{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3998/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3998","id":"gutenberg_3998","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3998","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 3.\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nOUR COUNTRY\n\nOctober 12th, Seven O'clock A.M.\n\nThe nights are already become cold and long; the sun, shining through my\ncurtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even when\nmy eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast under my\ncounterpane.  Every morning there begins a long argument between my\nactivity and my indolence; and, snugly wrapped up to the eyes, I wait\nlike the Gascon, until they have succeeded in coming to an agreement.\n\nThis morning, however, a light, which shone from my door upon my pillow,\nawoke me earlier than usual.  In vain I turned on my side; the\npersevering light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into every\nposition.  At last, quite out of patience, I sat up and hurled my\nnightcap to the foot of the bed!\n\n(I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions of\nthis pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbols\nof the vehement emotions of the mind; for our language has borrowed its\nmost common images from them.)\n\nBut be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humor, grumbling at my new\nneighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep.\nWe are all made thus; we do not understand that others may live on their\nown account.  Each one of us is like the earth, according to the old\nsystem of Ptolemy, and thinks he can have the whole universe revolve\naround himself.  On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to:\n'Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bonnet'.\n\nI had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mine to the\nother end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from the warm\nbedclothes, while making a host of evil reflections upon the\ninconvenience of having neighbors.\n\nFor more than a month I had not had to complain of those whom chance had\ngiven me; most of them only came in to sleep, and went away again on\nrising.  I was almost always alone on this top story--alone with the\nclouds and the sparrows!\n\nBut at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, like\nthe seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take mere\npassengers.  How many different faces have I already seen pass along the\nlanding-place belonging to our attics!  How many companions of a few days\nhave disappeared forever!  Some are lost in that medley of the living\nwhich whirls continually under the scourge of necessity, and others in\nthat resting-place of the dead, who sleep under the hand of God!\n\nPeter the bookbinder is one of these last.  Wrapped up in selfishness, he\nlived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived.  His loss was\nneither mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; there\nwas merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied in\nour house.\n\nIt is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days.\n\nTo say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is gone with my\nnightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier than\nsuits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries his\nmisfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, with\ncheerfulness and moderation.\n\nBut fate has cruelly tried him.  Father Chaufour is but the wreck of a\nman.  In the place of one of his arms hangs an empty sleeve; his left leg\nis made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; but\nabove these ruins rises a calm and happy face.  While looking upon his\ncountenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,\nthe tone of which has, so to speak, the accent of goodness, we see that\nthe soul has remained entire in the half-destroyed covering.  The\nfortress is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrison\nis quite hearty.\n\nDecidedly, the more I think of this excellent man, the more I reproach\nmyself for the sort of malediction I bestowed on him when I awoke.\n\nWe are generally too indulgent in our secret wrongs toward our neighbor.\nAll ill-will which does not pass the region of thought seems innocent to\nus, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse without examination the sin\nwhich does not betray itself by action!\n\nBut are we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws?  Besides\nthese external relations, is there not a real relation of feeling between\nmen?  Do we not owe to all those who live under the same heaven as\nourselves the aid not only of our acts but of our purposes?  Ought not\nevery human life to be to us like a vessel that we accompany with our\nprayers for a happy voyage?  It is not enough that men do not harm one\nanother; they must also help and love one another!  The papal\nbenediction, 'Urbi et orbi'!  should be the constant cry from all hearts.\nTo condemn him who does not deserve it, even in the mind, even by a\npassing thought, is to break the great law, that which has established\nthe union of souls here below, and to which Christ has given the sweet\nname of charity.\n\nThese thoughts came into my mind as I finished dressing, and I said to\nmyself that Father Chaufour had a right to reparation from me.  To make\namends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him just now, I owed him\nsome explicit proof of sympathy.  I heard him humming a tune in his room;\nhe was at work, and I determined that I would make the first neighborly\ncall.\n\n\nEight o'clock P.M.--I found Father Chaufour at a table lighted by a\nlittle smoky lamp, without a fire, although it is already cold, and\nmaking large pasteboard boxes; he was humming a popular song in a low\ntone.  I had hardly entered the room when he uttered an exclamation of\nsurprise and pleasure.\n\n\"Eh! is it you, neighbor?  Come in, then!  I did not think you got up so\nearly, so I put a damper on my music; I was afraid of waking you.\"\n\nExcellent man!  while I was sending him to the devil he was putting\nhimself out of his way for me!\n\nThis thought touched me, and I paid my compliments on his having become\nmy neighbor with a warmth which opened his heart.\n\n\"Faith!  you seem to me to have the look of a good Christian,\" said he in\na voice of soldierlike cordiality, and shaking me by the hand.  \"I do not\nlike those people who look on a landing-place as a frontier line, and\ntreat their neighbors as if they were Cossacks.  When men snuff the same\nair, and speak the same lingo, they are not meant to turn their backs to\neach other.  Sit down there, neighbor; I don't mean to order you; only\ntake care of the stool; it has but three legs, and we must put good-will\nin place of the fourth.\"\n\n\"It seems that that is a treasure which there is no want of here,\" I\nobserved.\n\n\"Good-will!\"  repeated Chaufour; \"that is all my mother left me, and I\ntake it no son has received a better inheritance.  Therefore they used to\ncall me Monsieur Content in the batteries.\"\n\n\"You are a soldier, then?\"\n\n\"I served in the Third Artillery under the Republic, and afterward in the\nGuard, through all the commotions.  I was at Jemappes and at Waterloo; so\nI was at the christening and at the burial of our glory, as one may say!\"\n\nI looked at him with astonishment.\n\n\"And how old were you then, at Jemappes?\"  asked I.\n\n\"Somewhere about fifteen,\" said he.\n\n\"How came you to think of being a soldier so early?\"\n\n\"I did not really think about it.  I then worked at toy-making, and never\ndreamed that France would ask me for anything else than to make her\ndraught-boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls.  But I had an old uncle\nat Vincennes whom I went to see from time to time--a Fontenoy veteran in\nthe same rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to have risen to\nthat of a marshal.  Unluckily, in those days there was no way for common\npeople to get on.  My uncle, whose services would have got him made a\nprince under the other, had then retired with the mere rank of sub-\nlieutenant.  But you should have seen him in his uniform, his cross of\nSt. Louis, his wooden leg, his white moustaches, and his noble\ncountenance.  You would have said he was a portrait of one of those old\nheroes in powdered hair which are at Versailles!\n\n\"Every time I visited him, he said something which remained fixed in my\nmemory.  But one day I found him quite grave.\n\n\"'Jerome,' said he, 'do you know what is going on on the frontier?'\n\n\"'No, lieutenant,' replied I.\n\n\"'Well,' resumed he, 'our country is in danger!'\n\n\"I did not well understand him, and yet it seemed something to me.\n\n\"'Perhaps you have never thought what your country means,' continued he,\nplacing his hand on my shoulder; `it is all that surrounds you, all that\nhas brought you up and fed you, all that you have loved!  This ground\nthat you see, these houses, these trees, those girls who go along there\nlaughing--this is your country!  The laws which protect you, the bread\nwhich pays for your work, the words you interchange with others, the joy\nand grief which come to you from the men and things among which you live\n--this is your country!  The little room where you used to see your\nmother, the remembrances she has left you, the earth where she rests--\nthis is your country!  You see it, you breathe it, everywhere!  Think to\nyourself, my son, of your rights and your duties, your affections and\nyour wants, your past and your present blessings; write them all under a\nsingle name--and that name will be your country!'\n\n\"I was trembling with emotion, and great tears were in my eyes.\n\n\"'Ah!  I understand,' cried I; 'it is our home in large; it is that part\nof the world where God has placed our body and our soul.'\n\n\"'You are right, Jerome,' continued the old soldier; 'so you comprehend\nalso what we owe it.'\n\n\"'Truly,' resumed I, 'we owe it all that we are; it is a question of\nlove.'\n\n\"'And of honesty, my son,' concluded he.  'The member of a family who\ndoes not contribute his share of work and of happiness fails in his duty,\nand is a bad kinsman; the member of a partnership who does not enrich it\nwith all his might, with all his courage, and with all his heart,\ndefrauds it of what belongs to it, and is a dishonest man.  It is the\nsame with him who enjoys the advantages of having a country, and does not\naccept the burdens of it; he forfeits his honor, and is a bad citizen!'\n\n\"'And what must one do, lieutenant, to be a good citizen?' asked I.\n\n\"'Do for your country what you would do for your father and mother,' said\nhe.\n\n\"I did not answer at the moment; my heart was swelling, and the blood\nboiling in my veins; but on returning along the road, my uncle's words\nwere, so to speak, written up before my eyes.  I repeated, 'Do for your\ncountry what you would do for your father and mother.'  And my country is\nin danger; an enemy attacks it, while I--I turn cups and balls!\n\n\"This thought tormented me so much all night that the next day I returned\nto Vincennes to announce to the lieutenant that I had just enlisted, and\nwas going off to the frontier.  The brave man pressed upon me his cross\nof St. Louis, and I went away as proud as an ambassador.\n\n\"That is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer under the Republic before I\nhad cut my wisdom teeth.\"\n\nAll this was told quietly, and in the cheerful spirit of him who looks\nupon an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance.\n\nWhile he spoke, Father Chaufour grew animated, not on account of himself,\nbut of the general subject.  Evidently that which occupied him in the\ndrama of life was not his own part, but the drama itself.\n\nThis sort of disinterestedness touched me.  I prolonged my visit, and\nshowed myself as frank as possible, in order to win his confidence in\nreturn.  In an hour's time he knew my position and my habits; I was on\nthe footing of an old acquaintance.\n\nI even confessed the ill-humor the light of his lamp put me into a short\ntime before.  He took what I said with the touching cheerfulness which\ncomes from a heart in the right place, and which looks upon everything on\nthe good side.  He neither spoke to me of the necessity which obliged him\nto work while I could sleep, nor of the deprivations of the old soldier\ncompared to the luxury of the young clerk; he only struck his forehead,\naccused himself of thoughtlessness, and promised to put list round his\ndoor!\n\nO great and beautiful soul!  with whom nothing turns to bitterness, and\nwho art peremptory only in duty and benevolence!\n\n\nOctober 15th.--This morning I was looking at a little engraving I had\nframed myself, and hung over my writing-table; it is a design of\nGavarni's; in which, in a grave mood, he has represented a veteran and a\nconscript.\n\nBy often contemplating these two figures, so different in expression, and\nso true to life, both have become living in my eyes; I have seen them\nmove, I have heard them speak; the picture has become a real scene, at\nwhich I am present as spectator.\n\nThe veteran advances slowly, his hand leaning on the shoulder of the\nyoung soldier.  His eyes, closed for ever, no longer perceive the sun\nshining through the flowering chestnut-trees.  In the place of his right\narm hangs an empty sleeve, and he walks with a wooden leg, the sound of\nwhich on the pavement makes those who pass turn to look.\n\nAt the sight of this ancient wreck from our patriotic wars, the greater\nnumber shake their heads in pity, and I seem to hear a sigh or an\nimprecation.\n\n\"See the worth of glory!\"  says a portly merchant, turning away his eyes\nin horror.\n\n\"What a deplorable use of human life!\"  rejoins a young man who carries a\nvolume of philosophy under his arm.\n\n\"The trooper would better not have left his plow,\" adds a countryman,\nwith a cunning air.\n\n\"Poor old man!\"  murmurs a woman, almost crying.\n\nThe veteran has heard, and he knits his brow; for it seems to him that\nhis guide has grown thoughtful.  The latter, attracted by what he hears\naround him, hardly answers the old man's questions, and his eyes, vaguely\nlost in space, seem to be seeking there for the solution of some problem.\n\nI seem to see a twitching in the gray moustaches of the veteran; he stops\nabruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm:\n\n\"They all pity me,\" says he, \"because they do not understand it; but if I\nwere to answer them--\"\n\n\"What would you say to them, father?\"  asks the young man, with\ncuriosity.\n\n\"I should say first to the woman who weeps when she looks at me, to keep\nher tears for other misfortunes; for each of my wounds calls to mind some\nstruggle for my colors.  There is room for doubting how some men have\ndone their duty; with me it is visible.  I carry the account of my\nservices, written with the enemy's steel and lead, on myself; to pity me\nfor having done my duty is to suppose I would better have been false to\nit.\"\n\n\"And what would you say to the countryman, father?\"\n\n\"I should tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, we must first secure\nthe country itself; and that, as long as there are foreigners ready to\neat our harvest, there must be arms to defend it.\"\n\n\"But the young student, too, shook his head when he lamented such a use\nof life.\"\n\n\"Because he does not know what self-sacrifice and suffering can teach.\nThe books that he studies we have put in practice, though we never read\nthem: the principles he applauds we have defended with powder and\nbayonet.\"\n\n\"And at the price of your limbs and your blood.  The merchant said, when\nhe saw your maimed body, 'See the worth of glory!\"'\n\n\"Do not believe him, my son: the true glory is the bread of the soul; it\nis this which nourishes self-sacrifice, patience, and courage.  The\nMaster of all has bestowed it as a tie the more between men.  When we\ndesire to be distinguished by our brethren, do we not thus prove our\nesteem and our sympathy for them?  The longing for admiration is but one\nside of love.  No, no; the true glory can never be too dearly paid for!\nThat which we should deplore, child, is not the infirmities which prove a\ngenerous self-sacrifice, but those which our vices or our imprudence have\ncalled forth.  Ah! if I could speak aloud to those who, when passing,\ncast looks of pity upon me, I should say to the young man whose excesses\nhave dimmed his sight before he is old, 'What have you done with your\neyes?'  To the slothful man, who with difficulty drags along his\nenervated mass of flesh, 'What have you done with your feet?'  To the old\nman, who is punished for his intemperance by the gout, 'What have you\ndone with your hands?'  To all, 'What have you done with the days God\ngranted you, with the faculties you should have employed for the good of\nyour brethren?'  If you cannot answer, bestow no more of your pity upon\nthe old soldier maimed in his country's cause; for he--he at least--can\nshow his scars without shame.\"\n\n\nOctober 16th.--The little engraving has made me comprehend better the\nmerits of Father Chaufour, and I therefore esteem him all the more.\n\nHe has just now left my attic.  There no longer passes a single day\nwithout his coming to work by my fire, or my going to sit and talk by his\nboard.\n\nThe old artilleryman has seen much, and likes to tell of it.  For twenty\nyears he was an armed traveller throughout Europe, and he fought without\nhatred, for he was possessed by a single thought--the honor of the\nnational flag!  It might have been his superstition, if you will; but it\nwas, at the same time, his safeguard.\n\nThe word FRANCE, which was then resounding so gloriously through the\nworld, served as a talisman to him against all sorts of temptation.  To\nhave to support a great name may seem a burden to vulgar minds, but it is\nan encouragement to vigorous ones.\n\n\"I, too, have had many moments,\" said he to me the other day, \"when I\nhave been tempted to make friends with the devil.  War is not precisely\nthe school for rural virtues.  By dint of burning, destroying, and\nkilling, you grow a little tough as regards your feelings; 'and, when the\nbayonet has made you king, the notions of an autocrat come into your head\na little strongly.  But at these moments I called to mind that country\nwhich the lieutenant spoke of to me, and I whispered to myself the well-\nknown phrase, 'Toujours Francais!  It has been laughed at since.  People\nwho would make a joke of the death of their mother have turned it into\nridicule, as if the name of our country was not also a noble and a\nbinding thing.  For my part, I shall never forget from how many follies\nthe title of Frenchman has kept me.  When, overcome with fatigue, I have\nfound myself in the rear of the colors, and when the musketry was\nrattling in the front ranks, many a time I heard a voice, which whispered\nin my ear, 'Leave the others to fight, and for today take care of your\nown hide!'  But then, that word Francais!  murmured within me, and I\npressed forward to help my comrades.  At other times, when, irritated by\nhunger, cold, and wounds, I have arrived at the hovel of some Meinherr,\nI have been seized by an itching to break the master's back, and to burn\nhis hut; but I whispered to myself, Francais!  and this name would not\nrhyme with either incendiary or murderer.  I have, in this way, passed\nthrough kingdoms from east to west, and from north to south, always\ndetermined not to bring disgrace upon my country's flag.  The lieutenant,\nyou see, had taught me a magic word--My country!  Not only must we defend\nit, but we must also make it great and loved.\"\n\n\nOctober 17th.--To-day I have paid my neighbor a long visit.  A chance\nexpression led the way to his telling me more of himself than he had yet\ndone.\n\nI asked him whether both his limbs had been lost in the same battle.\n\n\"No, no!\"  replied he; \"the cannon only took my leg; it was the Clamart\nquarries that my arm went to feed.\"\n\nAnd when I asked him for the particulars--\n\n\"That's as easy as to say good-morning,\" continued he.  \"After the great\nbreak-up at Waterloo, I stayed three months in the camp hospital to give\nmy wooden leg time to grow.  As soon as I was able to hobble a little,\nI took leave of headquarters, and took the road to Paris, where I hoped\nto find some relative or friend; but no--all were gone, or underground.\nI should have found myself less strange at Vienna, Madrid, or Berlin.\nAnd although I had a leg the less to provide for, I was none the better\noff; my appetite had come back, and my last sous were taking flight.\n\n\"I had indeed met my old colonel, who recollected that I had helped him\nout of the skirmish at Montereau by giving him my horse, and he had\noffered me bed and board at his house.  I knew that the year before he\nhad married a castle and no few farms, so that I might become permanent\ncoat-brusher to a millionaire, which was not without its temptations.\nIt remained to see if I had not anything better to do.  One evening I set\nmyself to reflect upon it.\n\n\"'Let us see, Chaufour,' said I to myself; 'the question is to act like a\nman.  The colonel's place suits you, but cannot you do anything better?\nYour body is still in good condition, and your arms strong; do you not\nowe all your strength to your country, as your Vincennes uncle said?  Why\nnot leave some old soldier, more cut up than you are, to get his hospital\nat the colonel's?  Come, trooper, you are still fit for another stout\ncharge or two!  You must not lay up before your time.'\n\n\"Whereupon I went to thank the colonel, and to offer my services to an\nold artilleryman, who had gone back to his home at Clamart, and who had\ntaken up the quarryman's pick again.\n\n\"For the first few months I played the conscript's part--that is to say,\nthere was more stir than work; but with a good will one gets the better\nof stones, as of everything else.  I did not become, so to speak, the\nleader of a column, but I brought up the rank among the good workmen,\nand I ate my bread with a good appetite, seeing I had earned it with a\ngood will.  For even underground, you see, I still kept my pride.  The\nthought that I was working to do my part in changing rocks into houses\npleased my heart.  I said to myself, 'Courage, Chaufour, my old boy; you\nare helping to beautify your country.'  And that kept up my spirit.\n\n\"Unfortunately, some of my companions were rather too sensible to the\ncharms of the brandy-bottle; so much so, that one day one of them, who\ncould hardly distinguish his right hand from his left, thought proper to\nstrike a light close to a charged mine.  The mine exploded suddenly, and\nsent a shower of stone grape among us, which killed three men, and\ncarried away the arm of which I have now only the sleeve.\"\n\n\"So you were again without means of living?\"  said I to the old soldier.\n\n\"That is to say, I had to change them,\" replied he, quietly.  \"The\ndifficulty was to find one which would do with five fingers instead of\nten; I found it, however.\"\n\n\"How was that?\"\n\n\"Among the Paris street-sweepers.\"\n\n\"What!  you have been one--\"\n\n\"Of the pioneers of the health force for a while, neighbor, and that was\nnot my worst time either.  The corps of sweepers is not so low as it is\ndirty, I can tell you!  There are old actresses in it who could never\nlearn to save their money, and ruined merchants from the exchange; we\neven had a professor of classics, who for a little drink would recite\nLatin to you, or Greek tragedies, as you chose.  They could not have\ncompeted for the Monthyon prize; but we excused faults on account of\npoverty, and cheered our poverty by our good-humor and jokes.  I was as\nragged and as cheerful as the rest, while trying to be something better.\nEven in the mire of the gutter I preserved my faith that nothing is\ndishonorable which is useful to our country.\n\n\"'Chaufour,' said I to myself with a smile, 'after the sword, the hammer;\nafter the hammer, the broom; you are going downstairs, my old boy, but\nyou are still serving your country.'\"\n\n\"'However, you ended by leaving your new profession?' said I.\"\n\n\"A reform was required, neighbor.  The street-sweepers seldom have their\nfeet dry, and the damp at last made the wounds in my good leg open again.\nI could no longer follow the regiment, and it was necessary to lay down\nmy arms.  It is now two months since I left off working in the sanitary\ndepartment of Paris.\n\n\"At the first moment I was daunted.  Of my four limbs, I had now only my\nright hand, and even that had lost its strength; so it was necessary to\nfind some gentlemanly occupation for it.  After trying a little of\neverything, I fell upon card-box making, and here I am at cases for the\nlace and buttons of the national guard; it is work of little profit, but\nit is within the capacity of all.  By getting up at four and working till\neight, I earn sixty-five centimes; my lodging and bowl of soup take fifty\nof them, and there are three sous over for luxuries.  So I am richer than\nFrance herself, for I have no deficit in my budget; and I continue to\nserve her, as I save her lace and buttons.\"\n\nAt these words Father Chaufour looked at me with a smile, and with his\ngreat scissors began cutting the green paper again for his cardboard\ncases.  My heart was touched, and I remained lost in thought.\n\nHere is still another member of that sacred phalanx who, in the battle of\nlife, always march in front for the example and the salvation of the\nworld!  Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry; for this one it is\n\"Country,\" for that \"Home,\" for a third \"Mankind;\" but they all follow\nthe same standard--that of duty; for all the same divine law reigns--that\nof self-sacrifice.  To love something more than one's self--that is the\nsecret of all that is great; to know how to live for others--that is the\naim of all noble souls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nMORAL USE OF INVENTORIES\n\nNovember 13th, Nine O'clock P.M.\n\nI had well stopped up the chinks of my window; my little carpet was\nnailed down in its place; my lamp, provided with its shade, cast a\nsubdued light around, and my stove made a low, murmuring sound, as if\nsome live creature was sharing my hearth with me.\n\nAll was silent around me.  But, out of doors the snow and rain swept the\nroofs, and with a low, rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters;\nsometimes a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles, which rattled\ntogether like castanets, and afterward it was lost in the empty corridor.\nThen a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins: I drew\nthe flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me, I pulled my\nthreadbare velvet cap over my eyes, and, letting myself sink deeper into\nmy easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and light which shone\nthrough the door of the stove, I gave myself up to a sensation of\nenjoyment, made more lively by the consciousness of the storm which raged\nwithout.  My eyes, swimming in a sort of mist, wandered over all the\ndetails of my peaceful abode; they passed from my prints to my bookcase,\nresting upon the little chintz sofa, the white curtains of the iron\nbedstead, and the portfolio of loose papers--those archives of the\nattics; and then, returning to the book I held in my hand, they attempted\nto seize once more the thread of the reading which had been thus\ninterrupted.\n\nIn fact, this book, the subject of which had at first interested me, had\nbecome painful to me.  I had come to the conclusion that the pictures of\nthe writer were too sombre.  His description of the miseries of the world\nappeared exaggerated to me; I could not believe in such excess of poverty\nand of suffering; neither God nor man could show themselves so harsh\ntoward the sons of Adam.  The author had yielded to an artistic\ntemptation: he was making a show of the sufferings of humanity, as Nero\nburned Rome for the sake of the picturesque.\n\nTaken altogether, this poor human house, so often repaired, so much\ncriticised, is still a pretty good abode; we may find enough in it to\nsatisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them; the happiness of\nthe wise man costs but little, and asks but little space.\n\nThese consoling reflections became more and more confused.  At last my\nbook fell on the ground without my having the resolution to stoop and\ntake it up again; and insensibly overcome by the luxury of the silence,\nthe subdued light, and the warmth, I fell asleep.\n\nI remained for some time lost in the sort of insensibility belonging to\na first sleep; at last some vague and broken sensations came over me.\nIt seemed to me that the day grew darker, that the air became colder.\nI half perceived bushes covered with the scarlet berries which foretell\nthe coming of winter.  I walked on a dreary road, bordered here and there\nwith juniper-trees white with frost.  Then the scene suddenly changed.\nI was in the diligence; the cold wind shook the doors and windows; the\ntrees, loaded with snow, passed by like ghosts; in vain I thrust my\nbenumbed feet into the crushed straw.  At last the carriage stopped, and,\nby one of those stage effects so common in sleep, I found myself alone in\na barn, without a fireplace, and open to the winds on all sides.  I saw\nagain my mother's gentle face, known only to me in my early childhood,\nthe noble and stern countenance of my father, the little fair head of my\nsister, who was taken from us at ten years old; all my dead family lived\nagain around me; they were there, exposed to the bitings of the cold and\nto the pangs of hunger.  My mother prayed by the resigned old man, and my\nsister, rolled up on some rags of which they had made her a bed, wept in\nsilence, and held her naked feet in her little blue hands.\n\nIt was a page from the book I had just read transferred into my own\nexistence.\n\nMy heart was oppressed with inexpressible anguish.  Crouched in a corner,\nwith my eyes fixed upon this dismal picture, I felt the cold slowly\ncreeping upon me, and I said to myself with bitterness:\n\n\"Let us die, since poverty is a dungeon guarded by suspicion, apathy, and\ncontempt, and from which it is vain to try to escape; let us die, since\nthere is no place for us at the banquet of the living!\"\n\nAnd I tried to rise to join my mother again, and to wait at her feet for\nthe hour of release.\n\nThis effort dispelled my dream, and I awoke with a start.\n\nI looked around me; my lamp was expiring, the fire in my stove\nextinguished, and my half-opened door was letting in an icy wind.\nI got up, with a shiver, to shut and double-lock it; then I made for\nthe alcove, and went to bed in haste.\n\nBut the cold kept me awake a long time, and my thoughts continued the\ninterrupted dream.\n\nThe pictures I had lately accused of exaggeration now seemed but a too\nfaithful representation of reality; and I went to sleep without being\nable to recover my optimism--or my warmth.\n\nThus did a cold stove and a badly closed door alter my point of view.\nAll went well when my blood circulated properly; all looked gloomy when\nthe cold laid hold on me.\n\nThis reminds me of the story of the duchess who was obliged to pay a\nvisit to the neighboring convent on a winter's day.  The convent was\npoor, there was no wood, and the monks had nothing but their discipline\nand the ardor of their prayers to keep out the cold.  The duchess, who\nwas shivering with cold, returned home, greatly pitying the poor monks.\nWhile the servants were taking off her cloak and adding two more logs to\nher fire, she called her steward, whom she ordered to send some wood to\nthe convent immediately.  She then had her couch moved close to the\nfireside, the warmth of which soon revived her.  The recollection of what\nshe had just suffered was speedily lost in her present comfort, when the\nsteward came in again to ask how many loads of wood he was to send.\n\n\"Oh!  you may wait,\" said the great lady carelessly; \"the weather is very\nmuch milder.\"\n\nThus, man's judgments are formed less from reason than from sensation;\nand as sensation comes to him from the outward world, so he finds himself\nmore or less under its influence; by little and little he imbibes a\nportion of his habits and feelings from it.\n\nIt is not, then, without cause that, when we wish to judge of a stranger\nbeforehand, we look for indications of his character in the circumstances\nwhich surround him.  The things among which we live are necessarily made\nto take our image, and we unconsciously leave in them a thousand\nimpressions of our minds.  As we can judge by an empty bed of the height\nand attitude of him who has slept in it, so the abode of every man\ndiscovers to a close observer the extent of his intelligence and the\nfeelings of his heart.  Bernardin de St.-Pierre has related the story of\na young girl who refused a suitor because he would never have flowers or\ndomestic animals in his house.  Perhaps the sentence was severe, but not\nwithout reason.  We may presume that a man insensible to beauty and to\nhumble affection must be ill prepared to feel the enjoyments of a happy\nmarriage.\n\n\n14th, seven o'clock P.M.--This morning, as I was opening my journal to\nwrite, I had a visit from our old cashier.\n\nHis sight is not so good as it was, his hand begins to shake, and the\nwork he was able to do formerly is now becoming somewhat laborious to\nhim.  I had undertaken to write out some of his papers, and he came for\nthose I had finished.\n\nWe conversed a long time by the stove, while he was drinking a cup of\ncoffee which I made him take.\n\nM. Rateau is a sensible man, who has observed much and speaks little; so\nthat he has always something to say.\n\nWhile looking over the accounts I had prepared for him, his look fell\nupon my journal, and I was obliged to acknowledge that in this way I\nwrote a diary of my actions and thoughts every evening for private use.\nFrom one thing to another, I began speaking to him of my dream the day\nbefore, and my reflections about the influence of outward objects upon\nour ordinary sentiments.  He smiled.\n\n\"Ah! you, too, have my superstitions,\" he said, quietly.  \"I have always\nbelieved, like you, that you may know the game by the lair: it is only\nnecessary to have tact and experience; but without them we commit\nourselves to many rash judgments.  For my part.  I have been guilty of\nthis more than once, but sometimes I have also drawn a right conclusion.\nI recollect especially an adventure which goes as far back as the first\nyears of my youth--\"\n\nHe stopped.  I looked at him as if I waited for his story, and he told it\nme at once.\n\nAt this time he was still but third clerk to an attorney at Orleans.  His\nmaster had sent him to Montargis on different affairs, and he intended to\nreturn in the diligence the same evening, after having received the\namount of a bill at a neighboring town; but they kept him at the debtor's\nhouse, and when he was able to set out the day had already closed.\n\nFearing not to be able to reach Montargis in good time, he took a\ncrossroad they pointed out to him.  Unfortunately the fog increased,\nno star was visible in the heavens, and the darkness became so great that\nhe lost his road.  He tried to retrace his steps, passed twenty\nfootpaths, and at last was completely astray.\n\nAfter the vexation of losing his place in the diligence, came the feeling\nof uneasiness as to his situation.  He was alone, on foot, lost in a\nforest, without any means of finding his right road again, and with a\nconsiderable sum of money about him, for which he was responsible.  His\nanxiety was increased by his inexperience.  The idea of a forest was\nconnected in his mind with so many adventures of robbery and murder,\nthat he expected some fatal encounter every instant.\n\nTo say the truth, his situation was not encouraging.  The place was not\nconsidered safe, and for some time past there had been rumors of the\nsudden disappearance of several horse-dealers, though there was no trace\nof any crime having been committed.\n\nOur young traveller, with his eyes staring forward, and his ears\nlistening, followed a footpath which he supposed might take him to some\nhouse or road; but woods always succeeded to woods.  At last he perceived\na light at a distance, and in a quarter of an hour he reached the\nhighroad.\n\nA single house, the light from which had attracted him, appeared at a\nlittle distance.  He was going toward the entrance gate of the courtyard,\nwhen the trot of a horse made him turn his head.  A man on horseback had\njust appeared at the turning of the road, and in an instant was close to\nhim.\n\nThe first words he addressed to the young man showed him to be the farmer\nhimself.  He related how he had lost himself, and learned from the\ncountryman that he was on the road to Pithiviers.  Montargis was three\nleagues behind him.\n\nThe fog had insensibly changed into a drizzling rain, which was beginning\nto wet the young clerk through; he seemed afraid of the distance he had\nstill to go, and the horseman, who saw his hesitation, invited him to\ncome into the farmhouse.\n\nIt had something of the look of a fortress.  Surrounded by a pretty high\nwall, it could not be seen except through the bars of the great gate,\nwhich was carefully closed.  The farmer, who had got off his horse, did\nnot go near it, but, turning to the right, reached another entrance\nclosed in the same way, but of which he had the key.\n\nHardly had he passed the threshold when a terrible barking resounded\nfrom each end of the yard.  The farmer told his guest to fear nothing,\nand showed him the dogs chained up to their kennels; both were of an\nextraordinary size, and so savage that the sight of their master himself\ncould not quiet them.\n\nA boy, attracted by their barking, came out of the house and took the\nfarmer's horse.  The latter began questioning him about some orders he\nhad given before he left the house, and went toward the stable to see\nthat they had been executed.\n\nThus left alone, our clerk looked about him.\n\nA lantern which the boy had placed on the ground cast a dim light over\nthe courtyard.  All around seemed empty and deserted.  Not a trace was\nvisible of the disorder often seen in a country farmyard, and which shows\na temporary cessation of the work which is soon to be resumed again.\nNeither a cart forgotten where the horses had been unharnessed, nor\nsheaves of corn heaped up ready for threshing, nor a plow overturned in a\ncorner and half hidden under the freshly-cut clover.  The yard was swept,\nthe barns shut up and padlocked.  Not a single vine creeping up the\nwalls; everywhere stone, wood, and iron!\n\nHe took up the lantern and went up to the corner of the house.  Behind\nwas a second yard, where he heard the barking of a third dog, and a\ncovered wall was built in the middle of it.\n\nOur traveller looked in vain for the little farm garden, where pumpkins\nof different sorts creep along the ground, or where the bees from the\nhives hum under the hedges of honeysuckle and elder.  Verdure and flowers\nwere nowhere to be seen.  He did not even perceive the sight of a\npoultry-yard or pigeon-house.  The habitation of his host was everywhere\nwanting in that which makes the grace and the life of the country.\n\nThe young man thought that his host must be of a very careless or a very\ncalculating disposition, to concede so little to domestic enjoyments and\nthe pleasures of the eye; and judging, in spite of himself, by what he\nsaw, he could not help feeling a distrust of his character.\n\nIn the mean time the farmer returned from the stables, and made him enter\nthe house.\n\nThe inside of the farmhouse corresponded to its outside.  The whitewashed\nwalls had no other ornament than a row of guns of all sizes; the massive\nfurniture hardly redeemed its clumsy appearance by its great solidity.\nThe cleanliness was doubtful, and the absence of all minor conveniences\nproved that a woman's care was wanting in the household concerns.  The\nyoung clerk learned that the farmer, in fact, lived here with no one but\nhis two sons.\n\nOf this, indeed, the signs were plain enough.  A table with the cloth\nlaid, that no one had taken the trouble to clear away, was left near the\nwindow.  The plates and dishes were scattered upon it without any order,\nand loaded with potato-parings and half-picked bones.  Several empty\nbottles emitted an odor of brandy, mixed with the pungent smell of\ntobacco-smoke.\n\nAfter seating his guest, the farmer lighted his pipe, and his two sons\nresumed their work by the fireside.  Now and then the silence was just\nbroken by a short remark, answered by a word or an exclamation; and then\nall became as mute as before.\n\n\"From my childhood,\" said the old cashier, \"I had been very sensible to\nthe impression of outward objects; later in life, reflection had taught\nme to study the causes of these impressions rather than to drive them\naway.  I set myself, then, to examine everything around me with great\nattention.\n\n\"Below the guns, I had remarked on entering, some wolftraps were\nsuspended, and to one of them still hung the mangled remains of a wolf's\npaw, which they had not yet taken off from the iron teeth.  The blackened\nchimneypiece was ornamented by an owl and a raven nailed on the wall,\ntheir wings extended, and their throats with a huge nail through each; a\nfox's skin, freshly flayed, was spread before the window; and a larder\nhook, fixed into the principal beam, held a headless goose, whose body\nswayed about over our heads.\n\n\"My eyes were offended by all these details, and I turned them again upon\nmy hosts.  The father, who sat opposite to me, only interrupted his\nsmoking to pour out his drink, or address some reprimand to his sons.\nThe eldest of these was scraping a deep bucket, and the bloody scrapings,\nwhich he threw into the fire every instant, filled the room with a\ndisagreeable fetid smell; the second son was sharpening some butcher's\nknives.  I learned from a word dropped from the father that they were\npreparing to kill a pig the next day.\n\n\"These occupations and the whole aspect of things inside the house told\nof such habitual coarseness in their way of living as seemed to explain,\nwhile it formed the fitting counterpart of, the forbidding gloominess of\nthe outside.  My astonishment by degrees changed into disgust, and my\ndisgust into uneasiness.  I cannot detail the whole chain of ideas which\nsucceeded one another in my imagination; but, yielding to an impulse I\ncould not overcome, I got up, declaring I would go on my road again.\n\n\"The farmer made some effort to keep me; he spoke of the rain, of the\ndarkness, and of the length of the way.  I replied to all by the absolute\nnecessity there was for my being at Montargis that very night; and\nthanking him for his brief hospitality, I set off again in a haste which\nmight well have confirmed the truth of my words to him.\n\n\"However, the freshness of the night and the exercise of walking did not\nfail to change the directions of my thoughts.  When away from the objects\nwhich had awakened such lively disgust in me, I felt it gradually\ndiminishing.  I began to smile at the susceptibility of my feelings,\nand then, in proportion as the rain became heavier and colder, these\nstrictures on myself assumed a tone of ill-temper.  I silently accused\nmyself of the absurdity of mistaking sensation for admonitions of my\nreason.  After all, were not the farmer and his sons free to live alone,\nto hunt, to keep dogs, and to kill a pig?  Where was the crime of it?\nWith less nervous susceptibility, I should have accepted the shelter they\noffered me, and I should now be sleeping snugly on a truss of straw,\ninstead of walking with difficulty through the cold and drizzling rain.\nI thus continued to reproach myself, until, toward morning, I arrived at\nMontargis, jaded and benumbed with cold.\n\n\"When, however, I got up refreshed, toward the middle of the next day,\nI instinctively returned to my first opinion.  The appearance of the\nfarmhouse presented itself to me under the same repulsive colors which\nthe evening before had determined me to make my escape from it.  Reason\nitself remained silent when reviewing all those coarse details, and was\nforced to recognize in them the indications of a low nature, or else the\npresence of some baleful influence.\n\n\"I went away the next day without being able to learn anything concerning\nthe farmer or his sons; but the recollection of my adventure remained\ndeeply fixed in my memory.\n\n\"Ten years afterward I was travelling in the diligence through the\ndepartment of the Loiret; I was leaning from the window, and looking at\nsome coppice ground now for the first time brought under cultivation, and\nthe mode of clearing which one of my travelling companions was explaining\nto me, when my eyes fell upon a walled inclosure, with an iron-barred\ngate.  Inside it I perceived a house with all the blinds closed, and\nwhich I immediately recollected; it was the farmhouse where I had been\nsheltered.  I eagerly pointed it out to my companion, and asked who lived\nin it.\n\n\"'Nobody just now,' replied he.\n\n\"'But was it not kept, some years ago, by a farmer and his two sons?'\n\n\"'The Turreaus;' said my travelling companion, looking at me; 'did you\nknow them?'\n\n\"'I saw them once.'\n\n\"He shook his head.\n\n\"'Yes, yes!' resumed he; 'for many years they lived there like wolves in\ntheir den; they merely knew how to till land, kill game, and drink.  The\nfather managed the house, but men living alone, without women to love\nthem, without children to soften them, and without God to make them think\nof heaven, always turn into wild beasts, you see; so one morning the\neldest son, who had been drinking too much brandy, would not harness the\nplow-horses; his father struck him with his whip, and the son, who was\nmad drunk, shot him dead with his gun.'\"\n\n\n16th, P.M.--I have been thinking of the story of the old cashier these\ntwo days; it came so opportunely upon the reflections my dream had\nsuggested to me.\n\nHave I not an important lesson to learn from all this?\n\nIf our sensations have an incontestable influence upon our judgments,\nhow comes it that we are so little careful of those things which awaken\nor modify these sensations?  The external world is always reflected in us\nas in a mirror, and fills our minds with pictures which, unconsciously to\nourselves, become the germs of our opinions and of our rules of conduct.\nAll the objects which surround us are then, in reality, so many talismans\nwhence good and evil influences are emitted, and it is for us to choose\nthem wisely, so as to create a healthy atmosphere for our minds.\n\nFeeling convinced of this truth, I set about making a survey of my attic.\n\nThe first object on which my eyes rest is an old map of the history of\nthe principal monastery in my native province.  I had unrolled it with\nmuch satisfaction, and placed it on the most conspicuous part of the\nwall.  Why had I given it this place?  Ought this sheet of old worm-eaten\nparchment to be of so much value to me, who am neither an antiquary nor a\nscholar?  Is not its real importance in my sight that one of the abbots\nwho founded it bore my name, and that I shall, perchance, be able to make\nmyself a genealogical tree of it for the edification of my visitors?\nWhile writing this, I feel my own blushes.  Come, down with the map!\nlet us banish it into my deepest drawer.\n\nAs I passed my glass, I perceived several visiting cards complacently\ndisplayed in the frame.  By what chance is it that there are only names\nthat make a show among them?  Here is a Polish count--a retired colonel--\nthe deputy of my department.  Quick, quick, into the fire with these\nproofs of vanity!  and let us put this card in the handwriting of our\noffice-boy, this direction for cheap dinners, and the receipt of the\nbroker where I bought my last armchair, in their place.  These\nindications of my poverty will serve, as Montaigne says, 'mater ma\nsuperbe', and will always make me recollect the modesty in which the\ndignity of the lowly consists.\n\nI have stopped before the prints hanging upon the wall.  This large and\nsmiling Pomona, seated on sheaves of corn, and whose basket is\noverflowing with fruit, only produces thoughts of joy and plenty; I was\nlooking at her the other day, when I fell asleep denying such a thing as\nmisery.  Let us give her as companion this picture of Winter, in which\neverything tells of sorrow and suffering: one picture will modify the\nother.\n\nAnd this Happy Family of Greuze's!  What joy in the children's eyes!\nWhat sweet repose in the young woman's face!  What religious feeling in\nthe grandfather's countenance!  May God preserve their happiness to them!\nbut let us hang by its side the picture of this mother, who weeps over an\nempty cradle.  Human life has two faces, both of which we must dare to\ncontemplate in their turn.\n\nLet me hide, too, these ridiculous monsters which ornament my\nchimneypiece.  Plato has said that \"the beautiful is nothing else than\nthe visible form of the good.\"  If it is so, the ugly should be the\nvisible form of the evil, and, by constantly beholding it, the mind\ninsensibly deteriorates.\n\nBut above all, in order to cherish the feelings of kindness and pity, let\nme hang at the foot of my bed this affecting picture of the Last Sleep!\nNever have I been able to look at it without feeling my heart touched.\n\nAn old woman, clothed in rags, is lying by a roadside; her stick is at\nher feet, and her head rests upon a stone; she has fallen asleep; her\nhands are clasped; murmuring a prayer of her childhood, she sleeps her\nlast sleep, she dreams her last dream!\n\nShe sees herself, again a strong and happy child, keeping the sheep on\nthe common, gathering the berries from the hedges, singing, curtsying to\npassers-by, and making the sign of the cross when the first star appears\nin the heavens!  Happy time, filled with fragrance and sunshine!  She\nwants nothing yet, for she is ignorant of what there is to wish for.\n\nBut see her grown up; the time is come for working bravely: she must cut\nthe corn, thresh the wheat, carry the bundles of flowering clover or\nbranches of withered leaves to the farm.  If her toil is hard, hope\nshines like a sun over everything and it wipes the drops of sweat away.\nThe growing girl already sees that life is a task, but she still sings as\nshe fulfills it.\n\nBy-and-bye the burden becomes heavier; she is a wife, she is a mother!\nShe must economize the bread of to-day, have her eye upon the morrow,\ntake care of the sick, and sustain the feeble; she must act, in short,\nthat part of an earthly Providence, so easy when God gives us his aid,\nso hard when he forsakes us.  She is still strong, but she is anxious;\nshe sings no longer!\n\nYet a few years, and all is overcast.  The husband's health is broken;\nhis wife sees him pine away by the now fireless hearth; cold and hunger\nfinish what sickness had begun; he dies, and his widow sits on the ground\nby the coffin provided by the charity of others, pressing her two half-\nnaked little ones in her arms.  She dreads the future, she weeps, and she\ndroops her head.\n\nAt last the future has come; the children are grown up, but they are no\nlonger with her.  Her son is fighting under his country's flag, and his\nsister is gone.  Both have been lost to her for a long time--perhaps\nforever; and the strong girl, the brave wife, the courageous mother, is\nhenceforth only a poor old beggar-woman, without a family, and without a\nhome!  She weeps no more, sorrow has subdued her; she surrenders, and\nwaits for death.\n\nDeath, that faithful friend of the wretched, is come: not hideous and\nwith mockery, as superstition represents, but beautiful, smiling, and\ncrowned with stars!  The gentle phantom stoops to the beggar; its pale\nlips murmur a few airy words, which announce to her the end of her\nlabors; a peaceful joy comes over the aged beggarwoman, and, leaning on\nthe shoulder of the great Deliverer, she has passed unconsciously from\nher last earthly sleep to her eternal rest.\n\nLie there, thou poor way-wearied woman!  The leaves will serve thee for a\nwinding-sheet.  Night will shed her tears of dew over thee, and the birds\nwill sing sweetly by thy remains.  Thy visit here below will not have\nleft more trace than their flight through the air; thy name is already\nforgotten, and the only legacy thou hast to leave is the hawthorn stick\nlying forgotten at thy feet!\n\nWell! some one will take it up--some soldier of that great human host\nwhich is scattered abroad by misery or by vice; for thou art not an\nexception, thou art an instance; and under the same sun which shines so\npleasantly upon all, in the midst of these flowering vineyards, this ripe\ncorn, and these wealthy cities, entire generations suffer, succeed each\nother, and still bequeath to each the beggar's stick!\n\nThe sight of this sad picture shall make me more grateful for what God\nhas given me, and more compassionate for those whom he has treated with\nless indulgence; it shall be a lesson and a subject for reflection for\nme.\n\nAh! if we would watch for everything that might improve and instruct us;\nif the arrangements of our daily life were so disposed as to be a\nconstant school for our minds! but oftenest we take no heed of them.\nMan is an eternal mystery to himself; his own person is a house into\nwhich he never enters, and of which he studies the outside alone.  Each\nof us need have continually before him the famous inscription which once\ninstructed Socrates, and which was engraved on the walls of Delphi by an\nunknown hand:\n\n                         KNOW THYSELF.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE END OF THE YEAR\n\nDecember 30th, P.M.\n\nI was in bed, and hardly recovered from the delirious fever which had\nkept me for so long between life and death.  My weakened brain was making\nefforts to recover its activity; my thoughts, like rays of light\nstruggling through the clouds, were still confused and imperfect; at\ntimes I felt a return of the dizziness which made a chaos of all my\nideas, and I floated, so to speak, between alternate fits of mental\nwandering and consciousness.\n\nSometimes everything seemed plain to me, like the prospect which, from\nthe top of some high mountain, opens before us in clear weather.  We\ndistinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, even the cottage perched on\nthe edge of the ravine; then suddenly there comes a gust of wind laden\nwith mist, and all is confused and indistinct.\n\nThus, yielding to the oscillations of a half-recovered reason, I allowed\nmy mind to follow its various impulses without troubling myself to\nseparate the real from the imaginary; I glided softly from one to the\nother, and my dreams and waking thoughts succeeded closely upon one\nanother.\n\nNow, while my mind is wandering in this unsettled state, see, underneath\nthe clock which measures the hours with its loud ticking, a female figure\nappears before me!\n\nAt first sight I saw enough to satisfy me that she was not a daughter of\nEve.  In her eye was the last flash of an expiring star, and her face had\nthe pallor of an heroic death-struggle.  She was dressed in a drapery of\na thousand changing colors of the brightest and the most sombre hues, and\nheld a withered garland in her hand.\n\nAfter having contemplated her for some moments, I asked her name, and\nwhat brought her into my attic.  Her eyes, which were following the\nmovements of the clock, turned toward me, and she replied:\n\n\"You see in me the year which is just drawing to its end; I come to\nreceive your thanks and your farewell.\"\n\nI raised myself on my elbow in surprise, which soon gave place to bitter\nresentment.\n\n\"Ah! you want thanks,\" cried I; \"but first let me know what for?\n\n\"When I welcomed your coming, I was still young and vigorous: you have\ntaken from me each day some little of my strength, and you have ended by\ninflicting an illness upon me; already, thanks to you, my blood is less\nwarm, my muscles less firm, and my feet less agile than before!  You have\nplanted the germs of infirmity in my bosom; there, where the summer\nflowers of life were growing, you have wickedly sown the nettles of old\nage!\n\n\"And, as if it were not enough to weaken my body, you have also\ndiminished the powers of my soul; you have extinguished her enthusiasm;\nshe is become more sluggish and more timid.  Formerly her eyes took in\nthe whole of mankind in their generous survey; but you have made her\nnearsighted, and now she hardly sees beyond herself!  \"That is what you\nhave done for my spiritual being: then as to my outward existence, see to\nwhat grief, neglect, and misery you have reduced it!  \"For the many days\nthat the fever has kept me chained to this bed, who has taken care of\nthis home in which I placed all my joy?  Shall I not find my closets\nempty, my bookcase ,stripped, all my poor treasures lost through\nnegligence or dishonesty?  Where are the plants I cultivated, the birds I\nfed?  All are gone!  my attic is despoiled, silent and solitary!  \"As it\nis only for the last few moments that I have returned to a consciousness\nof what surrounds me, I am even ignorant who has nursed me during my long\nillness!  Doubtless some hireling, who will leave when all my means of\nrecompense are exhausted !  \"And what will my masters, for whom I am\nbound to work, have said to my absence?  At this time of the year, when\nbusiness is most pressing, can they have done without me, will they even\nhave tried to do so?  Perhaps I am already superseded in the humble\nsituation by which I earned my daily bread!  And it is thou-thou alone,\nwicked daughter of Time--who hast brought all these misfortunes upon me:\nstrength, health, comfort, work--thou hast taken all from me.  I have\nonly received outrage and loss from thee, and yet thou darest to claim my\ngratitude!\n\n\"Ah! die then, since thy day is come; but die despised and cursed; and\nmay I write on thy tomb the epitaph the Arabian poet inscribed upon that\nof a king:\n\n          \"'Rejoice, thou passer-by: he whom we have buried here\n          cannot live again.'\"\n\n                    .......................\n\nI was wakened by a hand taking mine; and opening my eyes, I recognized\nthe doctor.\n\nAfter having felt my pulse, he nodded his head, sat down at the foot of\nthe bed, and looked at me, rubbing his nose with his snuffbox.  I have\nsince learned that this was a sign of satisfaction with the doctor.\n\n\"Well! so we wanted old snub-nose to carry us off?\"  said M. Lambert, in\nhis half-joking, half-scolding way.  \"What the deuce of a hurry we were\nin!  It was necessary to hold you back with both arms at least!\"\n\n\"Then you had given me up, doctor?\" asked I, rather alarmed.\n\n\"Not at all,\" replied the old physician.  \"We can't give up what we have\nnot got; and I make it a rule never to have any hope.  We are but\ninstruments in the hands of Providence, and each of us should say, with\nAmbroise Pare: 'I tend him, God cures him!\"'\n\n\"May He be blessed then, as well as you,\" cried I; \"and may my health\ncome back with the new year!\"\n\nM. Lambert shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Begin by asking yourself for it,\" resumed he, bluntly.  \"God has given\nit you, and it is your own sense, and not chance, that must keep it for\nyou.  One would think, to hear people talk, that sickness comes upon us\nlike the rain or the sunshine, without one having a word to say in the\nmatter.  Before we complain of being ill we should prove that we deserve\nto be well.\"\n\nI was about to smile, but the doctor looked angry.\n\n\"Ah! you think that I am joking,\" resumed he, raising his voice; \"but\ntell me, then, which of us gives his health the same attention that he\ngives to his business?  Do you economize your strength as you economize\nyour money?  Do you avoid excess and imprudence in the one case with the\nsame care as extravagance or foolish speculations in the other?  Do you\nkeep as regular accounts of your mode of living as you do of your income?\nDo you consider every evening what has been wholesome or unwholesome for\nyou, with the same care that you bring to the examination of your\nexpenditure?  You may smile; but have you not brought this illness on\nyourself by a thousand indiscretions?\"\n\nI began to protest against this, and asked him to point out these\nindiscretions.  The old doctor spread out his fingers, and began to\nreckon upon them one by one.\n\n\"Primo,\" cried he, \"want of exercise.  You live here like a mouse in a\ncheese, without air, motion, or change.  Consequently, the blood\ncirculates badly, the fluids thicken, the muscles, being inactive, do not\nclaim their share of nutrition, the stomach flags, and the brain grows\nweary.\n\n\"Secundo.  Irregular food.  Caprice is your cook; your stomach a slave\nwho must accept what you give it, but who presently takes a sullen\nrevenge, like all slaves.\n\n\"Tertio.  Sitting up late.  Instead of using the night for sleep, you\nspend it in reading; your bedstead is a bookcase, your pillows a desk!\nAt the time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you lead it through\nthese nocturnal orgies, and you are surprised to find it the worse for\nthem the next day.\n\n\"Quarto.  Luxurious habits.  Shut up in your attic, you insensibly\nsurround yourself with a thousand effeminate indulgences.  You must have\nlist for your door, a blind for your window, a carpet for your feet, an\neasy-chair stuffed with wool for your back, your fire lit at the first\nsign of cold, and a shade to your lamp; and thanks to all these\nprecautions, the least draught makes you catch cold, common chairs give\nyou no rest, and you must wear spectacles to support the light of day.\nYou have thought you were acquiring comforts, and you have only\ncontracted infirmities.\n\n\"Quinto\"\n\n\"Ah! enough, enough, doctor!\"  cried I.  \"Pray, do not carry your\nexamination farther; do not attach a sense of remorse to each of my\npleasures.\"\n\nThe old doctor rubbed his nose with his snuffbox.\n\n\"You see,\" said he, more gently, and rising at the same time, \"you would\nescape from the truth.  You shrink from inquiry--a proof that you are\nguilty.  'Habemus confitentem reum'!  But at least, my friend, do not go\non laying the blame on Time, like an old woman.\"\n\nThereupon he again felt my pulse, and took his leave, declaring that his\nfunction was at an end, and that the rest depended upon myself.\n\nWhen the doctor was gone, I set about reflecting upon what he had said.\n\nAlthough his words were too sweeping, they were not the less true in the\nmain.  How often we accuse chance of an illness, the origin of which we\nshould seek in ourselves!  Perhaps it would have been wiser to let him\nfinish the examination he had begun.\n\nBut is there not another of more importance--that which concerns the\nhealth of the soul?  Am I so sure of having neglected no means of\npreserving that during the year which is now ending?  Have I, as one of\nGod's soldiers upon earth, kept my courage and my arms efficient?  Shall\nI be ready for the great review of souls which must pass before Him WHO\nIS in the dark valley of Jehoshaphat?\n\nDarest thou examine thyself, O my soul!  and see how often thou hast\nerred?\n\nFirst, thou hast erred through pride!  for I have not duly valued the\nlowly.  I have drunk too deeply of the intoxicating wines of genius, and\nhave found no relish in pure water.  I have disdained those words which\nhad no other beauty than their sincerity; I have ceased to love men\nsolely because they are men--I have loved them for their endowments; I\nhave contracted the world within the narrow compass of a pantheon, and my\nsympathy has been awakened by admiration only.  The vulgar crowd, which I\nought to have followed with a friendly eye because it is composed of my\nbrothers in hope or grief, I have let pass by with as much indifference\nas if it were a flock of sheep.  I am indignant with him who rolls in\nriches and despises the man poor in worldly wealth; and yet, vain of my\ntrifling knowledge, I despise him who is poor in mind--I scorn the\npoverty of intellect as others do that of dress; I take credit for a gift\nwhich I did not bestow on myself, and turn the favor of fortune into a\nweapon with which to attack others.\n\nAh! if, in the worst days of revolutions, ignorance has revolted and\nraised a cry of hatred against genius, the fault is not alone in the\nenvious malice of ignorance, but comes in part, too, from the\ncontemptuous pride of knowledge.\n\nAlas!  I have too completely forgotten the fable of the two sons of the\nmagician of Bagdad.\n\nOne of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of destiny, was born blind,\nwhile the other enjoyed all the delights of sight.  The latter, proud of\nhis own advantages, laughed at his brother's blindness, and disdained him\nas a companion.  One morning the blind boy wished to go out with him.\n\n\"To what purpose,\" said he, \"since the gods have put nothing in common\nbetween us?  For me creation is a stage, where a thousand charming scenes\nand wonderful actors appear in succession; for you it is only an obscure\nabyss, at the bottom of which you hear the confused murmur of an\ninvisible world.  Continue then alone in your darkness, and leave the\npleasures of light to those upon whom the day-star shines.\"\n\nWith these words he went away, and his brother, left alone, began to cry\nbitterly.  His father, who heard him, immediately ran to him, and tried\nto console him by promising to give him whatever he desired.\n\n\"Can you give me sight?\"  asked the child.\n\n\"Fate does not permit it,\" said the magician.\n\n\"Then,\" cried the blind boy, eagerly, \"I ask you to put out the sun!\"\n\nWho knows whether my pride has not provoked the same wish on the part of\nsome one of my brothers who does not see?\n\nBut how much oftener have I erred through levity and want of thought!\nHow many resolutions have I taken at random! how many judgments have I\npronounced for the sake of a witticism! how many mischiefs have I not\ndone without any sense of my responsibility!  The greater part of men\nharm one another for the sake of doing something.  We laugh at the honor\nof one, and compromise the reputation of another, like an idle man who\nsaunters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches and destroying the\nmost beautiful flowers.\n\nAnd, nevertheless, it is by this very thoughtlessness that the fame of\nsome men is created.  It rises gradually, like one of those mysterious\nmounds in barbarous countries, to which a stone is added by every\npasserby; each one brings something at random, and adds it as he passes,\nwithout being able himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal or a\ngibbet.  Who will dare look behind him, to see his rash judgments held up\nthere to view?\n\nSome time ago I was walking along the edge of the green mound on which\nthe Montmartre telegraph stands.  Below me, along one of the zigzag paths\nwhich wind up the hill, a man and a girl were coming up, and arrested my\nattention.  The man wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resemblance\nto a wild beast; and he held a thick stick in his hand, with which he\ndescribed various strange figures in the air.  He spoke very loud, and in\na voice which seemed to me convulsed with passion.  He raised his eyes\nevery now and then with an expression of savage harshness, and it\nappeared to me that he was reproaching and threatening the girl, and that\nshe was listening to him with a submissiveness which touched my heart.\nTwo or three times she ventured a few words, doubtless in the attempt to\njustify herself; but the man in the greatcoat began again immediately\nwith his loud and angry voice, his savage looks, and his threatening\nevolutions in the air.  I followed him with my eyes, vainly endeavoring\nto catch a word as he passed, until he disappeared behind the hill.\n\nI had evidently just seen one of those domestic tyrants whose sullen\ntempers are excited by the patience of their victims, and who, though\nthey have the power to become the beneficent gods of a family, choose\nrather to be their tormentors.\n\nI cursed the unknown savage in my heart, and I felt indignant that these\ncrimes against the sacred peace of home could not be punished as they\ndeserve, when I heard his voice approaching nearer.  He had turned the\npath, and soon appeared before me at the top of the slope.\n\nThe first glance, and his first words, explained everything to me: in\nplace of what I had taken for the furious tones and terrible looks of an\nangry man, and the attitude of a frightened victim, I had before me only\nan honest citizen, who squinted and stuttered, but who was explaining the\nmanagement of silkworms to his attentive daughter.\n\nI turned homeward, smiling at my mistake; but before I reached my\nfaubourg I saw a crowd running, I heard calls for help, and every\nfinger pointed in the same direction to a distant column of flame.\nA manufactory had taken fire, and everybody was rushing forward to\nassist in extinguishing it.\n\nI hesitated.  Night was coming on; I felt tired; a favorite book was\nawaiting me; I thought there would be no want of help, and I went on my\nway.\n\nJust before I had erred from want of consideration; now it was from\nselfishness and cowardice.\n\nBut what!  have I not on a thousand other occasions forgotten the duties\nwhich bind us to our fellowmen?  Is this the first time I have avoided\npaying society what I owe it?  Have I not always behaved to my companions\nwith injustice, and like the lion?  Have I not claimed successively every\nshare?  If any one is so ill-advised as to ask me to return some little\nportion, I get provoked, I am angry, I try to escape from it by every\nmeans.  How many times, when I have perceived a beggar sitting huddled up\nat the end of the street, have I not gone out of my way, for fear that\ncompassion would impoverish me by forcing me to be charitable!  How often\nhave I doubted the misfortunes of others, that I might with justice\nharden my heart against them.\n\nWith what satisfaction have I sometimes verified the vices of the poor\nman, in order to show that his misery is the punishment he deserves!\n\nOh! let us not go farther--let us not go farther!  I interrupted the\ndoctor's examination, but how much sadder is this one!  We pity the\ndiseases of the body; we shudder at those of the soul.\n\nI was happily disturbed in my reverie by my neighbor, the old soldier.\n\nNow I think of it, I seem always to have seen, during my fever, the\nfigure of this good old man, sometimes leaning against my bed, and\nsometimes sitting at his table, surrounded by his sheets of pasteboard.\n\nHe has just come in with his glue-pot, his quire of green paper, and his\ngreat scissors.  I called him by his name; he uttered a joyful\nexclamation, and came near me.\n\n\"Well! so the bullet is found again!\"  cried he, taking my two hands into\nthe maimed one which was left him; \"it has not been without trouble,\nI can tell you; the campaign has been long enough to win two clasps in.\nI have seen no few fellows with the fever batter windmills during my\nhospital days: at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a chimney was on\nfire in his stomach, and who was always calling for the fire-engines; but\nthe third day it all went out of itself.  But with you it has lasted\ntwenty-eight days--as long as one of the Little Corporal's campaigns.\"\n\n\"I am not mistaken then; you were near me?\"\n\n\"Well!  I had only to cross the passage.  This left hand has not made you\na bad nurse for want of the right; but, bah!  you did not know what hand\ngave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar of a fever from being\ndrowned--for all the world like Poniatowski in the Elster.\"\n\nThe old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too much affected to\nspeak, pressed his hand against my breast.  He saw my emotion, and\nhastened to put an end to it.\n\n\"By-the-bye, you know that from to-day you have a right to draw your\nrations again,\" resumed he gayly; \"four meals, like the German meinherrs\n--nothing more!  The doctor is your house steward.\"\n\n\"We must find the cook, too,\" replied I, with a smile.\n\n\"She is found,\" said the veteran.\n\n\"Who is she?\"\n\n\"Genevieve.\"\n\n\"The fruit-woman?\"\n\n\"While I am talking she is cooking for you, neighbor; and do not fear her\nsparing either butter or trouble.  As long as life and death were\nfighting for you, the honest woman passed her time in going up and down\nstairs to learn which way the battle went.  And, stay, I am sure this is\nshe.\"\n\nIn fact we heard steps in the passage, and he went to open the door.\n\n\"Oh, well!\"  continued he, \"it is Mother Millot, our portress, another of\nyour good friends, neighbor, and whose poultices I recommend to you.\nCome in, Mother Millot--come in; we are quite bonny boys this morning,\nand ready to step a minuet if we had our dancing-shoes.\"\n\nThe portress came in, quite delighted.  She brought my linen, washed and\nmended by herself, with a little bottle of Spanish wine, the gift of her\nsailor son, and kept for great occasions.  I would have thanked her, but\nthe good woman imposed silence upon me, under the pretext that the doctor\nhad forbidden me to speak.  I saw her arrange everything in my drawers,\nthe neat appearance of which struck me; an attentive hand had evidently\nbeen there, and day by day put straight the unavoidable disorder\nconsequent on sickness.\n\nAs she finished, Genevieve arrived with my dinner; she was followed by\nMother Denis, the milk-woman over the way, who had learned, at the same\ntime, the danger I had been in, and that I was now beginning to be\nconvalescent.  The good Savoyard brought me a new-laid egg, which she\nherself wished to see me eat.\n\nIt was necessary to relate minutely all my illness to her.  At every\ndetail she uttered loud exclamations; then, when the portress warned her\nto be less noisy, she excused herself in a whisper.  They made a circle\naround me to see me eat my dinner; each mouthful I took was accompanied\nby their expressions of satisfaction and thankfulness.  Never had the\nKing of France, when he dined in public, excited such admiration among\nthe spectators.\n\nAs they were taking the dinner away, my colleague, the old cashier,\nentered in his turn.\n\nI could not prevent my heart beating as I recognized him.  How would the\nheads of the firm look upon my absence, and what did he come to tell me?\n\nI waited with inexpressible anxiety for him to speak; but he sat down by\nme, took my hand, and began rejoicing over my recovery, without saying a\nword about our masters.  I could not endure this uncertainty any longer.\n\n\"And the Messieurs Durmer,\" asked I, hesitatingly, \"how have they taken--\nthe interruption to my work?\"\n\n\"There has been no interruption,\" replied the old clerk, quietly.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Each one in the office took a share of your duty; all has gone on as\nusual, and the Messieurs Durmer have perceived no difference.\"\n\nThis was too much.  After so many instances of affection, this filled up\nthe measure.  I could not restrain my tears.\n\nThus the few services I had been able to do for others had been\nacknowledged by them a hundredfold!  I had sown a little seed, and every\ngrain had fallen on good ground, and brought forth a whole sheaf.  Ah!\nthis completes the lesson the doctor gave me.  If it is true that the\ndiseases, whether of the mind or body, are the fruit of our follies and\nour vices, sympathy and affection are also the rewards of our having done\nour duty.  Every one of us, with God's help, and within the narrow limits\nof human capability, himself makes his own disposition, character, and\npermanent condition.\n\nEverybody is gone; the old soldier has brought me back my flowers and my\nbirds, and they are my only companions.  The setting sun reddens my half-\nclosed curtains with its last rays.  My brain is clear, and my heart\nlighter.  A thin mist floats before my eyes, and I feel myself in that\nhappy state which precedes a refreshing sleep.\n\nYonder, opposite the bed, the pale goddess in her drapery of a thousand\nchanging colors, and with her withered garland, again appears before me;\nbut this time I hold out my hand to her with a grateful smile.\n\n\"Adieu, beloved year!  whom I but now unjustly accused.  That which I\nhave suffered must not be laid to thee; for thou wast but a tract through\nwhich God had marked out my road--a ground where I had reaped the harvest\nI had sown.  I will love thee, thou wayside shelter, for those hours of\nhappiness thou hast seen me enjoy; I will love thee even for the\nsuffering thou hast seen me endure.  Neither happiness nor suffering came\nfrom thee; but thou hast been the scene for them.  Descend again then, in\npeace, into eternity, and be blest, thou who hast left me experience in\nthe place of youth, sweet memories instead of past time, and gratitude as\npayment for good offices.\"\n\n\n\n\nETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:\n\nAmbroise Pare: 'I tend him, God cures him!'\nAre we then bound to others only by the enforcement of laws\nAttach a sense of remorse to each of my pleasures\nBut above these ruins rises a calm and happy face\nContemptuous pride of knowledge\nDeath, that faithful friend of the wretched\nHouses are vessels which take mere passengers\nI make it a rule never to have any hope\nIgnorant of what there is to wish for\nLooks on an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance\nMore stir than work\nNothing is dishonorable which is useful\nRicher than France herself, for I have no deficit in my budget\nSatisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them\nSensible man, who has observed much and speaks little\nSullen tempers are excited by the patience of their victims\nThe happiness of the wise man costs but little\nWe do not understand that others may live on their own account\nWhat have you done with the days God granted you\nYou may know the game by the lair","title":"An Attic Philosopher in Paris \u2014 Volume 3","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":14098}