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<strong>THE IVAL</strong><strong>February 20th</strong>9９ｌiｂ?
What a of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts andcries? Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the ival, and themaskers are passing.
Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy baaliaivals of the pagan times, but it has ged the hat whichit has given to these "days of liberty" annouhe ending of thefeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; -ival means,literally, "farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days farewell to the"blessed pullets and fat hams," so celebrated by Pantagruels minstrel.
Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thhlybefore he begins to repent.
Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some ohese mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires su effort formen to be reasohat the weaker ones have need of rest atintervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are o silence by theirrule, are allowed to speak on a month, and on this day they all talkat once from the rising to the setting of the sun.
Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year tobe det, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a loraintduring the ival. It is a door opeo the ingruous fancies andwishes that have hitherto been crowded bato a er of our brain.
For a moment the slaves bee the masters, as in the days of theSaturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family."
The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who attract the mostattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exg curiosityor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to theemployments and troubles of yesterday.
Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;our whole life is often but an unsightly ival! A man has needof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. he not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Eists havebeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of thehuman race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of itsleisure! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find itrelaxation? W></a>ork supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulhatgives it a relish. O philoso i of pleasure! find usamusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word,i a ival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one.
Three oclock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. Asthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. SoI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup ofthe coffee that my portresss sht from the Levant, and I look inmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors.
First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are toofond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by alwaysbantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders ones laughter by making ohink:--Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, hepreaches virtue while ridig vice; if bitterness is sometimes to befound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees themiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly trickswithout hating it.
Let us call up all the heroes of his book.... Gil Blas, Fabrice,Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio!
Ye gay raceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;bring hither for my amusement the world-iv<var></var>al, of which you are thebrilliant maskers!
Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollectedI had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my attieighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man,and has a passion for pictures and prints. He es home almost everyday with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know helives penuriously, and eveter that I am to write for him showshis poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, andhis widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translatethe letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he shouldhave this ao-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises.
The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into theink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when Iperceive that I have not my diary. Noarisian who would speakEnglish without a diary is like a child without leading-strings; theground trembles under him, aumbles at the first step. I ruo the bookbinders, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in thesquare.
The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knog,and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. Thislatter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexedand out of humor. I learn from him that his rade was not able to getup in the m, and that sihen he has bee worse every hour.
I ask whether they have sent for a doctor.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money inones pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead ofsavings."
"But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?"
"Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horseis friend to the leader--on dition that each will take his share ofthe draught, a his feed by himself."
"You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?"
"Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as Im going to the ball."
"You mean to leave him alone?"
"Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summerresort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply.
"I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyers. Those who aresick may take their broth; my physic is white wine."
So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fane ofa waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it.
In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man wholay groaning there close by him; beiirely taken up with thethoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hearme. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproaginstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for thesequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man.
At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, andstamped his foot. "Am I to spend my ival iing water forfootbaths, pray?&q..;
"You must not leave your rade to die without help!" I replied.
"Let him go to the hospital, then!"
"How he by himself?"
Pierre seemed to make up his mind.
"Well, Im going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid ofhim sooner. e, get up, cobbr>9９ｌib.</abbr>mrade!" He shook his rade, who had nottaken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but thebookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, halfsupported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a haey carriage.
I saw the sick ma into it, almost fainting, with the impatientwaterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to diCourtville Gardens!
Six oclock.--I have been to knock at my neighbors door, who opehimself; and I have given him his letter, fi last, and directedto his sons widow. M. Antoihanked me gratefully, and made me sitdown.
It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur.
Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bedof straw, two broken chairs, posed all the furniture. At the end ofthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings withoutframes turned against the wall.
At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hardcrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of eau sucree. Heperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a littleashamed.
"There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with asmile.
I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for theival.
M. Antoine shook his head, a on again with his supper.
"Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginningagain to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts ofepicures, and not all feasts are meant tale the palate; there aresome also for the ears and the eyes."
I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible bawhich could make up to him for such a supper.
Without doubt he uood me; for he got up slowly, and, with themagisterial air of a man fident in what he is about to do, he rummagedbehind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which hepassed his hand, and silently placed it uhe light of the lamp.
It represented a fine-looking old maed at table with his wife, hisdaughter, and his children, and singing to the apa of musiseared in the background. At first sight I reized the subject,which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be asplendid copy of Jordaens.
"A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an inal, neighbor, and an iouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dressof the young woman, and the accessories. One t the pencil-strokes of the Hercules of painters. It is not only a masterpiece, sir;it is a treasure--a relic! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl,this is a diamond!"
Aing it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light,he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off thewonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave thecrusts an ued relish, for he chewed them slowly, aied hisglass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, hisnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for theeyes."
"You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with anair of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, thisis the pleasure I give myself for my ival."
"But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to beworth a high price."
"Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In goodtimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousandfrancs."
I started back.
"And you have bought it?" cried I.
"For nothing," replied he, l his voice. "These brokers are asses;mine mistook this for a students copy; he let me have it for fiftylouis, ready mohis m I took them to him, and now he wishesto be off the bargain."
"This m!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes otertaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his sonshich was still otle table.
He took no notiy exclamation, a on plating the workof Jordaens in aasy.
"What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust indelight. "What relief! what fire! Where one find such transparencyof color! such magical lights! such force! suature!"
As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment foradmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.
"You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure!
What do you say to the bargain I have made?"
"Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have doer."
M. Antoine raised his head.
"How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived aboutthe merit or value of a painting?"
"I her doubt your taste nor your skill; but I ot help thinkingthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might havehad--"
"What then?"
"The family itself, sir."
The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of pt.
In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable ofuanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up withoutanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in itshiding-place behind the prints.
It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, a away.
Seven oclock.--When I e in again, I find my water boiling over mylamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, aing out my coffee-things.
The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive ofdomestic operations to one who lives alo is the grand work of abachelors housekeeping.
Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-poiween bodily and spiritualnourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the sensesand the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activityto the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transportsit to the land of the Arabian Nights.
When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before ablazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, whichseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited bythe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled dowhem, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took adistin. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, Isee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.
At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage ona hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and throughthe garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.
Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-trees, in which I distinguish a plough and horses waiting for theirmaster! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound ofthe axe, I perceive the woodsmans hut, roofed with turf and branches;and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure ofmyself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!
The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, pels me to break off mymeditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that Ihave no cream; I take my tin off the hook and go down to themilkwomans.
Mother Denis is a hale trywoman from Savoy, which she left when quiteyoung; and, trary to the of the Savoyards, she has not goneback to it again. She has her husband nor child, notwithstanding thetitle they give her; but her kindness, whiever sleeps, makes herworthy of the name of mother.
A brave creature! Left by herself itle of life, she makes goodher humble pla it by w, singing, helping others, and leavingthe rest to God.
At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. Ihe ers of the shop three childreting on the ground. Theywear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold largeslices of bread and cheese. The you is besmeared up to the eyeswith his, and that is the reason of their mirth.
Mother Denis points them out to me.
"Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, puttingher hand on the head of the little glutton.
"He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse.
"Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone ireetsof Paris, where he find no other father than the All-good God!"
"And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently.
"What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that forohey may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will makeup for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountainsto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again."
Here her eyes filled with tears.
"So you are repaid by your recolles for the good you do them?"
resumed I.
"Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter ofthese little ones, sir, is like a birds song; it makes you gay, andgives you heart to live."
As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and addedsome apples and a handful of nuts to them.
"e, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets againstto-morrow."
Then, turning to me:
"To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have ourival."
I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected.
At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding theegotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kepttheir ival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the sensesor the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart.
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