April 9th
The fine evenings are come back; the trees begin to put forth1 their shoots; hyacinths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets of the flower-girls — all the world have begun their walks again on the quays2 and boulevards. After dinner, I, too, descend3 from my attic4 to breathe the evening air.
It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the day the plaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous5 whiteness; heavily laden6 carts make the streets shake under their huge wheels; the eager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business, cross and jostle one another; the aspect of the city altogether has something harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, as soon as the stars appear, everything is changed; the glare of the white houses is quenched7 in the gathering8 shades; you hear no more any rolling but that of the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only the lounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure. Now each one may breathe after the fierce race through the business of the day, and whatever strength remains9 to him he gives to pleasure! See the ballrooms10 lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along the walks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the newspaper criers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and the apron11; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening for enjoyment12; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious matter till tomorrow.
I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety, but to contemplate13 it. If the enjoyments14 of others embitter15 jealous minds, they strengthen the humble16 spirit; they are the beams of sunshine, which open the two beautiful flowers called trust and hope.
Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feel myself isolated17 from it, for its gayety is reflected upon me: it is my own kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brother’s share in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthly battle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall? If Fortune passes by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others, let us console ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, “Those, too, are Alexanders.”
While making these reflections, I was going on as chance took me. I crossed from one pavement to another, I retraced18 my steps, I stopped before the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there are to learn in the streets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits, foreign arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of all climates, statues of great men, costumes of distant nations! It is the world seen in samples!
Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-windows and the tradesman’s display of goods. Nothing has been taught them, but they have a rude notion of everything. They have seen pineapples at Chevet’s, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-canes selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in the Valentine Hall, have taught them to mimic19 the dance of the bison, and to smoke the calumet of peace; they have seen Carter’s lions fed; they know the principal national costumes contained in Babin’s collection; Goupil’s display of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Africa and the sittings of the English Parliament before their eyes; they have become acquainted with Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the office-door of the Illustrated20 News. We can certainly instruct them, but not astonish them; for nothing is completely new to them. You may take the Paris ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at every wonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle the matter with that favorite and conclusive21 answer of his class —“I know.”
But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world, does not offer merely a means of instruction to him who walks through it; it is a continual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of the ladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how many voyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, what pictures do we sketch22! I never look at that shop near the Chinese baths, with its tapestry23 hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled with magnolias, without seeing the forest glades24 of the New World, described by the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me.
Then, when this study of things and this discourse25 of reason begin to tire you, look around you! What contrasts of figures and faces you see in the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation26! A half-seen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open a thousand vistas27 to your imagination. You wish to comprehend what these imperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipher the mutilated inscription28 on some old monument, you build up a history on a gesture or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, which finds in fiction a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual.
Alas29! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a great house, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man was sitting in the darkest corner, with his head bare, and holding out his hat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had that look of neatness which marks that destitution30 has been met by a long struggle. He had carefully buttoned it up to hide the want of a shirt. His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, as if he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation31, and he remained mute and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar, who sat in silence and darkness! They had been so lucky as to escape complaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too.
Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage, lighted with silver lamps and drawn32 by two black horses, came slowly out, and took the road toward the Faubourg St. Germain. I could just distinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody33 streak34 over the pale face of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and followed the rich man’s equipage until it disappeared in the night.
I dropped a small piece of money into the hat he was holding out, and passed on quickly.
I had just fallen unexpectedly upon the two saddest secrets of the disease which troubles the age we live in: the envious35 hatred36 of him who suffers want, and the selfish forgetfulness of him who lives in affluence37.
All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, and retired38 into my own heart. The animated39 and moving sight in the streets gave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which have been written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each human struggle, but which are propounded40 more clearly than ever in our days.
I pondered on the uselessness of so many contests, in which defeat and victory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistaken zealots who have repeated from generation to generation the bloody history of Cain and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful reflections, I walked on as chance took me, until the silence all around insensibly drew me out from my own thoughts.
I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live in comfort and without ostentation41, and who love serious reflection, delight to find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; one heard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of the inhabitants returning quietly home.
I instantly recognized the street, though I had been there only once before.
That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of the Seine, to which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of a lake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, when I was stopped by a crowd collected near the parapet they had gathered round a child of about six, who was crying, and I asked the cause of his tears.
“It seems that he was sent to walk in the Tuileries,” said a mason, who was returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; “the servant who took care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to wait for him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made him more thirsty, for he has not come back, and the child cannot find his way home.”
“Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?”
“They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he can say is, that he is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval — there are twelve hundred Duvals in Paris.”
“Then he does not know in what part of the town he lives?”
“I should not think, indeed! Don’t you see that he is a gentleman’s child? He has never gone out except in a carriage or with a servant; he does not know what to do by himself.”
Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above the others.
“We cannot leave him in the street,” said some.
“The child-stealers would carry him off,” continued others.
“We must take him to the overseer.”
“Or to the police-office.”
“That’s the thing. Come, little one!”
But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at the names of police and overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward the parapet. In vain they tried to persuade him; his fears made him resist the more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of a little boy was heard through the confusion.
“I know him well — I do,” said he, looking at the lost child; “he belongs in our part of the town.”
“What part is it?”
“Yonder, on the other side of the Boulevards — Rue42 des Magasins.”
“And you have seen him before?”
“Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, where there is an iron gate with gilt43 points.”
The child quickly raised his head, and stopped crying. The little boy answered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details as left no room for doubt. The other child understood him, for he went up to him as if to put himself under his protection.
“Then you can take him to his parents?” asked the mason, who had listened with real interest to the little boy’s account.
“I don’t care if I do,” replied he; “it’s the way I’m going.”
“Then you will take charge of him?”
“He has only to come with me.”
And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set off toward the postern-gate of the Louvre.
The lost child followed him.
“I hope he will take him right,” said I, when I saw them go away.
“Never fear,” replied the mason; “the little one in the blouse is the same age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;’ poverty, you see, is a famous schoolmistress!”
The crowd dispersed44. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thought came into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against any mistake.
I was not long in overtaking them; they were walking side by side, talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The contrast in their dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fanciful children’s dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coat was skilfully46 fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits from his waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons, and his ringlets were half hid by a velvet47 cap. The appearance of his guide, on the contrary, was that of the class who dwell on the extreme borders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with no surrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades, indicated the perseverance48 of an industrious49 mother struggling against the wear and tear of time; his trousers were become too short, and showed his stockings darned over and over again; and it was evident that his shoes were not made for him.
The countenances50 of the two children were not less different than their dress. That of the first was delicate and refined; his clear blue eye, his fair skin, and his smiling mouth gave him a charming look of innocence51 and happiness. The features of the other, on the contrary, had something rough in them; his eye was quick and lively, his complexion52 dark, his smile less merry than shrewd; all showed a mind sharpened by too early experience; he walked boldly through the middle of the streets thronged53 by carriages, and followed their countless54 turnings without hesitation55.
I found, on asking him, that every day he carried dinner to his father, who was then working on the left bank of the Seine; and this responsible duty had made him careful and prudent56. He had learned those hard but forcible lessons of necessity which nothing can equal or supply the place of. Unfortunately, the wants of his poor family had kept him from school, and he seemed to feel the loss; for he often stopped before the printshops, and asked his companion to read him the names of the engravings. In this way we reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, which the little wanderer seemed to know again. Notwithstanding his fatigue58, he hurried on; he was agitated59 by mixed feelings; at the sight of his house he uttered a cry, and ran toward the iron gate with the gilt points; a lady who was standing57 at the entrance received him in her arms, and from the exclamations60 of joy, and the sound of kisses, I soon perceived she was his mother.
Not seeing either the servant or child return, she had sent in search of them in every direction, and was waiting for them in intense anxiety.
I explained to her in a few words what had happened. She thanked me warmly, and looked round for the little boy who had recognized and brought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared.
It was for the first time since then that I had come into this part of Paris. Did the mother continue grateful? Had the children met again, and had the happy chance of their first meeting lowered between them that barrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not divide them?
While putting these questions to myself, I slackened my pace, and fixed61 my eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw it open, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown, I recognized them at first sight; they were the child who was found near the parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of the latter was greatly changed: his blouse of gray cloth was neat, and even spruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; he wore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap. Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunch of lilacs, to which his companion was trying to add narcissuses and primroses62; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by. M. Duval’s son did not go in till he had seen the other turn the corner of the street.
Then I accosted63 the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; he looked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect64 me.
“Forgive me if I do not make you a bow,” said he, merrily, “but I want both my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me.”
“You are, then, become great friends?” said I.
“Oh! I should think so,” said the child; “and now my father is rich too!”
“How’s that?”
“Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he works on his own account; and, as for me, I go to school.”
“Yes,” replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decorated his little coat; “and I see that you are head-boy!”
“Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am come to be the first in the class.”
“Are you now going to your lessons?”
“Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we play together, and where my mother can always have flowers.”
“Then it is the same as if it were partly your own.”
“So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by, sir.”
He nodded to me with a smile, and disappeared.
I went on with my walk, still pensive45, but with a feeling of relief. If I had elsewhere witnessed the painful contrast between affluence and want, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Hearty65 good-will had smoothed down the more rugged66 inequalities on both sides, and had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between the humble workshop and the stately mansion67. Instead of hearkening to the voice of interest, they had both listened to that of self-sacrifice, and there was no place left for contempt or envy. Thus, instead of the beggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man, I had found here the happy child of the laborer68 loaded with flowers and blessing69 him! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examine into with no regard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ballrooms
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| n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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45
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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64
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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66
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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67
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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68
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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69
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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