uncle maurice

june 7th, four o’clock a.m.

i am not surprised at hearing, when i awake, the birds singing so joyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and i do, in a top story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really are up among the roofs. it is there that the sun sends his first rays, and the breeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that a wandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attic, and that the songs of the industrious work-woman welcome the dawn of day. the lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, while here labor, light, and song already reign.

what life is around me! see the swallow returning from her search for food, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrows shake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in the sunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcome the morning with their fresh faces! delightful hour of waking, when everything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of day strikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wand struck the palace of the sleeping beauty in the wood! it is a moment of rest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and a breath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. but, alas! it is but a short respite! everything will soon resume its wonted course: the great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, its collisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.

the tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of our first years of life. then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air is fragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our life’s morning-sing around us. why do they fly away when we are older? where do this sadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from? the course seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: at starting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal, the bitter disappointment or reality! the road, which began among hawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices! why is there so much confidence at first, so much doubt at last? has, then, the knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness? must we condemn ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope? is the world and is the individual man intended, after all, to find rest only in an eternal childhood?

how many times have i asked myself these questions! solitude has the advantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply into the same ideas. as our discourse is only with ourself, we always give the same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it to the subject which occupies another mind, or interests another’s feelings; and so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever to knock at the same doors!

i interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order. i hate the look of disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or an unaptness for spiritual life. to arrange the things among which we have to live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between them and us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which man tends to the savage state. what, in fact, is social organization but a series of habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of our nature?

i distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whom disorder is of no consequence — who can live at ease in an augean stable. what surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. the mind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything, still throw some light around. if our tastes did not reveal our character, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts.

while i was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on the little almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. i looked for the day of the month, and i saw these words written in large letters: “fete dieu!”

it is to-day! in this great city, where there are no longer any public religious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is, in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. “the day kept in honor of the creator,” says chateaubriand, “happens at a time when the heaven and the earth declare his power, when the woods and fields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties; there is not a single widowed plant in the fields.”

what recollections these words have just awakened! i left off what i was about, i leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my two hands, i went back in thought to the little town where the first days of my childhood were passed.

the ‘fete dieu’ was then one of the great events of my life! it was necessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserve to share in it. i still recollect with what raptures of expectation i got up on the morning of the day. there was a holy joy in the air. the neighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures, worked in tapestry, along the streets. i went from one to another, by turns admiring religious scenes of the middle ages, mythological compositions of the renaissance, old battles in the style of louis xiv, and the arcadias of madame de pompadour. all this world of phantoms seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist — silent and motionless — at the holy ceremony. i looked, alternately in fear and wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of the perpetually smiling shepherdess. sometimes, when the wind blew behind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures themselves moved, and i watched to see them detach themselves from the wall, and take their places in the procession! but these impressions were vague and transitory. the feeling that predominated over every other was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy. in the midst of all the floating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt transported in spite of yourself. the joyful sounds of the festival were repeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes. you were more indulgent, more holy, more loving! for god was not only manifesting himself without, but also within us.

and then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphal arches made of green boughs! what competition among the different parishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession was to halt! it was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautiful of his possessions!

it was there i made my first sacrifice!

the wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and the tabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown the whole! all the neighboring gardens had been ransacked. i alone possessed a flower worthy of such a place. it was on the rose-tree given me by my mother on my birthday. i had watched it for several months, and there was no other bud to blow on the tree. there it was, half open, in its mossy nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all a child’s pride! i hesitated for some moments. no one had asked me for it; i might easily avoid losing it. i should hear no reproaches, but one rose noiselessly within me. when every one else had given all they had, ought i alone to keep back my treasure? ought i to grudge to god one of the gifts which, like all the rest, i had received from him? at this last thought i plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put at the top of the tabernacle. ah! why does the recollection of this sacrifice, which was so hard and yet so sweet to me, now make me smile? is it so certain that the value of a gift is in itself, rather than in the intention? if the cup of cold water in the gospel is remembered to the poor man, why should not the flower be remembered to the child? let us not look down upon the child’s simple act of generosity; it is these which accustom the soul to self-denial and to sympathy. i cherished this moss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman; i had reason to cherish it always, as the record of the first victory won over myself.

it is now many years since i witnessed the celebration of the ‘fete dieu’; but should i again feel in it the happy sensations of former days? i still remember how, when the procession had passed, i walked through the streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. i felt intoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed with the fragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and i seemed no longer to touch the ground as i went along. i smiled at everything; the whole world was paradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that god was floating in the air!

moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might be more intense on certain days, but at the same time it continued through the ordinary course of my life. many years thus passed for me in an expansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if not from coming, at least from staying with me. sure of not being alone, i soon took heart again, like the child who recovers its courage, because it hears its mother’s voice close by. why have i lost that confidence of my childhood? shall i never feel again so deeply that god is here?

how strange the association of our thoughts! a day of the month recalls my infancy, and see, all the recollections of my former years are growing up around me! why was i so happy then? i consider well, and nothing is sensibly changed in my condition. i possess, as i did then, health and my daily bread; the only difference is, that i am now responsible for myself! as a child, i accepted life when it came; another cared and provided for me. so long as i fulfilled my present duties i was at peace within, and i left the future to the prudence of my father! my destiny was a ship, in the directing of which i had no share, and in which i sailed as a common passenger. there was the whole secret of childhood’s happy security. since then worldly wisdom has deprived me of it. when my lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, i thought to make myself master of it by means of a long insight into the future. i have filled the present hour with anxieties, by occupying my thoughts with the future; i have put my judgment in the place of providence, and the happy child is changed into the anxious man.

a melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson. who knows that, if i had trusted more to him who rules the world, i should not have been spared all this anxiety? it may be that happiness is not possible here below, except on condition of living like a child, giving ourselves up to the duties of each day as it comes, and trusting in the goodness of our heavenly father for all besides.

this reminds me of my uncle maurice! whenever i have need to strengthen myself in all that is good, i turn my thoughts to him; i see again the gentle expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; i hear his voice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! the remembrance of him protects my life, and gives it light. he, too, was a saint and martyr here below. others have pointed out the path of heaven; he has taught us to see those of earth aright.

but, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrifices performed in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has ever heard of my uncle maurice? perhaps i alone remember his name, and still recall his history.

well! i will write it, not for others, but for myself! they say that, at the sight of the apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a more dignified attitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raised and ennobled by the recollection of a good man’s life!

a ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which i write; the breeze brings me in the scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheel about my window with joyful twitterings. the image of my uncle maurice will be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and the fragrance.

seven o’clock. — it is with men’s lives as with days: some dawn radiant with a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds. that of my uncle maurice was one of the latter. he was so sickly, when he came into the world, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding these anticipations, which might be called hopes, he continued to live, suffering and deformed.

he was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attractions of childhood. he was oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for his deformity. in vain the little hunchback opened his arms to the world: the world scoffed at him, and went its way.

however, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the child directed all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. with her he found shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man must take his place in life; and maurice had to content himself with that which others had refused with contempt. his education would have qualified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk —[the octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]— in one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town.

he was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with no relaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mother’s visits. on fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under the shade of a clematis planted by maurice. and, even when she was silent, her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard the clinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournful profile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; he could every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowed neck, and exchange a smile with her!

this comfort was soon to be taken from him. his old mother fell sick, and at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. maurice was overcome at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave him alone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. he knelt by the bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, he pressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. his mother tried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold, her voice was already gone. she could only press her lips against the forehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!

they tried to take maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himself on that now motionless form.

“dead!” cried he; “dead! she who had never left me, she who was the only one in the world who loved me! you, my mother, dead! what then remains for me here below?”

a stifled voice replied:

“god!”

maurice, startled, raised himself! was that a last sigh from the dead, or his own conscience, that had answered him? he did not seek to know, but he understood the answer, and accepted it.

it was then that i first knew him. i often went to see him in his little toll-house. he joined in my childish games, told me his finest stories, and let me gather his flowers. deprived as he was of all external attractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came to him, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcome for everyone. deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with a gentle patience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid the insults of his executioners, he repeated with christ, “father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

no other clerk showed so much honesty, zeal, and intelligence; but those who otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved were repelled by his deformity. as he had no patrons, he found his claims were always disregarded. they preferred before him those who were better able to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favor when letting him keep the humble office which enabled him to live. uncle maurice bore injustice as he had borne contempt; unfairly treated by men, he raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of him who cannot be deceived.

he lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poor but not as forlorn as he, also lodged. among these neighbors there was a single woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which came both wind and rain. she was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothing to recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it. she was never seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret. she worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloom seemed to envelop her like a shroud. her dejection affected maurice; he attempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words. it was easy to see that she preferred her silence and her solitude to the little hunchback’s good-will; he perceived it, and said no more.

but toinette’s needle was hardly sufficient for her support, and presently work failed her! maurice learned that the poor girl was in want of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit. he immediately went to them privately and engaged to pay them for what they supplied toinette with.

things went on in this way for several months. the young dressmaker continued out of work, until she was at last frightened at the bills she had contracted with the shopkeepers. when she came to an explanation with them, everything was discovered. her first impulse was to run to uncle maurice, and thank him on her knees. her habitual reserve had given way to a burst of deepest feeling. it seemed as if gratitude had melted all the ice of that numbed heart.

being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchback could give greater efficacy to his good offices. toinette became to him a sister, for whose wants he had a right to provide. it was the first time since the death of his mother that he had been able to share his life with another. the young woman received his attentions with feeling, but with reserve. all maurice’s efforts were insufficient to dispel her gloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed her sense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. her heart was a closed book, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read. in truth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness of being no longer alone, and took toinette such as her long trials had made her; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but still to enjoy her company.

this thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusion of all besides. the poor girl was as forlorn as himself; she had become accustomed to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look on him with an affectionate sympathy! what more could he wish for? until then, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had been repelled by maurice as a dream; but chance seemed willing to make it a reality. after much hesitation he took courage, and decided to speak to her.

it was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed his steps toward the work-woman’s garret just as he was about to enter, he thought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maiden’s name. he quickly pushed open the door, and perceived toinette weeping, and leaning on the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor.

at the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran to him, crying out:

“ah! come in — come in! it is he that i thought was dead: it is julien; it is my betrothed!”

maurice tottered, and drew back. a single word had told him all!

it seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about to break; but the same voice that he had heard by his mother’s deathbed again sounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. god was still his friend!

he himself accompanied the newly-married pair on the road when they left the town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denied to him, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb.

it was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he said by the father which is in heaven. he felt his presence everywhere; it was to him in the place of all else. when he died, it was with a smile, and like an exile setting out for his own country. he who had consoled him in poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustice and forsaken by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him.

eight o’clock. — all i have just written has pained me! till now i have looked into life for instruction how to live. is it then true that human maxims are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, prudence, moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth, which alone can face great misfortunes? and that, if man has need of virtues for others, he has need of religion for himself?

when, in youth, we drink our wine with a merry heart, as the scripture expresses it, we think we are sufficient for ourselves; strong, happy, and beloved, we believe, like ajax, we shall be able to escape every storm in spite of the gods. but later in life, when the back is bowed, when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affections grow chill-then, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out our arms, like the child overtaken by night, and we call for help to him who is everywhere.

i was asking this morning why this growing confusion alike for society and for the individual? in vain does human reason from hour to hour light some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow ever darker! is it not because we are content to withdraw farther and farther from god, the sun of spirits?

but what do these hermit’s reveries signify to the world? the inward turmoils of most men are stifled by the outward ones; life does not give them time to question themselves. have they time to know what they are, and what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the next lease or the last price of stock? heaven is very high, and wise men look only at the earth.

but i— poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek neither power nor riches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelter of my spirit — i can go back with impunity to these recollections of my childhood; and, if this our great city no longer honors the name of god with a festival, i will strive still to keep the feast to him in my heart.