Books: An Attic Philosopher, v1
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Emile Souvestre >> An Attic Philosopher, v1
"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"
"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horse
is friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share of
the draught, and eat his feed by himself."
"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"
"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as I'm going to the ball."
"You mean to leave him alone?"
"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summer
resort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply.
"I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyer's. Those who are
sick may take their broth; my physic is white wine."
So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume of
a waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.
In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man who
lay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with the
thoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hear
me. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproaching
instead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for the
consequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.
At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, and
stamped his foot. "Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water for
footbaths, pray?"
"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!" I replied.
"Let him go to the hospital, then!"
"How can he by himself?"
Pierre seemed to make up his mind.
"Well, I'm going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid of
him sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had not
taken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but the
bookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, half
supported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.
I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatient
waterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine at
Courtville Gardens!
Six o'clock.--I have been to knock at my neighbor's door, who opened it
himself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directed
to his son's widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sit
down.
It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.
Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bed
of straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end of
the room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings without
frames turned against the wall.
At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hard
crusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of 'eau sucree'. He
perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little
ashamed.
"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with a
smile.
I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for the
Carnival.
M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.
"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginning
again to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts of
epicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there are
some also for the ears and the eyes."
I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquet
which could make up to him for such a supper.
Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with the
magisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummaged
behind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which he
passed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.
It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, his
daughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicians
who appeared in the background. At first sight I recognized the subject,
which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be a
splendid copy of Jordaens.
"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor, and an original
retouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dress
of the young woman, and the accessories. One can count the pencil-
strokes of the Hercules of painters. It is not only a masterpiece, sir;
it is a treasure--a relic! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl,
this is a diamond!"
And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light,
he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off the
wonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave the
crusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied his
glass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, his
nostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for the
eyes."
"You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with an
air of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this
is the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival."
"But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to be
worth a high price."
"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In good
times, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousand
francs."
I started back.
"And you have bought it?" cried I.
"For nothing," replied he, lowering his voice. "These brokers are asses;
mine mistook this for a student's copy; he let me have it for fifty
louis, ready money! This morning I took them to him, and now he wishes
to be off the bargain."
"This morning!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the letter
containing the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son's
widow, which was still on the little table.
He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the work
of Jordaens in an ecstasy.
"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust in
delight. "What relief! what fire! Where can one find such transparency
of color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!"
As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment for
admiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.
"You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!
What do you say to the bargain I have made?"
"Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have done
better."
M. Antoine raised his head.
"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived about
the merit or value of a painting?"
"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinking
that, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might have
had--"
"What then?"
"The family itself, sir."
The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.
In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of
understanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up without
answering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its
hiding-place behind the prints.
It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.
Seven o'clock.--When I come in again, I find my water boiling over my
lamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-
things.
The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive of
domestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of a
bachelor's housekeeping.
Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritual
nourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the senses
and the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activity
to the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transports
it to the land of the Arabian Nights.
When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before a
blazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, which
seems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited by
the aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled down
over them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took a
distinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, I
see some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.
At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage on
a hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and through
the garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.
Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-
trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for their
master! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound of
the axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf and branches;
and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure of
myself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!
The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off my
meditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that I
have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the
milkwoman's.
Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quite
young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone
back to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the
title they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her
worthy of the name of mother.
A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good
her humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leaving
the rest to God.
At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one of
the corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. They
wear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold large
slices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the eyes
with his, and that is the reason of their mirth.
Mother Denis points them out to me.
"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, putting
her hand on the head of the little glutton.
"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.
"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the streets
of Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!"
"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.
"What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;
"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that for
once they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will make
up for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountains
to me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."
Here her eyes filled with tears.
"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"
resumed I.
"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter of
these little ones, sir, is like a bird's song; it makes you gay, and
gives you heart to live."
As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and added
some apples and a handful of nuts to them.
"Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets against
to-morrow."
Then, turning to me:
"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have our
Carnival."
I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.
At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding the
egotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-
sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kept
their Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the senses
or the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.
CHAPTER III
WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW
March 3d
A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better have
compared it to a night of fever! What alternate fits of restlessness and
sleep! what discomfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst!
what a chaos of mournful and confused fancies! We can neither sleep nor
wake; we seek in vain for repose, and we stop short on the brink of
action. Two thirds of human existence are wasted in hesitation, and the
last third in repenting.
When I say human existence, I mean my own! We are so made that each of
us regards himself as the mirror of the community: what passes in our
minds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man is
like the drunkard who reports an earthquake, because he feels himself
staggering.
And why am I uncertain and restless--I, a poor day-laborer in the world--
who fill an obscure station in a corner of it, and whose work it avails
itself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseen
friend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom the
solitary call in sorrow; my imaginary confidant, to whom all monologues
are addressed and who is but the shadow of our own conscience.
A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly opened
in the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,
and without thinking of it. Two roads present themselves, and I must
choose between them. One is only the continuation of that I have
followed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects.
On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; on the
other are great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is,
whether I shall give up the humble office in which I thought to die, for
one of those bold speculations in which chance alone is banker! Ever
since yesterday I have consulted with myself; I have compared the two and
I remain undecided.
Where shall I find light--who will advise me?
Sunday, 4th.--See the sun coming out from the thick fogs of winter!
Spring announces its approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and my
wallflower begins to blow again.
We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the
sixteenth century sang with so much feeling:
Now the gladsome month of May
All things newly doth array;
Fairest lady, let me too
In thy love my life renew.
The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter to
them every morning. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens
out before me in all its splendor.
He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque
variety of such a view. He has never contemplated these tile-colored
heights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyes
these gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,
the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the
sparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled to a blaze of
fire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,
carpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriad
inhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect to the domestic
cat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;
he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; nor
the thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatre
with ever-changing scenes! How many times have my days of leisure passed
away in contemplating this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker or
brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for the
impressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower!
Nine o'clock.--But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up the
crumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away,
come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sight
of the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my presence
that frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand. Then,
why this fearful suspense? In vain I look around: the roof is clear, the
windows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from my
breakfast to attract them by an ampler feast. Their chirpings increase,
they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, but
without daring to alight.
Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panics
which make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are not
more reasonable than men!
With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenly I
perceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-
up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-cat showed itself
at the corner of the gutter. The cunning fellow was lying there in wait,
hoping the crumbs would bring him some game.
And I had accused my guests of cowardice! I was so sure that no danger
could menace them! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had only
forgotten the corner behind me!
In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes come from having forgotten
a single corner!
Ten o'clock.--I cannot leave my window; the rain and the cold have kept
it shut so long that I must reconnoitre all the environs to be able to
take possession of them again. My eyes search in succession all the
points of the jumbled and confused prospect, passing on or stopping
according to what they light upon.
Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they are
those of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have long
remarked.
One is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile is
shadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; the
other is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach my
attic by snatches. When their windows are open, that of the work-woman
discovers a humble but decent abode; the other, an elegantly furnished
room. But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they take
down the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now remember
that the young singer passed under my window this morning with her veil
down, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inward
trouble. Ah! I guess it all. Her means are exhausted in elegant
fancies, or have been taken away by some unexpected misfortune, and now
she has fallen from luxury to indigence. While the work-woman manages
not only to keep her little room, but also to furnish it with decent
comfort by her steady toil, that of the singer is become the property of
brokers. The one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; the
other sails slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laborious
industry.
Alas! is there not here a lesson for us all? Is it really in hazardous
experiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, that
the wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom? Ought he
to consider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages,
or as a game in which the future is determined by a few throws? Why seek
the risk of extreme chances? For what end hasten to riches by dangerous
roads? Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliant
successes, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty? Ah! if men but knew
in what a small dwelling joy can live, and how little it costs to furnish
it!
Twelve o'clock.--I have been walking up and down my attic for a long
time, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground! My doubts increase,
like shadows encroaching more and more on some bright space; my fears
multiply; and the uncertainty becomes every moment more painful to me!
It is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening! I hold
the dice of my future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them.
Three o'clock.--The sky has become cloudy, and a cold wind begins to blow
from the west; all the windows which were opened to the sunshine of a
beautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite side of the street,
the lodger on the last story has not yet left his balcony.
One knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches,
and the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole. Indeed, one might have
guessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is the
ornament of his balcony in mid-air; for there are two things especially
loved by all old soldiers--flowers and children. They have been so long,
obliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut off
from the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin life
at an age when others end it. The tastes of their early years, which
were arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again with
their white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spend
again in old age. Besides, they have been condemned to be destroyers for
so long that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure in creating, and seeing
life spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grace and an
attraction the more for those who have been the agents of unbending
force; and the watching over the frail germs of life has all the charms
of novelty for these old workmen of death.
Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his balcony.
He is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing the
seeds of the scarlet nasturtium, convolvulus, and sweet-pea. Henceforth
he will come every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protect the
young shoots from weeds or insects, to arrange the strings for the
tendrils to climb on, and carefully to regulate their supply of water and
heat!
How much labor to bring in the desired harvest! For that, how many times
shall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day! But
then, in the hot summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in clouds
through our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucco,
knows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heat upon us
to burning, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceive nothing
but green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze will come cool
and fresh to him through these perfumed shades. His assiduous care will
be rewarded at last.
We must sow the seeds, and tend the growth, if we would enjoy the flower.
Four o'clock.--The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon for a
long time are become darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain pours down!
Those who are caught in it fly in every direction, some laughing and some
crying.
I always find particular amusement in these helter-skelters, caused by a
sudden storm. It seems as if each one, when thus taken by surprise,
loses the factitious character that the world or habit has given him,
and appears in his true colors.
See, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenly forgets
his indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy! He is a
thrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is afraid to
spoil his hat.
That pretty woman yonder, on the contrary, whose looks are so modest,
and whose dress is so elaborate, slackens her pace with the increasing
storm. She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not think of
her velvet cloak spotted by the hail! She is evidently a lioness in
sheep's clothing.
Here, a young man, who was passing, stops to catch some of the hailstones
in his hand, and examines them. By his quick and business-like walk just
now, you would have taken him for a tax-gatherer on his rounds, when he
is a young philosopher, studying the effects of electricity. And those
schoolboys who leave their ranks to run after the sudden gusts of a March
whirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, but who now fly with bursts
of laughter; those national guards, who quit the martial attitude of
their days of duty to take refuge under a porch! The storm has caused
all these transformations.
See, it increases! The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter. I see
every one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a bill
announces is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few months.
A year ago all the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter were
employed in beautifying it, but their works are already destroyed by the
leaving of so many tenants; the cornices of the front are disfigured by
mud; the arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upon them
to announce the sale of the effects. The splendid shop has lost some of
its embellishments with each change of the tenant. See it now empty, and
left open to the passersby. How much does its fate resemble that of so
many who, like it, only change their occupation to hasten the faster to
ruin!
I am struck by this last reflection: since the morning everything seems
to speak to me, and with the same warning tone. Everything says: "Take
care! be content with your happy, though humble lot; happiness can be
retained only by constancy; do not forsake your old patrons for the
protection of those who are unknown!"
Are they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warning come
from within? Is it not I myself who give this language to all that
surrounds me? The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound at
will. But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom? The low voice
that speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tells us
what we are, that is to say, what is our capability. Bad conduct
results, for the most part, from mistaking our calling. There are so
many fools and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves.
The question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we are
suited!