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Showing posts with label WISDOM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WISDOM. Show all posts
Monday, November 16, 2020
OPPORTUNITY - by Berton Braley
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN - by Robert Frost
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Sunday, November 1, 2020
SCARAMOUCHE - by Madame Guizot - from "POPULAR TALES " - translated by MRS. L. BURKE. - PART II
La Mauricaude, who was never so persuasive as when she had been drinking, had formed acquaintance with one of the ostlers of the inn, who, on his side, was easily led by persuasion, when in the same condition. She had obtained from him a gratuitous place in the stable for Martin, and, though against his master's express orders, a corner also for Thomas. Hence, furnished with some of the remains of the travellers' supper, which he had obtained from his protector, it was an easy matter for Thomas to enter the yard, and entrap the too confiding Medor, who had no suspicion of treachery from the hand of an acquaintance. At the moment when Medor, without abandoning his post, raised his head to smell what was presented to him, Thomas passed the muzzle on his nose, and the slip knot round his neck, and the poor animal found himself tied up to a tree, without having been able to make the least resistance; for, could he have made any, he would easily have triumphed over his adversary. Thus master of the field, Thomas had no difficulty in prosecuting his designs, by means of the key which, at all risks, he had possessed himself of at the first opportunity that offered. Martin, taken from the stable before daybreak, carried off the stolen goods, and scarcely had the morning begun to dawn, when Matthew, roused from the heavy sleep of intoxication, and, almost unconscious of what he was doing, left the arch of the bridge, beneath which he had slept, in the bed of a dried-up stream.
Gervais had obtained, from the blacksmith by whom he had been employed, the permission to pass the night in his woodhouse, upon a heap of vine twigs. Awakening from a sleep which, for the first time for two months, had revived hope in his bosom, he arose with a light heart, full of eagerness to commence his journey towards his new destination. The evening before, he had told his father that he was going to leave him, for the purpose of seeking employment; and Matthew, whose paternal affections were greatly strengthened after the second bottle, gave him his benediction, with tears in his eyes, saying, "Go, my son, and gain an honest living; and wherever you go, you may declare that I am an honest man." As for La Mauricaude, she troubled herself very little about him, neither did he wish her to do so. His serious and reserved disposition had prevented anything like friendly feeling between them
He walked with a light heart towards Lyons, calculating that in order to get there, he would require on his journey some little work and a great deal of frugality; for even by sleeping in sheds, beneath bridges, or under trees, it was impossible that his twenty-one sous, the proceeds of his work the day before, and of his previous economy, should be sufficient for the maintenance of a lad of fifteen, during the ten days that must yet elapse, before the arrival of that happy Monday, which was to bring him the protection of his uncle and of Master Blanchet. But how should he be uneasy about the means of reaching his destination? He was already there in imagination. He was about to live with those who, every day and every hour, would recognize his probity. He was going to have an opportunity of proving his right to be esteemed, a necessity keenly felt by those who, like him, have known humiliation without deserving it, and without allowing themselves to be depressed by its influence. And then, how many delights were in store for him! That pair of shoes which he carried so carefully fastened to the end of his stick, whenever he had far to walk, he might soon be able to wear continually, for he foresaw the time when he should be in a condition to buy others. Nevertheless, he must endeavour to make them last until he had purchased a second shirt, so as to avoid the necessity of going without one occasionally, as was the case, when of an evening, taking advantage of some secluded nook, he took off the only one he had, washed it in the stream and dried it on the grass of the bank. The idea of possessing a pair of stockings to dance in on holidays presented itself to his imagination in the distant future, around which crowded in perspective the inexhaustible joys of life. Then came the thoughts of a more solid happiness, and all the ambitions of an honourable man. He was able to set up for himself; to work on his own account; to withdraw his father from the wretched life his wicked companion forced him to lead, and secure to him a tranquil old age, due to his son who loved him notwithstanding his irregularities. Then, his thoughts rushing over intervening years, Gervais would quicken his steps as if to reach the future, and his imagination warmed, as the sun rose, and shed its brilliant beams over the horizon.
Whilst abandoning himself to these reveries, he felt something cool and moist pressing against his hand. It was the nose of Medor; who, after licking his hand, looked at him and wagged his tail, but with an expression which seemed to ask a question; and having smelt him from head to foot, he went on, his nose in the air, and smelling constantly with the same anxiety. Gervais called him back; Medor stopped, looked at him with an uneasy expression, and continued his journey in the same manner. It was quite evident that he was in search of something; but being ignorant of what had taken place during the night, Gervais was at a loss to conjecture what it could be. It struck him, that, separated perhaps by some accident, Medor and his master might now be in search of each other, and with this idea, he could not suppose that Va-bon-train was still at the inn, whither Medor would undoubtedly have returned; it seemed to him, therefore, the best plan, to allow the animal to obey his instinct, contenting himself with following him so as to prevent his going astray, and preserve him from the danger of being taken or killed as a dog without an owner. He rejoiced in the opportunity thus afforded him of rendering his uncle a service; and, imagining that Medor had had nothing to eat, he gave him a part of the bread he had bought for his day's provision, and which the poor thing devoured with as much appetite as his agitation would permit. They then continued their journey together, Medor being always in advance, except when, from time to time, some new fancy seemed to seize him. Then he would turn as if to retrace his steps, again stop and moan: alternately swayed by the instinct and affection which drew him towards his master, and that which hurried him on to the recovery of what had been confided to his care. Gervais would then call him, and, decided by the voice of his friend, Medor would return and continue his pursuit.
They journeyed thus for about two hours, when all at once, at a part where the road, somewhat hollow, wound in such a manner as to prevent a distant view, Medor, rushing forward, dashed round the corner with such rapidity that Gervais could not doubt that he had found his master. Then redoubling his speed, he also advanced trembling between hope and fear, and was most disagreeably surprised, when, at the turn of the road, he perceived his father, La Mauricaude, the ass, and Thomas, in the greatest embarrassment, contending with Medor, who, without any provocation, and with all the consideration due to old acquaintanceship, had seized upon Thomas in such a manner, that the boy found it impossible to disengage himself from the animal's enormous claws, which, fixed upon the lad's shoulders, served as a support to Medor, who, by smelling about in all directions, at last discovered an old cloth bag lined with leather, which was placed upon the back of the ass, and the cords of which, unhappily for Thomas, had been wound round his arm. Medor's teeth laboured both at the cords and at the bag, which he endeavoured to open, almost upsetting Thomas at every effort; the latter, in despair, and screaming with terror, clung with all his strength to Martin's pack-saddle. "What is the matter with the dog?" quietly asked Matthew, who had been a calm spectator of a scene, which to him had the advantage of rousing him from his apathy. But La Mauricaude, at once furious and frightened, gave the animal some violent blows with a stick. Medor, however, did not seem conscious of them. At length, seizing a large stone, she threw it at him; it struck him on the hind leg, and he fell howling, dragging down Thomas in his fall; the ass also was shaken, and even Matthew was astonished. Gervais only arrived in time to address a word of reproach to La Mauricaude, who was busied in raising her son: he then ran after Medor, who had fled, howling, and limping on three legs. He succeeded in catching him, and found that one of his hind legs was broken. Submissive like a suffering animal to the friend who seeks to relieve him, Medor lay down close to him, and allowed him to examine his leg. Fortunately, Gervais was able to repair the mischief. Naturally kind hearted, it was to that branch of his business which treats of the cure of animals, that he had directed his attention with the greatest interest, and he had already been successful in a case somewhat similar. Matthew, who, when left to his own free will, was always inclined to sympathise with his son, and who, moreover, was delighted at having an opportunity of returning for a moment to his former occupations, willingly assisted his pupil, now become more skilful than himself. The instruments of his art, treasures which Gervais carefully preserved, together with some medicines which he had renewed, or added to, as opportunity permitted, were found sufficient for the emergency. By the united efforts of the two operators, whom La Mauricaude also consented to aid, for reasons which may perhaps be guessed, the leg was well set; and a piece of the last handkerchief that Gervais possessed, and the enormous rents of which he had often contemplated with a sigh, served as a bandage to confine the dressing; and Medor, led by Gervais, was enabled to continue his journey without much pain.
Somewhat cast down by his accident, however, poor Medor was no longer able to pursue his search with the same vigour; and besides, during the operation, Thomas, instructed by his mother, had transferred Scaramouche, together with the Madras handkerchiefs, into one of Martin's panniers, where, covered over with straw, they were less exposed to the keen scent of the animal. Nevertheless, some secret charm always attracted him to the side on which they were, and Gervais was astonished at the difficulty which he found in restraining him. Wishing to divert him from this fancy, and determined to go direct to Lyons, as the surest place of meeting with his uncle, Gervais seized the first opportunity offered by their stopping at a tavern, to separate himself from the troop, with which he had so unluckily come up. But he was not a little annoyed at perceiving, after a few moments, that he was followed in the distance by Thomas, who seemed commissioned to act as a spy upon his movements, while the rest of the caravan appeared soon afterwards. The fertile genius of La Mauricaude had immediately suggested to her the advantage to be derived from the possession of Medor, a magnificent dog in excellent condition, who might be sold at a very high price. The difficulty was to divert the vigilance of Gervais, whom at the same time it was necessary to keep in view, until she had accomplished her design. The following days, therefore, were passed in a perpetual struggle, Gervais endeavouring to recover his liberty, and La Mauricaude seeking to prevent his escape from their odious company. She was singularly seconded by Medor, whose instinct she aroused by taking advantage of every opportunity that offered to approach him unobserved, and permit him to get a distant scent of Scaramouche, the companion of all his travels, the one of all his master's mimic company with whom he had lived on the most familiar terms, when Va-bon-train and his son, in their leisure moments, had endeavoured to invent for him new attitudes, and to rehearse new performances. Then all Medor's affection would revive, he would rush with a plaintive cry upon the cords which restrained him; but before this movement could warn Gervais of what was passing, La Mauricaude had said to Thomas, "Hide Scaramouche," and Thomas, obedient to his instructions, had concealed the precious talisman. Matthew, who was sometimes a witness of these proceedings, demanded the meaning of them; but they deceived him with a feigned tale, told him to be silent, and he was so. But in his evening enjoyments at the tavern, purchased during these days, by the successive sale of the Madras handkerchiefs, he nightly repeated, with a degree of feeling amounting even to tears, "As for me, I have nothing to do with all this; for, at all events, it is certain that I am an honest man."
To the many annoyances which, at this time, fell to the lot of poor Gervais, was added the far greater one of being unsuccessful in his attempts to obtain work. In vain had he gone to the right and to the left, wherever he had been led to hope that it might be procured. Everywhere his hopes were frustrated, and, at the same time, the expense of keeping Medor had rapidly accelerated the consumption of his little store, although the condition of the poor dog sufficiently attested the frugality of his repasts. It grieved Gervais to the heart to see his downcast look, and a certain expression of sadness, which seemed to ask for what it was out of the power of his protector to bestow; for he had given him all he could give, scarcely reserving anything for his own support.
In consequence of his many deviations from the high road in these fruitless endeavours to obtain work, and to escape the inevitable Mauricaude; they at last reached Saturday, the 21st of August, and were still eleven leagues from Lyons. It was six o'clock in the evening, and neither Gervais nor Medor had eaten anything since the previous night. Exhausted by this fast, as well as by the low diet of the few preceding days, they walked with difficulty: and yet they had still a league to go before they could arrive at the village of Auberive, where Gervais had determined to stop, and where, as a last resource, he intended to sell his shoes, in order to have the means of reaching Lyons on the following Monday, the term alike of his hopes and resources. For some moments he had watched Medor with great anxiety, for he saw that he was panting more than usual. The day had been excessively oppressive; and the idea that the want of food, added to the heat and fatigue, exposed the dog to the danger of madness, presented itself to his imagination, and filled him with terror. While seated for a moment's rest, a peasant boy, of about his own age, happened to pass by, eating, with a good appetite, a piece of bread. This sight roused the desires of the half-famished Gervais, and Medor raised his now animated eye, and wanted to run to the boy, to ask him for a portion of his meal. Unable to resist the temptation he felt, and, above all, the appeal of the companion of his journey, Gervais asked the lad if he would buy his shoes, promising that he would sell them cheap.
"How much?" demanded the boy.
"If you have some bread, I will take that, and ten sous besides."
"I have only six sous," replied the rustic, roughly; "and, besides, I don't want your shoes."
"If you have any bread, comrade," continued Gervais, who could not resist the hope with which he had just flattered himself, "give it to me with the six sous, and the shoes shall be yours."
"As for the bread, there is no difficulty about that," replied the boy; and he took from his bag a piece, weighing about a pound, too eager to conclude so good a bargain to perceive that he might have made it still better. Three two-sous pieces terminated the affair, and two-thirds of the pound of bread were at once set apart as the portion of Medor, whom Gervais saw, with a melancholy pleasure, devour in a moment, a piece to which he had nothing to add. Medor's repast, in fact, was ended, before Gervais had got half through his; and, with a longing eye, the poor dog watched the piece which the latter held in his hand, gently whined, and scratched his knee with his great paw, in order to obtain the little that remained. "You are very hungry, then, my poor Medor," said Gervais: "well then, this also shall be yours." He gave him the whole; and the sacrifice was sufficiently great, at that moment, to make him think he had acquired a right to the affection of his uncle. He then rose to continue his journey, hoping to be able to reach Auberive; but, whether from want of food, or because the heat of the day had exhausted him, after proceeding a few steps, he was obliged to lean for support against a tree, and, at last, sank to the ground, almost senseless. Induced either by curiosity or remorse, the young peasant who had bought the shoes occasionally looked back towards him. He saw him fall, and returned, but could give no assistance. He spoke to him, but Gervais was scarcely able to answer. Medor watched his friend with an uneasy look; and the peasant, who perhaps might have been little sensible to other evils, was moved by the sight of a misery which he could understand, and felt some comfort at the thought that, at all events, Gervais had not been rendered worse by having sold his shoes for a quarter of their value.
Providence at that moment directed to the spot another traveller, who came on at a vigorous pace, his coat neatly folded in a handkerchief, and suspended from a stick which he carried on his shoulder. It was Master Blanchet. He approached Gervais, but did not at first recognise him. "Has that boy fainted from hunger?" said he to the young peasant. "I think he has," replied the lad, "for he had but one bit of bread, and he gave almost all of it to his dog." Meanwhile, Master Blanchet drew from his bundle a small flask of brandy, with which he always took care to be provided when on a journey, and made Gervais swallow a few drops of it, while the addition of a piece of bread and a slice of sausage completed his recovery. "A little patience," said Gervais to Medor, who wanted to share this repast also. "Poor Medor," he continued, caressing him, "all our troubles are over now," for he had recognised Master Blanchet, but did not as yet dare to express his joy except in this indirect manner. Struck by the name of Medor, and by the voice of Gervais, which was beginning to assume its natural tone, Blanchet recognized him, was greatly astonished, and put to him many questions; while the peasant lad, who thought he saw Gervais glance towards the shoes, which perhaps at that moment he regretted having parted with so easily, blushed, and walked away, persuaded that his further stay was no longer necessary to any one, and might be disadvantageous to himself.
Gervais' tale was simple enough; he had nothing but the truth to tell; the only difficulty was to explain the nature of his connexion with Va-bon-train. Seeing that the latter had not acknowledged him as his nephew, he felt that in their respective positions it was not for him to be the first to break the silence. Thus, when Blanchet asked him how he had become known to his friend, Gervais replied, "He will tell you that himself; it is not my business to speak of his affairs." Blanchet questioned him on all sides, but without being able to elicit any further information; nevertheless, his replies displayed so much integrity, together with so much good sense and caution, that he began to feel a great respect for him; a feeling which was much increased after he had examined Medor's paw, which was then in progress of cure, and which he found perfectly well set. He could not doubt, therefore, of the talents of Gervais in the different branches of his art. He took him with him to Auberive, where he intended to pass the night, so as to reach Lyons without fatigue on the next day but one. Plenty of onion soup, and a good omelette, procured for Gervais the best meal which had touched his lips for many a day. Medor was also able to make up for his previous fast; and, to complete the happiness of Gervais, he found, at the inn where they stopped, the lad to whom he had sold his shoes. Master Blanchet commented so loudly on the disgrace of such a bargain in such circumstances, and his remarks were so fully approved of by all who heard them, that, whether from fear, or shame, or conscience, the lad consented to return the shoes at the price which he had given for them, and even made it a point of honour to refuse the value of the pound of bread, a sacrifice which procured for him from Blanchet a good draught of wine and a slice of sausage. Thus everything fell into order, and Gervais a second time thought himself at the summit of his hopes; but another day, and another trial, were still to be encountered.
The little room in which Master Blanchet and Gervais slept could not, manage as they would, accommodate a third guest, of the size of Medor. He was, therefore, lodged in the stable; and Gervais, confiding in his new-born happiness, the first earnest of which he had just received, resigned himself to sleep without any anxiety for the safety of his protegé; the more so as, since the morning, he had seen nothing of the odious Mauricaude, and therefore believed himself freed from her at last. Nevertheless, on the following morning Medor had again disappeared; whether in consequence of some new stratagem on the part of La Mauricaude, or from the instinct which urged him to the pursuit of Scaramouche, or the desire to return to his master, could never be ascertained. But certain it is, however, that by this new imprudence he fell into the snare which had long been laid for him; and the first information which the inquiries of Gervais elicited made it certain, that it was only by following the traces of La Mauricaude that he could hope to recover those of Medor. A double affection made success a necessity for him. He therefore requested the permission of Master Blanchet, under whose authority he already considered himself, to go in search of the fugitive; and Blanchet appointed, as their place of meeting in the evening, the village of Saint Syphorien, or, as it is sometimes called, Symphorien, situated about four leagues from Lyons, where he intended to pass the night.
Gervais spent a part of the day in a fruitless search in the neighbourhood. At length some indications led him to the town of Vienne; there he lost them; but, on describing the retinue of La Mauricaude, he was informed, that in all probability she was gone to Saint Syphorien, as it happened to be its fête day. He made all possible haste to reach the place, and arrived there about seven o'clock in the evening. The first object which struck him as he entered the village was La Mauricaude, in conversation with a man to whom she seemed on the point of delivering over Medor, who, sorrowfully resigned to his new condition, appeared cast down by the vicissitudes of his fate. At the sight of Gervais, however, his animation returned, and he started as if to rush towards him.
"That is my dog," exclaimed Gervais, who at the moment thought only of his claims to Medor; and the dog, by the expression of his joy, seemed anxious to confirm his words.
"'Tis false, you thief," replied La Mauricaude, with her customary amenity. "Medor!" she added; and, thus addressed, the dog turned his head, as if to prove that he recognized his name, as well as the voice by which it was pronounced. "You see very well that he knows me," she continued, with a volley of abuse and oaths, which we need not repeat.
"Nevertheless, the dog does not belong to you," said Gervais.
"Nor to you either, liar," etc., etc...
The dispute had been carried on in so vehement a tone, that it was impossible for Gervais to expose the truth of the matter. A third interest, that of the purchaser of the dog, already compromised by a considerable sum paid in advance, was here introduced, as a further complication of the affair, when an exclamation from a terrible voice announced the approach of Va-bon-train, who, having reached Saint Syphorien, and learning the cause of the quarrel, came forward to cut short all disputes. He made his way through the crowd, and had already his left hand on Medor, while his whip, raised in the other, menaced Gervais, who, drawing back with indignation, though still with respect, endeavoured to avoid the necessity of defending himself otherwise than by words. Nevertheless, had it not been for Medor's transports of joy, which somewhat embarrassed his master's movements, Va-bon-train would have been already upon him, and Gervais must have submitted to the cruel alternative of either failing in respect to his uncle, or of enduring an ignominious treatment, the bare idea of which was insupportable to him.
"He is a thief," exclaimed the perfidious Mauricaude, taking advantage of this opportunity to turn upon another the accusation which she herself merited. "He said the dog was his!" and several voices simultaneously repeated, "Yes, he did say so."
"You have been seen all along the road," continued Va-bon-train, "dragging him after you in spite of his resistance;" and a voice repeated, "I saw him." It was in vain that Gervais endeavoured to make himself heard, - the public opinion was against him. Assailed by a crowd of painful emotions, and distressed above all by the treatment he received from him whose gratitude he so much merited, he felt his courage forsake him, and could no longer restrain his tears, tears which only seemed to be an additional evidence against him. Several persons interposed between him and his uncle, but he himself no longer thought of safety; and whilst the efforts of Va-bon-train were redoubled, in order to get near him, notwithstanding the endeavours of the crowd to prevent it, Gervais was exhausting his, in demanding as a suppliant the justice due to his innocence. Michael, whom his father had pushed away from him, not knowing what to think of his friend, but deeply distressed at the sight of the misfortunes which overwhelmed him, and the danger which still threatened him, seemed to appeal to all around to intercede for a reconciliation which every moment appeared to render impossible. However, Heaven again came to the assistance of Gervais, by directing Master Blanchet to the spot. Attracted by the noise, he came out from the house of a friend with whom he had supped; and Michael, perceiving him, ran to meet him. The name of Medor, mingled in the almost unintelligible explanations given by the agitated Michael, led Blanchet to suppose that his young friend Gervais might have something to do in the matter; he therefore hastened his steps, and arrived at the very moment when, by an increased exertion of strength and anger, Va-bon-train, forcing his way through the crowd, was about to rush upon Gervais. Blanchet seized him by the shoulders, and pushed him backwards, saying, "Stop! stop! there's time enough for anger, but not always for explanation."
Less disposed than ever to profit by this good advice, Va-bon-train was, in all probability, upon the point of turning his rage against him who offered it, when a new incident arose to change once more the face of the affair. Matthew approached the scene of action, and Martin and Jacquot, under his guidance, were added to the spectators. Jacquot had not been deaf to certain words, which for several days past had struck his attentive ears. Encouraged probably by the noise, he began to repeat, though in a timid and uncertain tone, and as if he were saying a lesson, which he was not quite sure of knowing, - "Thomas, hide Scaramouche !"
—"Scaramouche!" repeated Michael, who had heard him; and now Jacquot, more sure of what he was about, went on, and constantly raising his voice in proportion as the noise around him increased, and excited him, his words at length reached the ears of Va-bon-train, who turned round; while Medor, taking advantage of his first moment of liberty, rushed upon Martin, and this time rummaging, without obstacle, in the bottom of the pannier, dragged out the unfortunate Scaramouche, who, all crippled and disordered as he was, still retained sufficient life to express by his attitudes the distress of his condition. Medor advanced and placed him triumphantly in the hands of his master; who, in his surprise and joy, knew not to which of his two friends to offer his first caresses. But Medor had not finished his task; and returning to the pannier, notwithstanding the efforts of La Mauricaude, who hastened to the defence of her booty, he drew from it the last of the Madras handkerchiefs, which she had preserved for her own use.
"Infamous old toad!" exclaimed Va-bon-train, "'tis you, then, who have robbed me." And immediately turning towards Gervais, whom the presence of Blanchet had encouraged to approach, "Why were you with her?" he demanded, in a tone which already indicated his desire of finding him less in fault.
—"I was not with her," said Gervais. "They were not together," repeated several of the voices which had at first borne testimony against him.
"And why did you take away my dog?" again demanded Va-bon-train.
—"In order to bring him back to you, and to prevent him from following her." Then the accusations began to turn upon La Mauricaude. One recognized her as having given him on the previous evening a bad ten-sous piece; another had seen Thomas skulking about his house, and an hour after, found that a fowl had been stolen. La Mauricaude began to vociferate, and then to cry as she saw the storm increase, and direct itself against her; meanwhile Gervais drew near his father, who, already more than half intoxicated, and hardly able to understand what he heard, contented himself, without taking any part in the matter, by affirming, that, "as for him, he was an honest man."
"Get out of my way, you fool!" said his brother, pushing him behind him; then advancing towards La Mauricaude, who, still vociferating and crying, was endeavouring to make her escape, amid the hootings which pursued her, he contented himself with cracking his whip in her ears to hasten her steps. The crowd by which she was accompanied, diminished as she retreated, and by degrees the clamours of the little boys, who alone persisted in following her, died away. These assailants she dispersed by throwing stones at them, and they afterwards reported that they had seen both her and her son Thomas join a band of gipsies, who were on the point of departure. From that time she has never been heard of.
Quiet was once more restored at Saint Syphorien, and Va-bon-train received from Blanchet the explanations necessary to establish the good conduct of his nephew. "But where, in the name of Fortune, did you meet with him?" continued Blanchet. "He would never tell me."
"What, Gervais!" said Va-bon-train, "will you not acknowledge me for your uncle?" Michael, transported with joy, once more threw his arms round the neck of his friend, and Va-bon-train afterwards received the acknowledgments of his nephew's grateful affection. "Now then, what is to be done with Matthew," said Va-bon-train—"now that he has got rid of his old toad?" "He cannot live alone," said Gervais, casting down his eyes.
"Well, then, let him come with me," continued Va-bon-train; "Martin will, at all events, be learned enough to carry a part of my baggage, which is becoming too heavy for Medor. I will teach Jacquot many capital things, and we shall get on very well together."
These words rendered Gervais completely happy, and the gratitude inspired by his uncle's kindness towards himself, was far exceeded by what he now experienced, on account of his father. They went for Matthew to the tavern, where they found him still drinking, the longer to defer the moment of payment. This difficulty was removed by his brother, who thenceforth considered himself as charged with his care. The arrangement was proposed to him, and he accepted it, just as he would have done, had he been sober, only that he repeated a little oftener, and with rather more emotion than usual, "You, Vincent, know very well, that I at least am an honest man."
They had a joyful supper that night, Medor remaining at the side of the table, with his head upon his master's knee, which he left only to give a slight caress to Michael, or a look and a wag of his tail to Gervais. The following day, before their departure for Lyons, Gervais received from the generosity of his uncle, the pair of stockings, the shirt, and the two handkerchiefs, necessary to complete his outfit, and had the satisfaction of arriving with him at the workshop of Master Blanchet, not as a poor boy, received almost as an act of charity, but as a good workman, countenanced and recommended by respectable relatives.
He has justified their hopes and his own, having become Master Blanchet's head workman; he is about to marry his only daughter, and his father-in-law, rich enough to retire, has given up to him a business, which Gervais will not allow to decline under his care. Matthew, who only needs guidance, contents himself with being a little merry after his first meal, and a little sleepy after the last. He hopes to spend a peaceful old age with his son, while Va-bon-train, who, without being old, is also anxious for repose, has purchased a small property, married again, and given up his marionettes and the faithful Medor to his son Michael. Matthew has generously added the ass, and Jacquot, and has announced for Gervais' wedding-day, "a performance for the benefit of friendship, in which is to be seen the wonderful dispute between peerless Jacquot and the incomparable Scaramouche."
Saturday, October 3, 2020
FANCY'S SHOW-BOX - A MORALITY - by Nathaniel Hawthorne
What is guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is a point of vast interest whether the soul may contract such stains in all their depth and flagrancy from deeds which may have been plotted and resolved upon, but which physically have never had existence. Must the fleshly hand and visible frame of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to give them their entire validity against the sinner? Or, while none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly tribunal, will guilty thoughts, of which guilty deeds are no more than shadows, will these draw down the full weight of a condemning sentence in the supreme court of eternity? In the solitude of a midnight chamber or in a desert afar from men or in a church while the body is kneeling the soul may pollute itself even with those crimes which we are accustomed to deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a fearful truth.
Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. A venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had long been regarded as a pattern of moral excellence was warming his aged blood with a glass or two of generous wine. His children being gone forth about their worldly business and his grandchildren at school, he sat alone in a deep luxurious arm-chair with his feet beneath a richly-carved mahogany table. Some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better company may not be had rejoice even to hear the quiet breathing of a babe asleep upon the carpet. But Mr. Smith, whose silver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained except by such spots as are inseparable from human nature he had no need of a babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown person to stand between him and his own soul. Nevertheless, either manhood must converse with age, or womanhood must soothe him with gentle cares, or infancy must sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the misty region of the past and the old man be chill and sad. Wine will not always cheer him.
Such might have been the case with Mr. Smith, when, through the brilliant medium of his glass of old Madeira, he beheld three figures entering the room. These were Fancy, who had assumed the garb and aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pictures on her back; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, with a pen behind her ear, an inkhorn at her buttonhole and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm; and lastly, behind the other two, a person shrouded in a dusky mantle which concealed both face and form. But Mr. Smith had a shrewd idea that it was Conscience. How kind of Fancy, Memory and Conscience to visit the old gentleman just as he was beginning to imagine that the wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor as when himself and the liquor were less aged! Through the dim length of the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled the glare of sunshine and created a rich obscurity, the three guests drew near the silver-haired old man. Memory, with a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, placed herself at his right hand; Conscience, with her face still hidden in the dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be next his heart; while Fancy set down her picture - box upon the table with the magnifying glass convenient to his eye.
We can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many pictures which at the pulling of a string successively peopled the box with the semblances of living scenes. One was a moonlight picture, in the background a lowly dwelling, and in front, partly shadowed by a tree, yet besprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youthful figures, male and female. The young man stood with folded arms, a haughty smile upon his lip and a gleam of triumph in his eye as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. She was almost prostrate at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight of shame and anguish which hardly allowed her to lift her clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not lift. But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was depicted, nor the slender grace of the form which it convulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of the young man. He was the personification of triumphant scorn.
Now, strange to say, as old Mr. Smith peeped through the magnifying-glass, which made the objects start out from the canvas with magical deception, he began to recognize the farmhouse, the tree and both the figures of the picture. The young man in times long past had often met his gaze within the looking-glass; the girl was the very image of his first love, his cottage-love, his Martha Burroughs. Mr. Smith was scandalized. "Oh, vile and slanderous picture !" he exclaims. "When have I triumphed over ruined innocence ? Was not Martha wedded in her teens to David Tomkins, who won her girlish love and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? And ever since his death she has lived a reputable widow!"
Meantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers, until among the earlier pages she found one which had reference to this picture. She reads it close to the old gentleman's ear: it is a record merely of sinful thought which never was embodied in an act, but, while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her face and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. Though not a death-blow, the torture was extreme.
The exhibition proceeded. One after another Fancy displayed her pictures, all of which appeared to have been painted by some malicious artist on purpose to vex Mr. Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have been adduced in any earthly court that he was guilty of the slightest of those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face. In one scene there was a table set out, with several bottles and glasses half filled with wine, which threw back the dull ray of an expiring lamp. There had been mirth and revelry until the hand of the clock stood just at midnight, when Murder stepped between the boon companions. A young man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead with a ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him, with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his countenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith. The murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer. "What does this rascal of a painter mean?" cries Mr. Smith, provoked beyond all patience. "Edward Spencer was my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to him through more than half a century. Neither I nor any other ever murdered him. Was he not alive within five years, and did he not, in token of our long friendship, bequeath me his gold headed cane and a mourning ring ?"
Again had Memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length upon so confused a page that she surely must have scribbled it when she was tipsy. The purport was, however, that while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were heating their young blood with wine a quarrel had flashed up between them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at Spencer's head. True, it missed its aim and merely smashed a looking-glass; and the next morning, when the incident was imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty laugh. Yet, again, while Memory was reading, Conscience unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith and quelled his remonstrance with her iron frown. The pain was quite excruciating.
Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful a touch, and in colors so faint and pale, that the subjects could barely be conjectured. A dull, semi-transparent mist had been thrown over the surface of the canvas, into which the figures seemed to vanish while the eye sought most earnestly to fix them. But in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, Mr. Smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments at various ages as in a dusty mirror. After poring several minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguishable pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended to represent him, now in the decline of life, as stripping the clothes from the backs of three half-starved children. "Really, this puzzles me !" quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of conscious rectitude. "Asking pardon of the painter, I pronounce him a fool as well as a scandalous knave. A man of my standing in the world to be robbing little children of their clothes ! Ridiculous !"
But while he spoke Memory had searched her fatal volume and found a page which with her sad calm voice she poured into his ear. It was not altogether inapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. Smith had been grievously tempted by many devilish sophistries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to commence a lawsuit against three orphan-children, joint-heirs to a considerable estate. Fortunately, before he was quite decided, his claims had turned out nearly as devoid of law as justice. As Memory ceased to read Conscience again thrust aside her mantle, and would have struck her victim with the envenomed dagger only that he struggled and clasped his hands before his heart. Even then, however, he sustained an ugly gash.
Why should we follow Fancy through the whole series of those awful pictures ? Painted by an artist of wondrous power and terrible acquaintance with the secret soul, they embodied the ghosts of all the never-perpetrated sins that had glided through the lifetime of Mr. Smith. And could such beings of cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, give valid evidence against him at the day of judgment? Be that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one truly penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture and left the canvas white as snow. But Mr. Smith, at a prick of Conscience too keen to be endured, bellowed aloud with impatient agony, and suddenly discovered that his three guests were gone. There he sat alone, a silver haired and highly - venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the crimsoned curtained room, with no box of pictures on the table, but only a decanter of most excellent Madeira. Yet his heart still seemed to fester with the venom of the dagger.
Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have argued the matter with Conscience and alleged many reasons wherefore she should not smite him so pitilessly. Were we to take up his cause, it should be somewhat in the following fashion. A scheme of guilt, till it be put in execution, greatly resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale. The latter, in order to produce a sense of reality in the reader's mind, must be conceived with such proportionate strength by the author as to seem in the glow of fancy more like truth, past, present or to come, than purely fiction. The prospective sinner, on the other hand, weaves his plot of crime, but seldom or never feels a perfect certainty that it will be executed. There is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts; in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his victim's heart and starts to find an indelible blood stain on his hand. Thus a novel-writer or a dramatist, in creating a villain of romance and fitting him with evil deeds, and the villain of actual life in projecting crimes that will be perpetrated, may almost meet each other halfway between reality and fancy. It is not until the crime is accomplished that Guilt clenches its gripe upon the guilty heart and claims it for his own. Then, and not before, sin is actually felt and acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repentance, grows a thousandfold more virulent by its self consciousness. Be it considered, also, that men often overestimate their capacity for evil. At a distance, while its attendant circumstances do not press upon their notice and its results are dimly seen, they can bear to contemplate it. They may take the steps which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental action as in working out a mathematical problem, yet be powerless with compunction at the final moment. They knew not what deed it was that they deemed themselves resolved to do. In truth, there is no such thing in man's nature as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at the very moment of execution. Let us hope, therefore, that all the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred unless the act have set its seal upon the thought.
Yet, with the slight fancy work which we have framed, some sad and awful truths are interwoven. Man must not disclaim his brotherhood even with the guiltiest, since, though his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the flitting phantoms of iniquity. He must feel that when he shall knock at the gate of heaven no semblance of an unspotted life can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence must kneel and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne, or that golden gate will never open.
Nathaniel Hawthorne (July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864) was an American novelist, dark romantic, and short story writer. His works often focus on history, morality, and religion.
He was born in 1804 in Salem, Massachusetts, to Nathaniel Hathorne and the former Elizabeth Clarke Manning. His ancestors include John Hathorne, the only judge from the Salem witch trials who never repented his involvement. He entered Bowdoin College in 1821, was elected to Phi Beta Kappa in 1824, and graduated in 1825. He published his first work in 1828, the novel Fanshawe; he later tried to suppress it, feeling that it was not equal to the standard of his later work. He published several short stories in periodicals, which he collected in 1837 as Twice-Told Tales. The next year, he became engaged to Sophia Peabody. He worked at the Boston Custom House and joined Brook Farm, a transcendentalist community, before marrying Peabody in 1842. The couple moved to The Old Manse in Concord, Massachusetts, later moving to Salem, the Berkshires, then to The Wayside in Concord. The Scarlet Letter was published in 1850, followed by a succession of other novels. A political appointment as consul took Hawthorne and family to Europe before their return to Concord in 1860. Hawthorne died on May 19, 1864, and was survived by his wife and their three children.
Much of Hawthorne's writing centers on New England, many works featuring moral metaphors with an anti-Puritan inspiration. His fiction works are considered part of the Romantic movement and, more specifically, dark romanticism. His themes often center on the inherent evil and sin of humanity, and his works often have moral messages and deep psychological complexity. His published works include novels, short stories, and a biography of his college friend Franklin Pierce, the 14th President of the United States.
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