"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[AParisian summerresort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply.
A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes goodher humble place in it by working, singing, helping others, and leavingthe rest to God.
In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man wholay groaning there close by him; being entirely taken up with thethoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hearme. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproachinginstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for theconsequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.
"The family itself, sir."
Without doubt he understood me; for he got up slowly, and, with themagisterial air of a man confident in what he is about to do, he rummagedbehind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which hepassed his hand, and silently placed it under the light of the lamp.
I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.
resumed I.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money inones pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead ofsavings."
"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with asmile.
The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive ofdomestic operations to one who lives alone: it is the grand work of abachelors housekeeping.
It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.
I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for theCarnival.
At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hardcrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of eau sucree. Heperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a littleashamed.
Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollectedI had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my atticneighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man,and has a passion for pictures and prints. He comes home almost everyday with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know helives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him showshis poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, andhis widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translatethe letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he shouldhave this answer to-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.
Then, turning to me:
"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an original, neighbor, and an originalretouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dressof 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!"
"You must not leave your comrade to die without help!" I replied.
"Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have donebetter."
In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable ofunderstanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up withoutanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in itshiding-place behind the prints.
"What then?"
Mother Denis points them out to me.
At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding theegotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kepttheir Carnival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the sensesor the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.
Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thoroughlybefore he begins to repent.
"So you are repaid by your recollections for the good you do them?"
He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the workof Jordaens in an ecstasy.
Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;bring hither for my amusement the world-carnival, of which you are thebrilliant maskers!
Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quiteyoung; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not goneback to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding thetitle they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes herworthy of the name of mother.
"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginningagain to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts ofepicures, and not all feasts are meant to regale the palate; there aresome also for the ears and the eyes."
"You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with anair of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, thisis the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival."
Here her eyes filled with tears.
"This morning!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the lettercontaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his sonswidow, which was still on the little table.
"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.
It represented a fine-looking old man, seated at table with his wife, hisdaughter, and his children, and singing to the accompaniment of musicianswho 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 asplendid copy of Jordaens.
I saw the sick man get into it, almost fainting, with the impatientwaterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to dine atCourtville Gardens!
"Let him go to the hospital, then!"
"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horseis friend to the leader--on condition that each will take his share ofthe draught, and eat his feed by himself."
As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and addedsome apples and a handful of nuts to them.
Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one ofthese mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires such an effort formen to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest atintervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by theirrule, are allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talkat once from the rising to the setting of the sun.
When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before ablazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, whichseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited bythe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled downover them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took adistinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, Isee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.
"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.
Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalianfestivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names. That whichit has given to these "days of liberty" announces the ending of thefeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; carn-ival means,literally, "farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days farewell to the"blessed pullets and fat hams," so celebrated by Pantagruels minstrel.
Seven oclock.--When I come in again, I find my water boiling over mylamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-things.
The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off mymeditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that Ihave no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to themilkwomans.
I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.
Pierre seemed to make up his mind.
February 20th
"How can he by himself?"
What a noise out of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts andcries? Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the Carnival, and themaskers are passing.
M. Antoine shook his head, and went on again with his supper.
Three oclock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. Asthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. SoI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup ofthe coffee that my portresss son brought from the Levant, and I look inmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors.
"I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyers. Those who aresick may take their broth; my physic is white wine."
I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible banquetwhich could make up to him for such a supper.
Six oclock.--I have been to knock at my neighbors door, who opened ithimself; and I have given him his letter, finished at last, and directedto his sons widow. M. Antoine thanked me gratefully, and made me sitdown.
The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who can attract the mostattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosityor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to theemployments and troubles of yesterday.
At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. In one ofthe corners of the shop three children are sitting on the ground. Theywear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold largeslices of bread and cheese. The youngest is besmeared up to the eyeswith his, and that is the reason of their mirth.
"You mean to leave him alone?"
First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are toofond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by alwaysbantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders ones laughter by making onethink:--Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, hepreaches virtue while ridiculing vice; if bitterness is sometimes to befound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees themiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly trickswithout hating it.
"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, puttingher hand on the head of the little glutton.
"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 foronce they may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will makeup for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountainsto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."
Let us call up all the heroes of his book.... Gil Blas, Fabrice,Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!
What do you say to the bargain I have made?"
"And you have bought it?" cried I.
"But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to beworth a high price."
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 thewonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave thecrusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied hisglass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, hisnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for theeyes."
Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year tobe decent, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a long restraintduring the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies andwishes that have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain.
The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into theink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when Iperceive that I have not my dictionary. Now, a Parisian who would speakEnglish without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings; theground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I run thento the bookbinders, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in thesquare.
The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.
Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for theirmaster! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound ofthe axe, I perceive the woodsmans hut, roofed with turf and branches;and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure ofmyself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!
The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knocking,and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. Thislatter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexedand out of humor. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to getup in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.
It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.
"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have ourCarnival."
"Well, Im going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid ofhim sooner. Come, get up, comrade!" He shook his comrade, who had nottaken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but thebookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, halfsupported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a hackney carriage.
"You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!
"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone in the streetsof Paris, where he can find no other father than the All-good God!"
"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived aboutthe merit or value of a painting?"
So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fancy costume ofa waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.
THE CARNIVAL
"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In goodtimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousandfrancs."
"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust indelight. "What relief! what fire! Where can one find such transparencyof color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!"
"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as Im going to the ball."
I started back.
Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;our whole life is often but an unsightly Carnival! And yet man has needof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Canhe not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Economists havebeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of thehuman race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of itsleisure! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find itrelaxation? Work supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulness thatgives it a relish. O philosophers! go in quest of pleasure! find usamusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word,invent a Carnival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.
For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of theSaturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family."
"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"
Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-point between bodily and spiritualnourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the sensesand the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activityto the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transportsit to the land of the Arabian Nights.
"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter ofthese little ones, sir, is like a birds song; it makes you gay, andgives you heart to live."
M. Antoine raised his head.
At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage ona hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and throughthe garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.
"For nothing," replied he, lowering his voice. "These brokers are asses;mine mistook this for a students copy; he let me have it for fiftylouis, ready money! This morning I took them to him, and now he wishesto be off the bargain."
"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"
At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, andstamped his foot. "Am I to spend my Carnival in heating water forfootbaths, pray?"
"Come, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets againstto-morrow."
As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment foradmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.
"I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinkingthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might havehad--"
Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bedof straw, two broken chairs, composed all the furniture. At the end ofthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings withoutframes turned against the wall.
