An attic philosopher in Paris

Front matter

FT MEADE GenCo 1 1

A

f *

Chapter II Chapter Hi

CHAPTER IY.

CHAPTER Y.

Uncle Maurice .

CHAPTER YL

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

Misanthropy and Repentance .

7 9

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER IX.

Page

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XL

CHAPTER XIL

AN ■

ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

CHAPTER I.

THE ATTIC NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS.

January ls£. — The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another year is separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past ! The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister. But while all looks are turned towards the future, mine revert to the past. Every one smiles upon the new queen ; hut, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has just wrapped in her winding-sheet. The past year ! — at least I know what she was, and what she has given me : whilst this one comes surrounded by all the forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds which mantle her ? Is it the storm or the sunshine ? Just now it rains, and I feel my mind as gloomy as the sky. I have a holiday to-day ; but what can one do with a rainy day ? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I determine to light my fire.

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out ! I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old arm-chair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year ? All those who are already in the streets, with their holiday looks and smiling faces — do they understand what

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'AN ATTIC ?EII.<OSpP<HER IN PARIS.

makes them SoVgajfc? Do they eye n know what is the meaning of' this ' holiday, or from whence' comes the custom of Now-year’s ‘gifts? ‘

'Here <ihy hiikd VpauseS' tb prove to itself its superiority over* ‘that c of ‘ the Fulgafr/^X mtike a parenthesis in my illteihper in favour of •my vanity, and I bring together all the evidence which ' ihy knowledge can produce.

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only ; it was Numa Pompilius who added January and February. The former took its name from Janus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opened the New-year, they surrounded its commencement with good omens, and thence came the custom of visits between neighbours, of wishing happiness, and of New-year"1 s gifts. The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They consisted of dried figs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of “ the sweetne'ss of the auspices under which the year should begin its course,” and a small piece of money called stips, which foreboded riches.)

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humour. The little speech ,* I have just addressed to myself has restored me my self-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I could now enjoy my breakfast ; but the portress has forgotten my morning’s milk, and 'the pot of preserves is empty ! Any one else would have been vexed; as for me, I affect the most supreme indifference. There remains a hard crust, which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man far above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reason of the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story of an Englishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his tea without sugar. There are hours in life when the most trifling cross takes the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which

* Spitchy in the original.

THE ATTIC NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 0

makes the object small or great according to the end yon look through.

Generally, the prospect which opens out before my window delights me. It is a mountain range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled on one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks. It was but yesterday that they had an alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the first snow-storm to %ee glaciers among them ; to-day, I only see tiles and stone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem no more than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back-yard ; the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of the panting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater ; and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower of Montmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the city.

My eyes thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great man’s house which faces my attic.

The influence of New-year’s Day is visible there. The servants have an air of eagerness proportioned to the value of their New-year’s gifts, received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the court with the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous ; and the visitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes, or toys. All at once the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawn by thorough-bred horses, draVs up before the door-st&ps. They are, without doubt, the Newyear’s gifts presented ’to the mistress of the house by her husband ; for she comes herself to look at the new equipage. Very soon she gets into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathers, and velvets, and loaded with parcels which she goes to distribute as New-year’s gifts. The door is shut, the windows drawn up, the carriage sets off.

Thus all the world are exchanging good wishes and presents to-day : I alone have nothing to give or to receive.

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AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

Poor Solitary ! I do not even know one cliosen being for wliom I might offer a prayer.

Then let my wishes for a happy New-year go, and seek out all my unknown friends, — lost in the multitude which murmurs like the ocean at my feet ! (

To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty have created a solitude in the midst of the crowd ! unhappy labourers, who are condemned t© toil in melancholy, and eat your daily bread in silence and desertion, and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxicating pangs of love or friendship !

To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turned towards some polar star, while you tread with indifference over the rich harvests of reality !

To you, honest fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain your families ! to you, poor widows, weeping and working by a cradle ! to you, young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, large enough to lead through it the wife of your choice ! to you, all brave soldiers of work, and of self-sacrifice !

To you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, who pity the suffering ; who walk through the world like the symbolical Virgin of Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race !

Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings. I look about me — my window is surrounded with sparrows picking up the crumbs of bread, which in my brown study I had just scattered on the roof. At this sight, a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myself just now, when I complained that I had nothing to give : thanks to me, the sparrows of this part of the town will have their New-year’s gifts !

Twelve o'clock. — A knock at my door ; a poor girl comes in, and greets me by name. At first I do not recollect her ; but she looks at me, and smiles. — Ah ! it is Paulette ! But

THE ATTIC NEW-YEAR’S GIFT.

it is almost a year since I liave seen her, and Paulette is no longer the same : the other day she was a child, now she is almost a young woman.

Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad ; hut she has always the same open and straightforward look — the same mouth, smiling at every word, as if to court your sympathy — the same voice, somewhat timid, yet expressing fondness. Paulette is not pretty — she is even thought plain ; as for me, I think her charming.

Perhaps that is not on her account, hut pn 'my own. Paulette appears to me as a part of One of my happiest recollections.

It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal buildings were illuminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the night winds, and 'the fire-works had just shot forth their spouts of flame into the midst of the Champs de Mars. All of a sudden, one of those unaccountable alarms which strike a multitude with panic, fell upon the dense crowd : they cry out, they rush on headlong, the weaker ones fall, and the frightened crowd tramples them down in its convulsive struggles. I escaped from the confusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, when the cries of a perishing child arrested me : I re-entered that human chaos, and, after unheard of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it at the peril of my life.

That was two years ago : since then I had not seen the child again but at long intervals, and I had almost forgotten her ; but Paulette’s memory was that of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the year to offer me her wishes for my happiness. She brought me, besides, a wallflower in full bloom;' she herself had planted and reared it :

it was something that belonged wholly to herself; for it

was by her care, her perseverance, and her patience, that she had obtained it.

The wallflower had grown in a common pot ; but Pam

AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

lette, wlio is a bandbox-maker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ornamented with arabesques. These might have been in better taste, but I did not feel the attention and good-will the less.

This unexpected present, the little girl’s modest blushes, the compliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind of mist which had gathered round my mind ; my thoughts suddenly changed from the leaden tints of evening to the brightest colours of dawn. I made Paulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart.

At first the little girl replied by monosyllables ; but very soon the tables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with short interjections her long and confidential talk. The poor child leads a hard life. She was left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives with an old grandmother, who has brought them up to poverty, as she always calls it.

However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sister Perrine begins to use the needle, and her brother Henry is apprentice to a printer. All would go well if it were not for losses and want of work — if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which grow larger, and for the winter, when you cannot get sunshine for nothing. Paulette complains that her candles go too quickly, and that her wood costs too much. The fireplace in their garret is so large, that a fagot makes no more show in it than a match ; it is so near the roof, that the wind blows the rain down it, and in winter it hails upon the hearth ; so they have left off using it. Henceforth they must be content with an earthen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals. The grandmother had often spoken of a stove that was to sell at the broker’s close by ; but he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for such an expense: the family, therefore, resign themselves to the cold for economy !

As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing

THE ATTIC NEW-YEAR’S GIFT.

my fretfulness and low spirits. The first disclosures of the little bandbox-maker created within me a wish that soon be* came a plan. I questioned her about her daily occupations, and she informed me, that on leaving me she must go, with her brother, her sister and grandmother, to the different people for whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I told the child that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away with fresh thanks.

I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bid it welcome ; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, and the day, which began so loweringly, had become bright. I sang as I moved about my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out.

Three o'clock . — All is settled with my neighbour, the chimney-doctor ; he will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new. At five o’clock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulette’s grandmother’s room.

Midnight. — All has gone off well. At the hour agreed upon, I was at the old bandbox-maker’s ; she was still out. My Piedmontese* fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace, taken from my winter stock. 1 shall make up for them, by warming myself with walking, or by going to bed earlier.

heart beat at every step which was heard on the staircase ; I trembled lest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoil my intended surprise. But no — see every thing ready : the lighted stove murmurs gently, the little lamp burns upon the table, and a bottle of oil for it is provided on the shelf. The chimney-doctor is gone. Now, my fear lest they should come is changed into impatience at their not coming. At last I hear children’s voices ; here they are : they push open the door and rush in But they all stop in astonishment.

* In Paris, a chimney sweeper is named “Piedmontese” or “Sa< royard,” as they usually come from that country. •

AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands there like a magician in the midst of these wonders, they draw hack almost frightened. Paulette is the first to comprehend it, and the arrival of the grandmother., who is more slowly mounting the stairs, finished the explanation. Then come tears, ecstasies, thanks !

But the wonders are not yet ended. The little sister opens the oven, and discovers some chestnuts just roasted ; the grandmother puts her hand on the bottles of cider arranged on the dresser, and I draw forth from the basket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some fresh rolls.

Now their wonder turns into admiration ; the little family have never seen such a feast ! They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat ; it is a complete banquet for all, and each contributes his share to it. I had brought only the supper : the bandbox-maker and her children supplied the enjoy rnent.

What bursts of laughter at nothing ! What a hubbub of questions which waited for no reply, of replies which answered no question ! The old woman herself shared in the wild merriments of the little ones ! I have always been struck at the ease with which the poor forget their wretchedness. Being only used to live for the present, they m^ke a gain of every pleasure as soon as it offers itself. But the surfeited rich are more difficult to satisfy : they require time and every thing to suit before they will consent to be happy.

The evening has passed like a moment. The old woman told me the history of her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sang an old ballad with her fresh, young voice. Henry told us what he knows of the great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. At last we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the part of the happy family.

I have come- home slowly, ruminating with a full heart,

THE CARNIVAL.

and pjire enjoyment, on tlie simple events of my evening. It has given me much comfort, and much instruction. Now, no N ew-year’s Day will come amiss to me ; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give, and nothing to veceive.

As I came in, I met my rich neighbour’s new equipage She, too, had just returned from her evening’s party ; and, rs she sprang from the carriage-step with feverish impatience, ( heard her murmur — At last !

I, when I left Paulette’s family, said — So soon !

CHAPTER II.

THE CARNIVAL.

February ZQth. — What a 'noise out of doors ! What is the meaning of these shouts and cries ? — Ah ! I recollect, this is the last day of the Carnival, and the maskers are passing.

Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy bacchanalian festivals of the pagan times, but it has changed the names. That which it has given to these “ days of liberty’ announces the ending of the feasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; “ carn-a-vaV'' means literally, “ down with flesh meat ! ” It is a forty days farewell to the “ blessed pullets and fat hams,” so celebrated by Pantagruel’s minstrel. ^Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes bis sin thoroughly before he begins to repent.

Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some one of these mad festivals ? Must we believe that it requires such an effort for men to be reasonable, that the weaker ones have need of rest at intervals ? The monks of La Trappe, who are condemned to silence by their rule, are

AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

allowed to speak once in a month, and on this day they all talk at once from the rising to the setting of the sun.

Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year to be decent, orderly, and reasonable, we mako up for such a long restraint during the Carnival. It is a door opened to the incongruous fancies and wishes which have hitherto been crowded back into a corner of our brain. For a moment the slaves become the masters, as in the days of the Saturnalia, and every thing is given up to the “ fools of the family.”

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 most attention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exciting curiosity or envy ; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to the employments and troubles of yesterday.

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 need of holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. Can he not have them then, without these coarse pleasures ? Economists have been long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of the human race. All ! if I could only discover the best disposal of its leisure ! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find it relaxation? Work supplies the daily bread ; but it is cheerfulness which gives it a relish. 0 philosophers ! go in quest of pleasure ! find us amusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness ; in a word, invent a Carnival which will please every body, and bring shame to no one.

Three o'clock. — I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. As this is a holiday for every body, I will make it one for myself, too. So I light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup of the coffee that my portress’s son brought from the Levant, and I look in my bookcase for one of my favourite authors.

THE CARNIVAL.

First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon ; but his characters are too fond of talking slang : — Yoltaire ; but he disheartens men by always bantering them : — Moliere ; but he hinders one’s laughter by making one think: — Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, he preaches virtue while ridiculing vice ; if bitterness is sometimes to be found in his writings, it is always in garb of mirth : he sees the miseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly tricks without hating it.

Let us call up all the heroes of his book. G-il Bias, Fabrice, Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Ler* ma, Aurora, Scipio ! Ye gay or graceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude, bring hither for my amusement the world-Carnival, of which you are the brilliant maskers !

Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollected I had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my attic neighbours 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 every day with a drawing or painting — probably of little value ; for I know he lives penuriously, and even the letter that I am to write for him shows his poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, and his 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 translate the letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he should have this answer to day : before every thing, let us fulfil our promises.

The sheet of “ Bath” paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into the ink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when I perceive that I have not my dictionary ; now, a Parisian who would speak English without a dictionary is like a child without leading-strings ; the ground trembles under him, and he stumbles at the first step. I run then to the bookbinder’s where I left my Johnson, and who lives close by in the Square. _

AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

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 ; — this latter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexed and out of humour. I learn from him that his comrade was not able to get up in the morning, and that since then he has become worse every hour.

I ask if they have sent for a doctor.

“ Oh yes, indeed ! ” replied Pierre roughly; “ one must have money in one’s pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead of savings.”

“ But you,” said I, rather astonished ; “ are you not his friend ? ”

u Priend ! ” 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 ? ”

II 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* because this fellow is light-headed? ” 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 coarso selfishness provoked me. I began reproaching instead of

* A Paris Vauxlialx.

THE CARNIVAL.

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 stamping his foot : “ Am I to spend my

Carnival in heating water for foot-baths, 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.

u Well, I’m going to take him,” resumed he; 11 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 Courtille gardens !

Six o'clock. — I have been to knock at my neighbour’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 sucrte. He perceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a little ashamed.

AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS.

“ There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbour,’ 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.

a 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 all feasts are not 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 recognised 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 ; 11 say an original, neighbour, and an original retouched by Kubens ! 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 had said that the sight of it gave the crusts an unexpected relish, for he chew*

THE CARNIVAL.

ed 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 of the eyes.

u You see that I also hav^ my treat,” resumed he, 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.”