I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing sojoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in atop story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really are upamong the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and thebreeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that awandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attic,and that the songs of the industrious work-woman welcome the dawn of day.
The lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, whilehere labor, light, and song already reign.
What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search forfood, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrowsshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in thesunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcome themorning with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, wheneverything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of daystrikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wandstruck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood! It is a moment ofrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and abreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! itis but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course:
the great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, itscollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.
The tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of ourfirst years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air isfragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our lifes morning-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Where do thissadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from? Thecourse seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: atstarting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal,the bitter disappointment or reality! The road, which began amonghawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices! Whyis there so much confidence at first, so much doubt at last? Has, then,the knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness?
Must we condemn ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope? Is theworld and is the individual man intended, after all, to find rest only inan eternal childhood?
How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has theadvantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply intothe same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always givethe same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it tothe subject which occupies another mind, or interests anothers feelings;and so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever to knock at thesame doors!
I interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order. I hate the lookof disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or anunaptness for spiritual life. To arrange the things among which we haveto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between themand us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which mantends to the savage state. What, in fact, is social organization but aseries of habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of ournature?
I distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whomdisorder is of no consequence--who can live at ease in an Augean stable.
What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. Themind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything,still throw some light around. If our tastes did not reveal ourcharacter, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts.
While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on thelittle almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. I looked for the day ofthe month, and I saw these words written in large letters: "FETE DIEU!"
It is to-day! In this great city, where there are no longer any publicreligious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is,in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The daykept in honor of the Creator," says Chateaubriand, "happens at a timewhen the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods andfields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;there is not a single widowed plant in the fields."
What recollections these words have just awakened! I left off what I wasabout, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between mytwo hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the first daysof my childhood were passed.
The Fete Dieu was then one of the great events of my life! It wasnecessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserveto share in it. I still recollect with what raptures of expectation Igot up on the morning of the day. There was a holy joy in the air. Theneighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures,worked in tapestry, along the streets. I went from one to another, byturns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythologicalcompositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV,and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour. All this world of phantomsseemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silentand motionless--at the holy ceremony. I looked, alternately in fear andwonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, thosebeautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, andthose shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet ofthe perpetually smiling sh epherdess. Sometimes, when the wind blewbehind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figuresthemselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from thewall, and take their places in the procession! But these impressionswere vague and transitory. The feeling that predominated over everyother was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy. In the midst of all thefloating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, andthe gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felttransported in spite of yourself. The joyful sounds of the festival wererepeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes. You were moreindulgent, more holy, more loving! For God was not only manifestinghimself without, but also within us.
And then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphalarches made of green boughs! What competition among the differentparishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession wasto halt! It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautifulof his possessions!
It was there I made my first sacrifice!
The wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and theTabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown thewhole! All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked. I alonepossessed a flower worthy of such a place. It was on the rose-tree givenme by my mother on my birthday. I had watched it for several months, andthere was no other bud to blow on the tree. There it was, half open, inits mossy nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all achilds pride! I hesitated for some moments. No one had asked me forit; I might easily avoid losing it. I should hear no reproaches, but onerose noiselessly within me. When every one else had given all they had,ought I alone to keep back my treasure? Ought I to grudge to God one ofthe gifts which, like all the rest, I had received from him? At thislast thought I plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put atthe top of the Tabernacle. Ah! why does the recollection of thissacrifice, which was so hard and yet so s weet to me, now make me smile?
Is it so certain that the value of a gift is in itself, rather than inthe intention? If the cup of cold water in the gospel is remembered tothe poor man, why should not the flower be remembered to the child? Letus not look down upon the childs simple act of generosity; it is thesewhich accustom the soul to self-denial and to sympathy. I cherished thismoss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman; I had reason to cherish italways, as the record of the first victory won over myself.
It is now many years since I witnessed the celebration of the FeteDieu; but should I again feel in it the happy sensations of former days?
I still remember how, when the procession had passed, I walked throughthe streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. I feltintoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed with thefragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and I seemed no longer totouch the ground as I went along. I smiled at everything; the wholeworld was Paradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that God was floatingin the air!
Moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might bemore intense on certain days, but at the same time it continued throughthe ordinary course of my life. Many years thus passed for me in anexpansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if notfrom coming, at least from staying with me. Sure of not being alone,I soon took heart again, like the child who recovers its courage, becauseit hears its mothers voice close by. Why have I lost that confidence ofmy childhood? Shall I never feel again so deeply that God is here?
How strange the association of our thoughts! A day of the month recallsmy infancy, and see, all the recollections of my former years are growingup around me! Why was I so happy then? I consider well, and nothing issensibly changed in my condition. I possess, as I did then, health andmy daily bread; the only difference is, that I am now responsible formyself! As a child, I accepted life when it came; another cared andprovided for me. So long as I fulfilled my present duties I was at peacewithin, and I left the future to the prudence of my father! My destinywas a ship, in the directing of which I had no share, and in which Isailed as a common passenger. There was the whole secret of childhoodshappy security. Since then worldly wisdom has deprived me of it. Whenmy lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I thought to make myselfmaster of it by means of a long insight into the future. I have filledthe present hour with anxieties, by occupying my thoughts with thefuture; I have put my judgment in the place of Providence, and the happychild is changed into the anxious man.
A melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson. Who knows that,if I had trusted more to Him who rules the world, I should not have beenspared all this anxiety? It may be that happiness is not possible herebelow, except on condition of living like a child, giving ourselves up tothe duties of each day as it comes, and trusting in the goodness of ourheavenly Father for all besides.
This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice! Whenever I have need to strengthenmyself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see again thegentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear hisvoice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembranceof him protects my life, and gives it light. He, too, was a saint andmartyr here below. Others have pointed out the path of heaven; he hastaught us to see those of earth aright.
But, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrificesperformed in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has everheard of my Uncle Maurice? Perhaps I alone remember his name, and stillrecall his history.
Well! I will write it, not for others, but for myself! They say that,at the sight of the Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a moredignified attitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raisedand ennobled by the recollection of a good mans life!
A ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which I write; thebreeze brings me in the scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheelabout my window with joyful twitterings. The image of my Uncle Mauricewill be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and thefragrance.
Seven oclock.--It is with mens lives as with days: some dawn radiantwith a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds. That of my UncleMaurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly, when he came into theworld, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding theseanticipations, which might be called hopes, he continued to live,suffering and deformed.
He was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attractions ofchildhood. He was oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for hisdeformity. In vain the little hunchback opened his arms to the world:
the world scoffed at him, and went its way.
However, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the childdirected all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. With her hefound shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man musttake his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with thatwhich others had refused with contempt. His education would havequalified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk--[The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]--in one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town.
He was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with norelaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mothers visits.
On fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under theshade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent,her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard theclinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournfulprofile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; hecould every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowed neck,and exchange a smile with her!
This comfort was soon to be taken from him. His old mother fell sick,and at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. Maurice wasovercome at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave himalone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He knelt bythe bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, hepressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mothertried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold,her voice was already gone. She could only press her lips against theforehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!
They tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himselfon that now motionless form.
"Dead!" cried he; "dead! She who had never left me, she who was theonly one in the world who loved me! You, my mother, dead! What thenremains for me here below?"
A stifled voice replied:
"God!"
Maurice, startled, raised himself! Was that a last sigh from the dead,or his own conscience, that had answered him? He did not seek to know,but he understood the answer, and accepted it.
It was then that I first knew him. I often went to see him in his littletoll-house. He joined in my childish games, told me his finest stories,and let me gather his flowers. Deprived as he was of all externalattractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came tohim, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcome foreveryone. Deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with a gentlepatience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid theinsults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, "Father, forgivethem, for they know not what they do."
No other clerk showed so much honesty, zeal, and intelligence; but thosewho otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved wererepelled by his deformity. As he had no patrons, he found his claimswere always disregarded. They preferred before him those who were betterable to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favorwhen letting him keep the humble office which enabled him to live. UncleMaurice bore injustice as he had borne contempt; unfairly treated by men,he raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of Him who cannotbe deceived.
He lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poorbut not as forlorn as he, also lodged. Among these neighbors there was asingle woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which cameboth wind and rain. She was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothingto recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it. She wasnever seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret.
She worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloomseemed to envelop her like a shroud. Her dejection affected Maurice; heattempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words. It waseasy to see that she preferred her silence and her solitude to the littlehunchbacks good-will; he perceived it, and said no more.
But Toinettes needle was hardly sufficient for her support, andpresently work failed her! Maurice learned that the poor girl was inwant of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit.
He immediately went to them privately and engaged to pay them for whatthey supplied Toinette with.
Things went on in this way for several months. The young dressmakercontinued out of work, until she was at last frightened at the bills shehad contracted with the shopkeepers. When she came to an explanationwith them, everything was discovered. Her first impulse was to run toUncle Maurice, and thank him on her knees. Her habitual reserve hadgiven way to a burst of deepest feeling. It seemed as if gratitude hadmelted all the ice of that numbed heart.
Being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchback couldgive greater efficacy to his good offices. Toinette became to him asister, for whose wants he had a right to provide. It was the first timesince the death of his mother that he had been able to share his lifewith another. The young woman received his attentions with feeling, butwith reserve. All Maurices efforts were insufficient to dispel hergloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed hersense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. Her heart was a closedbook, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read. Intruth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness ofbeing no longer alone, and took Toinette such as her long trials had madeher; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but still toenjoy her company.
This thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusion ofall besides. The poor girl was as forlorn as himself; she had becomeaccustomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look onhim with an affectionate sympathy! What more could he wish for? Untilthen, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had beenrepelled by Maurice as a dream; but chance seemed willing to make it areality. After much hesitation he took courage, and decided to speak toher.
It was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed hissteps toward the work-womans garret just as he was about to enter, hethought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maidens name. Hequickly pushed open the door, and perceived Toinette weeping, and leaningon the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor.
At the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran to him,crying out:
"Ah! come in--come in! It is he that I thought was dead: it is Julien;it is my betrothed!"
Maurice tottered, and drew back. A single word had told him all!
It seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about to break;but the same voice that he had heard by his mothers deathbed againsounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. God was still hisfriend!
He himself accompanied the newly-married pair on the road when they leftthe town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denied tohim, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb.
It was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he saidby the Father which is in heaven. He felt His presence everywhere; itwas to him in the place of all else. When he died, it was with a smile,and like an exile setting out for his own country. He who had consoledhim in poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustice andforsaken by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him.
Eight oclock.--All I have just written has pained me! Till now I havelooked into life for instruction how to live. Is it then true that humanmaxims are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, prudence,moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth,which alone can face great misfortunes? and that, if man has need ofvirtues for others, he has need of religion for himself?
When, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry heart, as the Scriptureexpresses it, we think we are sufficient for ourselves; strong, happy,and beloved, we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape everystorm in spite of the gods. But later in life, when the back is bowed,when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affections grow chill-then, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out our arms, likethe child overtaken by night, and we call for help to Him who iseverywhere.
I was asking this morning why this growing confusion alike for societyand for the individual? In vain does human reason from hour to hourlight some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow everdarker! Is it not because we are content to withdraw farther and fartherfrom God, the Sun of spirits?
But what do these hermits reveries signify to the world? The inwardturmoils of most men are stifled by the outward ones; life does not givethem time to question themselves. Have they time to know what they are,and what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the next lease orthe last price of stock? Heaven is very high, and wise men look only atthe earth.
But I--poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek neither power norriches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelter of myspirit--I can go back with impunity to these recollections of mychildhood; and, if this our great city no longer honors the name of Godwith a festival, I will strive still to keep the feast to Him in myheart.