\nWhat a wonderful order there is in all human labor!\n\nWhile the husbandman furrows his land, and prepares for every one his\ndaily bread, the town artizan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he is\nto be clothed; the miner seeks underground the iron for his plow; the\nsoldier defends him against the invader; the judge takes care that the\nlaw protects his fields; the tax-comptroller adjusts his private\ninterests with those of the public; the merchant occupies himself in\nexchanging his products with those of distant countries; the men of\nscience and of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, which\ndraws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains of\nour iron roads!  Thus all unite together, all help one another; the toil\nof each one benefits himself and all the world; the work has been\napportioned among the different members of the whole of society by a\ntacit agreement.  If, in this apportionment, errors are committed, if\ncertain individuals have not been employed according to their capacities,\nthose defects of detail diminish in the sublime conception of the whole.\nThe poorest man included in this association has his place, his work, his\nreason for being there; each is something in the whole.\n\nThere is nothing like this for man in the state of nature.  As he depends\nonly upon himself, it is necessary that he be sufficient for everything.\nAll creation is his property; but he finds in it as many hindrances as\nhelps.  He must surmount these obstacles with the single strength that\nGod has given him; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance and\nopportunity.  No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him; he\nis nothing to any one.  He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his own\nsingle powers; while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the whole\nof society.\n\nBut, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of some\nvices in detail, I cursed the latter, and almost envied the life of the\nsavage.\n\nOne of the infirmities of our nature is always to mistake feeling for\nevidence, and to judge of the season by a cloud or a ray of sunshine.\n\nWas the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, really\nthe effect of civilization?  Must we accuse society of having created\nthese evils, or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has alleviated\nthem?  Could the women and children, who were receiving the coarse bread\nfrom the soldier, hope in the desert for more help or pity?  That dead\nman, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares of a\nhospital, a coffin and the humble grave where he was about to rest?\nAlone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in his\nden, and would now be serving as food for vultures!  These benefits of\nhuman society are shared, then, by the most destitute.  Whoever eats the\nbread that another has reaped and kneaded, is under an obligation to his\nbrother, and cannot say he owes him nothing in return.  The poorest of us\nhas received from society much more than his own single strength would\nhave permitted him to wrest from nature.\n\nBut cannot society give us more?  Who doubts it?  Errors have been\ncommitted in this distribution of tasks and workers.  Time will diminish\nthe number of them; with new lights a better division will arise; the\nelements of society go on toward perfection, like everything else.  The\ndifficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time,\nwhose progress can never be forced on without danger.\n\n\nAugust 14th, six o'clock A.M.--My garret window rises upon the roof like\na massive watch-tower.  The corners are covered by large sheets of lead,\nwhich run into the tiles; the successive action of cold and heat has made\nthem rise, and so a crevice has been formed in an angle on the right\nside.  There a sparrow has built her nest.\n\nI have followed the progress of this aerial habitation from the first\nday.  I have seen the bird successively bring the straw, moss, and wool\ndesigned for the construction of her abode; and I have admired the\npersevering skill she expended in this difficult work.  At first, my new\nneighbor spent her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden, and\nin chirping along the gutters; a fine lady's life seemed the only one to\nsuit her.  Then all of a sudden, the necessity of preparing a shelter for\nher brood transformed our idler into a worker; she no longer gave herself\neither rest or relaxation.  I saw her always either flying, fetching, or\ncarrying; neither rain nor sun stopped her.  A striking example of the\npower of necessity!  We are indebted to it not only for most of our\ntalents, but for many of our virtues!\n\nIs it not necessity that has given the people of less favored climates\nthat constant activity which has placed them so quickly at the head of\nnations?  As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, they have\nsupplied them by their industry; necessity has sharpened their\nunderstanding, endurance awakened their foresight.  While elsewhere man,\nwarmed by an ever brilliant sun, and loaded with the bounties of the\nearth, was remaining poor, ignorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts he\ndid not attempt to explore, here he was forced by necessity to wrest his\nfood from the ground, to build habitations to defend himself from the\nintemperance of the weather, and to warm his body by clothing himself\nwith the wool of animals.  Work makes him both more intelligent and more\nrobust: disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher on the ladder of\ncreation, while those more favored by nature remain on the step nearest\nto the brutes.\n\nI made these reflections while looking at the bird, whose instinct seemed\nto have become more acute since she had been occupied in work.  At last\nthe nest was finished; she set up her household there, and I followed her\nthrough all the phases of her new existence.\n\nWhen she had sat on the eggs, and the young ones were hatched, she fed\nthem with the most attentive care.  The corner of my window had become a\nstage of moral action, which fathers and mothers might come to take\nlessons from.  The little ones soon became large, and this morning I have\nseen them take their first flight.  One of them, weaker than the others,\nwas not able to clear the edge of the roof, and fell into the gutter.  I\ncaught him with some difficulty, and placed him again on the tile in\nfront of his house, but the mother has not noticed him.  Once freed from\nthe cares of a family, she has resumed her wandering life among the trees\nand along the roofs.  In vain I have kept away from my window, to take\nfrom her every excuse for fear; in vain the feeble little bird has called\nto her with plaintive cries; his bad mother has passed by, singing and\nfluttering with a thousand airs and graces.  Once only the father came\nnear; he looked at his offspring with contempt, and then disappeared,\nnever to return!\n\nI crumbled some bread before the little orphan, but he did not know how\nto peck it with his bill.  I tried to catch him, but he escaped into the\nforsaken nest.  What will become of him there, if his mother does not\ncome back!\n\n\nAugust 15th, six o'clock.--This morning, on opening my window, I found\nthe little bird dying upon the tiles; his wounds showed me that he had\nbeen driven from the nest by his unworthy mother.  I tried in vain to\nwarm him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; his\neyes were already closed, and his wings hung down!  I placed him on the\nroof in a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window.  The struggle of life\nagainst death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us.\n\nHappily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my old\nneighbor; his conversation will distract my thoughts.\n\nIt was my portress.  Excellent woman!  She wished me to read a letter\nfrom her son the sailor, and begged me to answer it for her.\n\nI kept it, to copy it in my journal.  Here it is:\n\n     \"DEAR MOTHER: This is to tell you that I have been very well ever\n     since the last time, except that last week I was nearly drowned with\n     the boat, which would have been a great loss, as there is not a\n     better craft anywhere.\n\n     \"A gust of wind capsized us; and just as I came up above water, I\n     saw the captain sinking.  I went after him, as was my duty, and,\n     after diving three times, I brought him to the surface, which\n     pleased him much; for when we were hoisted on board, and he had\n     recovered his senses, he threw his arms round my neck, as he would\n     have done to an officer.\n\n     \"I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this has delighted me.\n     But it isn't all; it seems that fishing up the captain has reminded\n     them that I had a good character, and they have just told me that I\n     am promoted to be a sailor of the first class!  Directly I knew it,\n     I cried out, 'My mother shall have coffee twice a day!'  And really,\n     dear mother, there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now have\n     a larger allowance to send you.\n\n     \"I include by begging you to take care of yourself if you wish to do\n     me good; for nothing makes me feel so well as to think that you want\n     for nothing.\n\n     \"Your son, from the bottom of my heart,\n\n                                                  JACQUES.\"\n\n\nThis is the answer that the portress dictated to me:\n\n     \"MY GOOD JACQUOT: It makes me very happy to see that your heart is\n     still as true as ever, and that you will never shame those who have\n     brought you up.  I need not tell you to take care of your life,\n     because you know it is the same as my own, and that without you,\n     dear child, I should wish for nothing but the grave; but we are not\n     bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty.\n\n     \"Do not fear for my health, good Jacques; I was never better!  I do\n     not grow old at all, for fear of making you unhappy.  I want\n     nothing, and I live like a lady.  I even had some money over this\n     year, and as my drawers shut very badly, I put it into the savings'\n     bank, where I have opened an account in your name.  So, when you\n     come back, you will find yourself with an income.  I have also\n     furnished your chest with new linen, and I have knitted you three\n     new sea-jackets.\n\n     \"All your friends are well.  Your cousin is just dead, leaving his\n     widow in difficulties.  I gave her your thirty francs' remittance\n     and said that you had sent it her; and the poor woman remembers you\n     day and night in her prayers.  So, you see, I have put that money in\n     another sort of savings' bank; but there it is our hearts that get\n     the interest.\n\n     \"Good-bye, dear Jacquot.  Write to me often, and always remember the\n     good God, and your old mother,\n\n                                        \"PHROSINE MILLOT.\"\n\n\nGood son, and worthy mother!  how such examples bring us back to a love\nfor the human race!  In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy the\nfate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; but\nimpartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes.  We find, on\nexamination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the good so\nfar abounds that we are not in the habit of noticing it, while the evil\nstrikes us precisely on account of its being the exception.  If nothing\nis perfect, nothing is so bad as to be without its compensation or its\nremedy.  What spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evils of\nsociety!  how much does the moral world redeem the material!\n\nThat which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is his\npower of deliberate affection and of enduring self-sacrifice.  The mother\nwho took care of her brood in the corner of my window devoted to them the\nnecessary time for accomplishing the laws which insure the preservation\nof her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not a rational choice.  When\nshe had accomplished the mission appointed her by Providence, she cast\noff the duty as we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to her\nselfish liberty.  The other mother, on the contrary, will go on with her\ntask as long as God shall leave her here below: the life of her son will\nstill remain, so to speak, joined to her own; and when she disappears\nfrom the earth, she will leave there that part of herself.\n\nThus, the affections make for our species an existence separate from all\nthe rest of creation.  Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrial\nimmortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man alone\nperpetuates himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT\n\nSeptember 15th, Eight O'clock\n\nThis morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in,\nand brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday.  For the\nnearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in\nher little fruit-shop.  Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but\nMother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm,\nand cause her unnecessary pain.  It seems to me that the length of our\nacquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my\npatronage has become her property.\n\nShe has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a\njoiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again\nimmediately to send him to me.\n\nAt first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:\nbut, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as\nusual.  Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?\n\nPoor woman!  All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that\nshe might think she had received her full share already.  Were I to live\na hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her\nknown to me, and which obtained for her my respect.\n\nIt was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg.  I had noticed\nher empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its\nforsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it.  I have always\ninstinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but\nit seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in\npoverty.  These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to\nthose whose very existence is in peril--the only means by which some\norphan gains a livelihood.  There the aim of the tradesman is not to\nenrich himself, but to live!  The purchase you make of him is more than\nan exchange--it is a good action.\n\nMother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost that\nfresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among the\npoor.  Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working to\nbecome, according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, a\nworshipper of Saint Monday.  The wages of the week, which was always\nreduced to two or three working days, were completely dedicated by him to\nthe worship of this god of the Barriers,--[The cheap wine shops are\noutside the Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]--and\nGenevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of the\nhousehold.\n\nOne evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I heard\na sound of quarrelling in the back shop.  There were the voices of\nseveral women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by\nsobs.  On looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a child\nin her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be claiming\nher wages from her.  The poor woman, who without doubt had exhausted\nevery explanation and every excuse, was crying in silence, and one of her\nneighbors was trying in vain to appease the countrywoman.  Excited by\nthat love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too well\nexcuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse\nwas launching forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse.  In spite of\nmyself, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not\nthinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door.\n\nThe joiner had just come from the Barriers, where he had passed part of\nthe day at a public-house.  His blouse, without a belt, and untied at the\nthroat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in his hand he held his\ncap, which he had just picked up out of the mud; his hair was in\ndisorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face.  He\ncame reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called Genevieve.\n\nShe heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at the\nsight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, she\npressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with tears.\n\nThe countrywoman and the neighbor had followed her.\n\n\"Come! come!\"  cried the former in a rage, \"do you intend to pay me,\nafter all?\"\n\n\"Ask the master for the money,\" ironically answered the woman from the\nnext door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the\ncounter.\n\nThe countrywoman looked at him.\n\n\"Ah!  he is the father,\" returned she.  \"Well, what idle beggars! not to\nhave a penny to pay honest people; and get tipsy with wine in that way.\"\n\nThe drunkard raised his head.\n\n\"What! what!\"  stammered he; \"who is it that talks of wine?  I've had\nnothing but brandy!  But I am going back again to get some wine!  Wife,\ngive me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at the 'Pere\nla Tuille'.\"\n\nGenevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the till, and\nbegan to rummage in it.\n\n\"You see where the money of the house goes!\"  observed the neighbor to\nthe countrywoman; \"how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takes\nall?\"\n\n\"Is that my fault?\"  replied the nurse, angrily.  \"They owe to me, and\nsomehow or other they must pay me!\"\n\nAnd letting loose her tongue, as these women out of the country do, she\nbegan relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, and all\nthe expense it had been to her.  In proportion as she recalled all she\nhad done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of her rights,\nand to increase her anger.  The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her\nviolence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put\nit into its cradle.\n\nWhether it is that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination to\nescape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot say; but\nshe rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling,\nwith which the cries of the child were soon mingled.  The joiner, who was\nstill rummaging in the till, was startled, and raised his head.\n\nAt the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her arms\nthe baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her.  She ran\ntoward the counter, and throwing herself behind her husband, cried:\n\n\"Michael, defend your son!\"\n\nThe drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.\n\n\"My son!\"  stammered he; \"what son?\"\n\nHis looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over\nhis features.\n\n\"Robert,\" resumed he; \"it is Robert!\"\n\nHe tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but\nhe tottered.  The nurse approached him in a rage.\n\n\"My money, or I shall take the child away!\"  cried she.  \"It is I who\nhave fed and brought it up: if you don't pay me for what has made it\nlive, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead.  I shall not go\nuntil I have my due, or the baby.\"\n\n\"And what would you do with him?\"  murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert\nagainst her bosom.\n\n\"Take it to the Foundling!\"  replied the countrywoman, harshly; \"the\nhospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its\nlittle ones.\"\n\nAt the word \"Foundling,\" Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror.  With\nher arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her\ntwo hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained\nwith her back against it, like a lioness defending her young.  The\nneighbor and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we could\ninterfere.  As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visible\neffort to comprehend it all.  When his eye rested upon Genevieve and the\nchild, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but when he turned toward us,\nhe again became stupid and hesitating.\n\nAt last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried out, \"Wait!\"\n\nAnd going to a tub filled with water, he plunged his face into it several\ntimes.\n\nEvery eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed\nastonished.  At length he raised his dripping head.  This ablution had\npartly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then he\nturned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up.\n\n\"Robert!\"  cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his arms.\n\"Ah!  give him me, wife; I must look at him.\"\n\nThe mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and stayed\nbefore him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child would have\na fall.  The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and renewed her\nclaims, this time threatening to appeal to law.  At first Michael\nlistened to her attentively, and when he comprehended her meaning, he\ngave the child back to its mother.\n\n\"How much do we owe you?\"  asked he.\n\nThe countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which\namounted to nearly thirty francs.  The joiner felt to the bottom of his\npockets, but could find nothing.  His forehead became contracted by\nfrowns; low curses began to escape him.  All of a sudden he rummaged in\nhis breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up above his head:\n\n\"Here it is--here's your money!\" cried he with a joyful laugh; \"a watch,\na good one!  I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry day; but it\nis not I who will drink it, but the young one.  Ah! ah! ah! go and sell\nit for me, neighbor, and if that is not enough, I have my earrings.  Eh!\nGenevieve, take them off for me; the earrings will square all!  They\nshall not say you have been disgraced on account of the child--no, not\neven if I must pledge a bit of my flesh!  My watch, my earrings, and my\nring--get rid of all of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman,\nand let the little fool go to sleep.  Give him me, Genevieve; I will put\nhim to bed.\"\n\nAnd, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him with a\nfirm step to his cradle.\n\nIt was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from this\nday.  He cut all his old drinking acquaintances.  He went early every\nmorning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to finish the\nday with Genevieve and Robert.  Very soon he would not leave them at all,\nand he hired a place near the fruit-shop, and worked in it on his own\naccount.\n\nThey would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been for\nthe expenses which the child required.  Everything was given up to his\neducation.  He had gone through the regular school training, had studied\nmathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had only begun to\nwork a few months ago.  Till now, they had been exhausting every resource\nwhich their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in his\nbusiness; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: the\nseed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by.\n\nWhile I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael had\ncome in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were wanted.\n\nDuring the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also\nscrutinizing the joiner.\n\nThe excesses of his youth and the labor of his manhood have deeply marked\nhis face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stoop, his legs are\nshrunken and slightly bent.  There seems a sort of weight in his whole\nbeing.  His very features have an expression of sorrow and despondency.\nHe answers my questions by monosyllables, and like a man who wishes to\navoid conversation.  Whence comes this dejection, when one would think he\nhad all he could wish for?  I should like to know!\n\n\nTen o'clock.--Michael is just gone downstairs to look for a tool he has\nforgotten.  I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the secret of\nhis and Genevieve's sorrow.  Their son Robert is the cause of it!\n\nNot that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is idle\nor dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them any more.\nThe presence of the young man was to have renewed and made glad their\nlives once more; his mother counted the days, his father prepared\neverything to receive their dear associate in their toils; and at the\nmoment when they were thus about to be repaid for all their sacrifices,\nRobert had suddenly informed them that he had just engaged himself to a\ncontractor at Versailles.\n\nEvery remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forward the\nnecessity of initiating himself into all the details of an important\ncontract, the facilities he should have in his new position of improving\nhimself in his trade, and the hopes he had of turning his knowledge to\nadvantage.  At, last, when his mother, having come to the end of her\narguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed her, and went away that he\nmight avoid any further remonstrances.\n\nHe had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes of\nhis return.  His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he only\nstayed a few moments with them.\n\n\"I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded,\" Michael said to\nme just now.  \"I had wished for a saving and industrious son, and God has\ngiven me an ambitious and avaricious one!  I had always said to myself\nthat when once he was grown up we should have him always with us, to\nrecall our youth and to enliven our hearts.  His mother was always\nthinking of getting him married, and having children again to care for.\nYou know women always will busy themselves about others.  As for me, I\nthought of him working near my bench, and singing his new songs; for he\nhas learnt music, and is one of the best singers at the Orpheon.\n\nA dream, sir, truly!  Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight,\nand remembers neither father nor mother.  Yesterday, for instance, was\nthe day we expected him; he should have come to supper with us.  No\nRobert to-day, either!  He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain\nto arrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, after\nthe customers and the joiner's work.  Ah! if I could have guessed how it\nwould have turned out!  Fool! to have sacrificed my likings and my money,\nfor nearly twenty years, to the education of a thankless son!  Was it for\nthis I took the trouble to cure myself of drinking, to break with my\nfriends, to become an example to the neighborhood?  The jovial good\nfellow has made a goose of himself.  Oh! if I had to begin again!  No,\nno!  you see women and children are our bane.  They soften our hearts;\nthey lead us a life of hope and affection; we pass a quarter of our lives\nin fostering the growth of a grain of corn which is to be everything to\nus in our old age, and when the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear\nis empty!\"\n\nWhile he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eyes fierce,\nand his lips quivered.  I wished to answer him, but I could only think of\ncommonplace consolations, and I remained silent.  The joiner pretended he\nneeded a tool, and left me.\n\nPoor father!  Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue has\nfailed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her!  Who has not felt\nthis weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at least once,\nthe mournful exclamation of Brutus?\n\nBut if virtue is only a word, what is there then in life that is true\nand real?  No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain!  It does not\nalways give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings some other.\nIn the world everything is ruled by order, and has its proper and\nnecessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the sole exception to the\ngeneral law.  If it had been prejudicial to those who practised it,\nexperience would have avenged them; but experience has, on the contrary,\nmade it more universal and more holy.  We only accuse it of being a\nfaithless debtor because we demand an immediate payment, and one apparent\nto our senses.  We always consider life as a fairytale, in which every\ngood action must be rewarded by a visible wonder.  We do not accept as\npayment a peaceful conscience, self-content, or a good name among men--\ntreasures that are more precious than any other, but the value of which\nwe do not feel till after we have lost them!\n\nMichael is come back, and has returned to his work.  His son has not yet\narrived.\n\nBy telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, he became\nexcited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, always adding\nsomething to his griefs.  He had just wound up his confidential discourse\nby speaking to me of a joiner's business which he had hoped to buy, and\nwork to good account with Robert's help.  The present owner had made a\nfortune by it, and, after thirty years of business, he was thinking of\nretiring to one of the ornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city,\na usual retreat for the frugal and successful workingman.  Michael had\nnot indeed the two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps\nhe could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait.  Robert's presence would\nhave been a security for him, for the young man could not fail to insure\nthe prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, he had the power\nof invention and bringing to perfection.  His father had discovered among\nhis drawings a new plan for a staircase, which had occupied his thoughts\nfor a long time; and he even suspected him of having engaged himself to\nthe Versailles contractor for the very purpose of executing it.  The\nyouth was tormented by this spirit of invention, which took possession of\nall his thoughts, and, while devoting his mind to study, he had no time\nto listen to his feelings.\n\nMichael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation.  I\nsaw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his very pride made\nhim more sensitive to that son's neglect.\n\n\nSix o'clock P.M.--I have just finished a happy day.  How many events have\nhappened within a few hours, and what a change for Genevieve and Michael!\n\nHe had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, while\nI laid the cloth for my breakfast.\n\nSuddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and\nGenevieve entered with Robert.\n\nThe joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it\nimmediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure.\n\nThe young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into his\narms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me.  Genevieve, whose\nface shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrain\nherself with difficulty.\n\nI told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease and\ncivility.\n\n\"I expected you yesterday,\" said Michael Arout, rather dryly.\n\n\"Forgive me, father,\" replied the young workman, \"but I had business at\nSt.  Germain's.  I was not able to come back till it was very late, and\nthen the master kept me.\"\n\nThe joiner looked at his son sidewise, and then took up his hammer again.\n\n\"All right,\" muttered he, in a grumbling tone; \"when we are with other\npeople we must do as they wish; but there are some who would like better\nto eat brown bread with their own knife than partridges with the silver\nfork of a master.\"\n\n\"And I am one of those, father,\" replied Robert, merrily, \"but, as the\nproverb says, \"you must shell the peas before you can eat them.\"  It was\nnecessary that I should first work in a great workshop--\"\n\n\"To go on with your plan of the staircase,\" interrupted Michael,\nironically.\n\n\"You must now say Monsieur Raymond's plan, father,\" replied Robert,\nsmiling.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I have sold it to him.\"\n\nThe joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly.\n\n\"Sold it!\"  cried he, with sparkling eyes.\n\n\"For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him.\"\n\nMichael threw down the board and tool.\n\n\"There he is again!\"  resumed he, angrily; \"his good genius puts an idea\ninto his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells it\nto a rich man, who will take the honor of it himself.\"\n\n\"Well, what harm is there done?\"  asked Genevieve.\n\n\"What harm!\"  cried the joiner, in a passion.  \"You understand nothing\nabout it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workman\nnever gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier would\ngive up his cross.  That is his glory; he is bound to keep it for the\nhonor it does him!  Ah, thunder!  if I had ever made a discovery, rather\nthan put it up at auction I would have sold one of my eyes!  Don't you\nsee that a new invention is like a child to a workman?  He takes care of\nit, he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it is only a\npoor creature who sells it.\"\n\nRobert colored a little.\n\n\"You will think differently, father,\" said he, \"when you know why I sold\nmy plan.\"\n\n\"Yes, and you will thank him for it,\" added Genevieve, who could no\nlonger keep silence.\n\n\"Never !\"  replied Michael.\n\n\"But, wretched man!\"  cried she, \"he sold it only for our sakes!\"\n\nThe joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment.  It was\nnecessary to come to an explanation.  The latter related how he had\nentered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively refused\nto sell his business unless one half of the two thousand francs were\nfirst paid down.  It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum that he had\ngone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he had had an opportunity\nof trying his invention, and of finding a purchaser.  Thanks to the money\nhe received for it, he had just concluded the bargain with Benoit, and\nhad brought his father the key of the new work-yard.\n\nThis explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty and\nsimplicity that I was quite affected by it.  Genevieve cried; Michael\npressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he seemed to ask his\npardon for having unjustly accused him.\n\nAll was now explained with honor to Robert.  The conduct which his\nparents had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affection; he had\nneither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even the nobler\ninspiration of inventive genius: his whole motive and single aim had been\nthe happiness of Genevieve and Michael.  The day for proving his\ngratitude had come, and he had returned them sacrifice for sacrifice!\n\nAfter the explanations and exclamations of joy were over, all three were\nabout to leave me; but, the cloth being laid, I added three more places,\nand kept them to breakfast.\n\nThe meal was prolonged: the fare was only tolerable; but the over-\nflowings of affection made it delicious.  Never had I better understood\nthe unspeakable charm of family love.  What calm enjoyment in that\nhappiness which is always shared with others; in that community of\ninterests which unites such various feelings; in that association of\nexistences which forms one single being of so many!  What is man without\nthose home affections, which, like so many roots, fix him firmly in the\nearth, and permit him to imbibe all the juices of life?  Energy,\nhappiness--do not all these come from them?  Without family life where\nwould man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself?  A community in\nlittle, is it not this which teaches us how to live in the great one?\nSuch is the holiness of home, that, to express our relation with God, we\nhave been obliged to borrow the words invented for our family life.  Men\nhave named themselves the sons of a heavenly Father!\n\nAh!  let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union.  Do not\nlet us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the caprices\nof chance and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this holy law; let\nus carry the principles and the habits of home beyond set bounds; and,\nif it may be, let us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentiles\nwhen he exclaimed to the newborn children of Christ: \"Be ye like-minded,\nhaving the same love, being of one accord, of one mind.\"\n\n\n\n\nETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:\n\nAlways to mistake feeling for evidence\nFame and power are gifts that are dearly bought\nFortune sells what we believe she gives\nMake himself a name:  he becomes public property\nMy patronage has become her property\nNot desirous to teach goodness\nPower of necessity\nProgress can never be forced on without danger\nSo much confidence at first, so much doubt at las\nThe man in power gives up his peace\nVirtue made friends, but she did not take pupils\nWe are not bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty","title":"An Attic Philosopher in Paris \u2014 Volume 2","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":16035}