Books: An Attic Philosopher, v2
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Emile Souvestre >> An Attic Philosopher, v2
But the life of man in a natural state is like that of the birds; he
equally enjoys nature. "The earth spreads a continual feast before him."
What, then, has he gained by that selfish and imperfect association which
forms a nation? Would it not be better for every one to turn again to
the fertile bosom of nature, and live there upon her bounty in peace and
liberty?
August 20th, four o'clock A.M.--The dawn casts a red glow on my bed-
curtains; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below. Here
I am again leaning on my elbows by the windows, inhaling the freshness
and gladness of this first wakening of the day.
My eye always passes over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, and
sunlight, with the same pleasure; but to-day it stops at the end of a
buttress which separates our house from the next.
The storms have stripped the top of its plaster covering, and dust
carried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and, being fixed there
by the rain, has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some green grass
has sprung up. Among it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day is
surmounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head.
This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall to the
neighboring sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich crops which are
now falling beneath the sickle; it has recalled to me the beautiful walks
I took as a child through my native province, when the threshing-floors
at the farmhouses resounded from every part with the sound of a flail,
and when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, came in by all the roads.
I still remember the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness of the old
men, the open-hearted merriment of the laborers. There was, at that
time, something in their looks both of pride and feeling. The latter
came from thankfulness to God, the former from the sight of the harvest,
the reward of their labor. They felt indistinctly the grandeur and the
holiness of their part in the general work of the world; they looked with
pride upon their mountains of corn-sheaves, and they seemed to say, Next
to God, it is we who feed the world!
What a wonderful order there is in all human labor!
While the husbandman furrows his land, and prepares for every one his
daily bread, the town artizan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he is
to be clothed; the miner seeks underground the iron for his plow; the
soldier defends him against the invader; the judge takes care that the
law protects his fields; the tax-comptroller adjusts his private
interests with those of the public; the merchant occupies himself in
exchanging his products with those of distant countries; the men of
science and of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, which
draws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains of
our iron roads! Thus all unite together, all help one another; the toil
of each one benefits himself and all the world; the work has been
apportioned among the different members of the whole of society by a
tacit agreement. If, in this apportionment, errors are committed, if
certain individuals have not been employed according to their capacities,
those defects of detail diminish in the sublime conception of the whole.
The poorest man included in this association has his place, his work, his
reason for being there; each is something in the whole.
There is nothing like this for man in the state of nature. As he depends
only upon himself, it is necessary that he be sufficient for everything.
All creation is his property; but he finds in it as many hindrances as
helps. He must surmount these obstacles with the single strength that
God has given him; he cannot reckon on any other aid than chance and
opportunity. No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him; he
is nothing to any one. He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his own
single powers; while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the whole
of society.
But, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of some
vices in detail, I cursed the latter, and almost envied the life of the
savage.
One of the infirmities of our nature is always to mistake feeling for
evidence, and to judge of the season by a cloud or a ray of sunshine.
Was the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, really
the effect of civilization? Must we accuse society of having created
these evils, or acknowledge, on the contrary, that it has alleviated
them? Could the women and children, who were receiving the coarse bread
from the soldier, hope in the desert for more help or pity? That dead
man, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares of a
hospital, a coffin and the humble grave where he was about to rest?
Alone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in his
den, and would now be serving as food for vultures! These benefits of
human society are shared, then, by the most destitute. Whoever eats the
bread that another has reaped and kneaded, is under an obligation to his
brother, and cannot say he owes him nothing in return. The poorest of us
has received from society much more than his own single strength would
have permitted him to wrest from nature.
But cannot society give us more? Who doubts it? Errors have been
committed in this distribution of tasks and workers. Time will diminish
the number of them; with new lights a better division will arise; the
elements of society go on toward perfection, like everything else. The
difficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time,
whose progress can never be forced on without danger.
August 14th, six o'clock A.M.--My garret window rises upon the roof like
a massive watch-tower. The corners are covered by large sheets of lead,
which run into the tiles; the successive action of cold and heat has made
them rise, and so a crevice has been formed in an angle on the right
side. There a sparrow has built her nest.
I have followed the progress of this aerial habitation from the first
day. I have seen the bird successively bring the straw, moss, and wool
designed for the construction of her abode; and I have admired the
persevering skill she expended in this difficult work. At first, my new
neighbor spent her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden, and
in chirping along the gutters; a fine lady's life seemed the only one to
suit her. Then all of a sudden, the necessity of preparing a shelter for
her brood transformed our idler into a worker; she no longer gave herself
either rest or relaxation. I saw her always either flying, fetching, or
carrying; neither rain nor sun stopped her. A striking example of the
power of necessity! We are indebted to it not only for most of our
talents, but for many of our virtues!
Is it not necessity that has given the people of less favored climates
that constant activity which has placed them so quickly at the head of
nations? As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, they have
supplied them by their industry; necessity has sharpened their
understanding, endurance awakened their foresight. While elsewhere man,
warmed by an ever brilliant sun, and loaded with the bounties of the
earth, was remaining poor, ignorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts he
did not attempt to explore, here he was forced by necessity to wrest his
food from the ground, to build habitations to defend himself from the
intemperance of the weather, and to warm his body by clothing himself
with the wool of animals. Work makes him both more intelligent and more
robust: disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher on the ladder of
creation, while those more favored by nature remain on the step nearest
to the brutes.
I made these reflections while looking at the bird, whose instinct seemed
to have become more acute since she had been occupied in work. At last
the nest was finished; she set up her household there, and I followed her
through all the phases of her new existence.
When she had sat on the eggs, and the young ones were hatched, she fed
them with the most attentive care. The corner of my window had become a
stage of moral action, which fathers and mothers might come to take
lessons from. The little ones soon became large, and this morning I have
seen them take their first flight. One of them, weaker than the others,
was not able to clear the edge of the roof, and fell into the gutter. I
caught him with some difficulty, and placed him again on the tile in
front of his house, but the mother has not noticed him. Once freed from
the cares of a family, she has resumed her wandering life among the trees
and along the roofs. In vain I have kept away from my window, to take
from her every excuse for fear; in vain the feeble little bird has called
to her with plaintive cries; his bad mother has passed by, singing and
fluttering with a thousand airs and graces. Once only the father came
near; he looked at his offspring with contempt, and then disappeared,
never to return!
I crumbled some bread before the little orphan, but he did not know how
to peck it with his bill. I tried to catch him, but he escaped into the
forsaken nest. What will become of him there, if his mother does not
come back!
August 15th, six o'clock.--This morning, on opening my window, I found
the little bird dying upon the tiles; his wounds showed me that he had
been driven from the nest by his unworthy mother. I tried in vain to
warm him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; his
eyes were already closed, and his wings hung down! I placed him on the
roof in a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window. The struggle of life
against death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us.
Happily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my old
neighbor; his conversation will distract my thoughts.
It was my portress. Excellent woman! She wished me to read a letter
from her son the sailor, and begged me to answer it for her.
I kept it, to copy it in my journal. Here it is:
"DEAR MOTHER: This is to tell you that I have been very well ever
since the last time, except that last week I was nearly drowned with
the boat, which would have been a great loss, as there is not a
better craft anywhere.
"A gust of wind capsized us; and just as I came up above water, I
saw the captain sinking. I went after him, as was my duty, and,
after diving three times, I brought him to the surface, which
pleased him much; for when we were hoisted on board, and he had
recovered his senses, he threw his arms round my neck, as he would
have done to an officer.
"I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this has delighted me.
But it isn't all; it seems that fishing up the captain has reminded
them that I had a good character, and they have just told me that I
am promoted to be a sailor of the first class! Directly I knew it,
I cried out, 'My mother shall have coffee twice a day!' And really,
dear mother, there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now have
a larger allowance to send you.
"I include by begging you to take care of yourself if you wish to do
me good; for nothing makes me feel so well as to think that you want
for nothing.
"Your son, from the bottom of my heart,
JACQUES."
This is the answer that the portress dictated to me:
"MY GOOD JACQUOT: It makes me very happy to see that your heart is
still as true as ever, and that you will never shame those who have
brought you up. I need not tell you to take care of your life,
because you know it is the same as my own, and that without you,
dear child, I should wish for nothing but the grave; but we are not
bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty.
"Do not fear for my health, good Jacques; I was never better! I do
not grow old at all, for fear of making you unhappy. I want
nothing, and I live like a lady. I even had some money over this
year, and as my drawers shut very badly, I put it into the savings'
bank, where I have opened an account in your name. So, when you
come back, you will find yourself with an income. I have also
furnished your chest with new linen, and I have knitted you three
new sea-jackets.
"All your friends are well. Your cousin is just dead, leaving his
widow in difficulties. I gave her your thirty francs' remittance
and said that you had sent it her; and the poor woman remembers you
day and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put that money in
another sort of savings' bank; but there it is our hearts that get
the interest.
"Good-bye, dear Jacquot. Write to me often, and always remember the
good God, and your old mother,
"PHROSINE MILLOT."
Good son, and worthy mother! how such examples bring us back to a love
for the human race! In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy the
fate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; but
impartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes. We find, on
examination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the good so
far abounds that we are not in the habit of noticing it, while the evil
strikes us precisely on account of its being the exception. If nothing
is perfect, nothing is so bad as to be without its compensation or its
remedy. What spiritual riches are there in the midst of the evils of
society! how much does the moral world redeem the material!
That which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is his
power of deliberate affection and of enduring self-sacrifice. The mother
who took care of her brood in the corner of my window devoted to them the
necessary time for accomplishing the laws which insure the preservation
of her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not a rational choice. When
she had accomplished the mission appointed her by Providence, she cast
off the duty as we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to her
selfish liberty. The other mother, on the contrary, will go on with her
task as long as God shall leave her here below: the life of her son will
still remain, so to speak, joined to her own; and when she disappears
from the earth, she will leave there that part of herself.
Thus, the affections make for our species an existence separate from all
the rest of creation. Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrial
immortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man alone
perpetuates himself.
CHAPTER IX
THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT
September 15th, Eight O'clock
This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in,
and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For the
nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in
her little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but
Mother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm,
and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our
acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my
patronage has become her property.
She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a
joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again
immediately to send him to me.
At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:
but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as
usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?
Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that
she might think she had received her full share already. Were I to live
a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her
known to me, and which obtained for her my respect.
It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had noticed
her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its
forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have always
instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but
it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in
poverty. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to
those whose very existence is in peril--the only means by which some
orphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of the tradesman is not to
enrich himself, but to live! The purchase you make of him is more than
an exchange--it is a good action.
Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost that
fresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among the
poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working to
become, according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, a
worshipper of Saint Monday. The wages of the week, which was always
reduced to two or three working days, were completely dedicated by him to
the worship of this god of the Barriers,--[The cheap wine shops are
outside the Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]--and
Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of the
household.
One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I heard
a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices of
several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by
sobs. On looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a child
in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be claiming
her wages from her. The poor woman, who without doubt had exhausted
every explanation and every excuse, was crying in silence, and one of her
neighbors was trying in vain to appease the countrywoman. Excited by
that love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too well
excuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse
was launching forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of
myself, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not
thinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door.
The joiner had just come from the Barriers, where he had passed part of
the day at a public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and untied at the
throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: in his hand he held his
cap, which he had just picked up out of the mud; his hair was in
disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face. He
came reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called Genevieve.
She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at the
sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, she
pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with tears.
The countrywoman and the neighbor had followed her.
"Come! come!" cried the former in a rage, "do you intend to pay me,
after all?"
"Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from the
next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the
counter.
The countrywoman looked at him.
"Ah! he is the father," returned she. "Well, what idle beggars! not to
have a penny to pay honest people; and get tipsy with wine in that way."
The drunkard raised his head.
"What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've had
nothing but brandy! But I am going back again to get some wine! Wife,
give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at the 'Pere
la Tuille'."
Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened the till, and
began to rummage in it.
"You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbor to
the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takes
all?"
"Is that my fault?" replied the nurse, angrily. "They owe to me, and
somehow or other they must pay me!"
And letting loose her tongue, as these women out of the country do, she
began relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, and all
the expense it had been to her. In proportion as she recalled all she
had done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of her rights,
and to increase her anger. The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her
violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put
it into its cradle.
Whether it is that the countrywoman saw in this act a determination to
escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannot say; but
she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling,
with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. The joiner, who was
still rummaging in the till, was startled, and raised his head.
At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her arms
the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. She ran
toward the counter, and throwing herself behind her husband, cried:
"Michael, defend your son!"
The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start.
"My son!" stammered he; "what son?"
His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed over
his features.
"Robert," resumed he; "it is Robert!"
He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but
he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage.
"My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she. "It is I who
have fed and brought it up: if you don't pay me for what has made it
live, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not go
until I have my due, or the baby."
"And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Robert
against her bosom.
"Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "the
hospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of its
little ones."
At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. With
her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her
two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained
with her back against it, like a lioness defending her young. The
neighbor and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how we could
interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visible
effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested upon Genevieve and the
child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but when he turned toward us,
he again became stupid and hesitating.
At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried out, "Wait!"
And going to a tub filled with water, he plunged his face into it several
times.
Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemed
astonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution had
partly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, then he
turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up.
"Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his arms.
"Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him."
The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, and stayed
before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child would have
a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, and renewed her
claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. At first Michael
listened to her attentively, and when he comprehended her meaning, he
gave the child back to its mother.
"How much do we owe you?" asked he.
The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, which
amounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of his
pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contracted by
frowns; low curses began to escape him. All of a sudden he rummaged in
his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up above his head:
"Here it is--here's your money!" cried he with a joyful laugh; "a watch,
a good one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry day; but it
is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! ah! go and sell
it for me, neighbor, and if that is not enough, I have my earrings. Eh!
Genevieve, take them off for me; the earrings will square all! They
shall not say you have been disgraced on account of the child--no, not
even if I must pledge a bit of my flesh! My watch, my earrings, and my
ring--get rid of all of them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman,
and let the little fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve; I will put
him to bed."
And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him with a
firm step to his cradle.
It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael from this
day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early every
morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening to finish the
day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not leave them at all,
and he hired a place near the fruit-shop, and worked in it on his own
account.
They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not been for
the expenses which the child required. Everything was given up to his
education. He had gone through the regular school training, had studied
mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and had only begun to
work a few months ago. Till now, they had been exhausting every resource
which their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in his
business; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: the
seed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by.