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<strong>THE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME</strong><strong>Sunday, July 1st.</strong>
Yesterday the month dedicated to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romans ended.
To-day we enter on July.
In a Rome this latter month was called Quihe fifth),because the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began inMarch. When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this name ofQuintiles reserved, as well as those that followed--Sexteles,September, October, November, December--although these designations didnot accord with the newly arranged order of the months. At last, after atime the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was calledJulius, whence we have July. Thus this name, placed in the dar, isbee the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal epitaphon Times highway, engraved by the admiration of man.
How many similar inscriptions are there! Seas, tis, mountains,stars, and mos, have all in succession served the same purpose! Wehave turhe whole world into a Golden Book, like that in which thestate of Venice used to enroll its illustrious names and its great deeds.
It seems that mankind feels a y for h itself in its elees, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosing heroes fromamong its own race. The human family lo<big></big>ve to preserve the memory; of theparvenus of glory, as we cherish that of a great aor, or of abeor.
In fact, the talents grao a single individual do not behimself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, foreveryone suffers or bes by his as. Genius is a lighthouse,meant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock uponwhich this lighthouse is built.
I love to dwell upohoughts; they explain to me in what sistsour admiration flory. When glory has beed men, that admirationis gratitude; when it is only remarkable in itself, it is the pride ofrace; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples ofhumanity.
Who knows whether we do not obey the same instin submitting to thehand of power? Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, orthe sequences of a quest, the multitude d<var></var>elight to surround theirchiefs with privileges--whether it be that their vanity makes them thusto aggrandize one of their owions, or whether they try to cealthe humiliation of subje by exaggerating the importance of those whorule them. They wish to honor themselves through their master; theyelevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround him with ahalo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon themselves.
It is still the fable of the dog who tents himself with the andcollar, so that they are of gold.
This servile vanity is not less natural or less on than the vanity ofdominion. Whoever feels himself incapable of and, at least desiresto obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to sider themselvesdishonored when they became the property of a mere t after havihat of a prince, and Saint-Simoions a valet who would onlywait upon marquises.
July 7th, seven oclock P. M.--I have just now been up the Boulevards;it was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in the RueLepelletier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossingreized the persons in some of these as we went by, aioheir hey were those of celebrated or powerful men, thesuccessful ones of the day.
Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes,whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious looksthese possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on hislips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind.
"Look at them, the lucky fellows!" thought he; "all the pleasures ofwealth, all the enjoyments of pride, are theirs. Their names arerenowned, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sns of theworld, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor andunknown, toil painfully along the road below, they wing their way overthe mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of prosperity."
I have e home ihought. Is it true that there are theseinequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men?
Do genius and authority really wear life as a , while the greaterpart of mankind receive it as a yoke? Is the difference of rank but adifferent use of mens dispositions and talents, or a real inequality intheir destinies? A solemion, as it regards the verification ofGods impartiality.
July 8th, noon.--I went this m to call upon a friend from the sameprovince as myself, who is the first usher-in-waiting to one of ourministers. I took him some letters from his family, left for him by atraveller just e from Brittany. He wished me to stay.
"To-day," said he, "the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day ofrest with his family. His younger sisters are arrived; he will take themthis m to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friendsto a private ball. I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of theday. We diogether; read the news while you are waiting for me."
I sat down at a table covered with neers, all of which I looked overby turns. Most of them tained severe criticisms on the last politicalacts of the minister; some of them added suspis as to the honor ofthe minister himself.
Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take them tohis master.
He was then about to read these accusations, to suffer silently the abuseof all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation or tos! Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to eheinsults of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies,his ignorance, or his vices.
But, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be foundpoisoned? Would not one reae spot in his heart where the woundwould be incurable? What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacksof envious hatred or furious vi? The Christians yielded only thefragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man inpives up his peace, his affes, his honor, to the cruel bitesof the pen.
While I was musing upon these dangers of greatness, the usher enteredhastily. Important news had been received: the minister is just summoo the cil; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud.
I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at thedoor, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to thecil. The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much familyhappiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesmanin it.
The usher came back distented and disappoihe more or less ofliberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer of the politicalatmosphere. If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at his post,the try is in danger. His opinion on public affairs is but acalculation of his own i. My friend is almost a statesman.
I had some versation with him, aold me several curiousparticulars of public life.
The new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though hestill retains his personal regard for them. Though separated from themby the colors he fights uhey remain united by old associations;but the exigencies of party forbid him to meet them. If theirintercourse tinued, it would awaken suspi; people would imagi some dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be held tobe traitors desirous to sell themselves, ahe corrupt ministerprepared to buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to break offfriendships of twenty years standing, and to sacrifice attats whichhad bee a sed nature.
Sometimes, however, the miill gives way to his old feelings; hereceives or visits his friends privately; he shuts himself up with them,and talks of the times when they could be open friends. By dint ofprecautions they have hitherto succeeded in cealing this blot offriendship against policy; but sooner or later the neers will beinformed of it, and will denounce him to the try as an object ofdistrust.
For whether hatred be ho or disho, it never <s></s>shrinks from anyaccusation. Sometimes it even proceeds to crime. The usher assured methat several warnings had been given the minister which had made him fearthe vengeance of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out on foot.
Then, from ohing to another, I learned what temptations came in tomislead or overe his judgment; how he found himself fatally led intoobliquities which he could not but deplore. Misled by passion, over-persuaded by eies, or pelled for reputations sake, he has manytimes held the balah an unsteady hand. How sad the dition ofhim who is in authority! Not only are the miseries of power imposed uponhim, but its vices also, whiot tent with t, succeed incorrupting him.
We prolonged our versation till it was interrupted by the ministersreturhrew himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers,and with an anxious manner went into his own room. An instant afterwardhis bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to allthose invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; they spokemysteriously of bad ransmitted by the telegraph, and in suchcircumstances aertai would seem to insult the public sorrow.
I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seenis an ao my doubts the other day. Now I know with angs menpay for their dignities; now I uandThat Fortune sells what we believe she gives.
This explains to me the reason why Charles V aspired to the repose of thecloister.
A I have only gla some of the sufferings attached to power.
What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitatedfrom the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that pathof pain along which they must forever bear the burden of theirresponsibility? of that of des and ennuis whipassesevery act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty?
The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies.
If men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keephim separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with atinual worship, and, by a stant ceremonial, keep up for him thesuperhuman part they have granted him. Our masters ot remainabsolute, except on dition of being treated as idols.
But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they mustlead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment tothemselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used tulate, hour by hour, the as of the king and queen; "so that,"
says Voltaire, "by reading it one tell all that the sns ofSpain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment." Itwas by this lahilip III, when sick, was obliged to endure suexcess of heat that he died in sequence, because the Duke of Uzeda,who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber,happeo be absent.
When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, shewas about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquetteforbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endaheirlives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whomthey had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon fortheir crime. Every one knows the ae related by Madame Campan ofMarie Antoie, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, whenthe chemise was about to be preseo her by one of the assistants, alady of very a family entered and claimed the honor, as she had theright by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil her duty,a lady of higher rank appeared, and iurn took the garment she wasabout to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still higher title cameiurn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no other than thekings sister. The chemise was in this manner passed from hand to hand,with ceremonies, courtesies, and pliments, before it came to thequeen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with cold for thegreat honor of etiquette.
12th, seven oclock, P.M.--On ing home this evening, I saw, standingat the door of a house, an old man, whose appearand featuresreminded me of my father. There was the same beautiful smile, the samedeep arating eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and thesame careless attitude.
I began living ain the first years of my life, and recalling tomyself the versations of that guide whom God in his mercy had givenme, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn.
When my father spoke, it was not only t our two minds together byan interge of thought, but his words always tained instru.
Not that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father feared everythingthat had the appearance of a lesson. He used to say that virtue ake herself devoted friends, but she did not take pupils: therefore hewas not desirous to teach goodness; he tented himself with sowing theseeds of it, certain that experience would make them grow.
How often has good grain fallen thus into a er of the heart, and,when it has been long fotten, all at o forth the blade and einto ear! It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, and we donot know its value till we find ourselves in need of it.
Among the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings,there is one whiow returns to my memory, doubtless because the timeis e to derive its lesson from it.
My father, who re the age of twelve to one of thosetrading collectors who call themselves naturalists, because they put allcreation under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had always led alife of poverty and labor. Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turnsshop-boy, clerk, and laborer, he was made to bear alone all the work of atrade of which his master reaped all the profits. In truth, this latterhad a peculiar talent for making the most of the labor of other people.
Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, no one ker how to sell it. His words were a , in which people foundthemselves taken before they were aware. And since he was devoted tohimself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and the buyer asprey, he used them both with that obstinate perseverance which avariceteaches.
My father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own onlyon Sunday. The master naturalist, who used to spend the day at the houseof an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on dition that hedined out, and at his own expense. But my father used secretly to takewith him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and,leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valleyof Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of the Marne.
Excited by the fresh air, <df</dfn>the peing perfume of the growiation, or the fragrance of the honeysuckles, he would walk on untilhunger or fatigue made itself felt. Then he would sit under a hedge, orby the side of a stream, and would make a rustic feast, by turns onwatercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from the hedges;he would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then iest vogue, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques,of whom he possessed three old volumes. The day was thus passedalternately in activity a, in pursuit aation, until thedeing sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he wouldarrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a wholeweek.
One day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close toit, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in s the plantshe had just gathered. He was an elderly man with an ho face; but hiseyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows, had a somewhatuneasy and timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, agray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stogs, and held an ivory-headed e under his arm. His appearance was that of a small retiredtradesman who was living on his means, and rather below the golden meanof Horace.
My father, who had great respect fe, civilly raised his hat to himas he passed. In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; thestraooped to take it up, and reized it.
"It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos," said he; "I have not yet seen any ofthem in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?"
My father replied that it was to be found in abundan the top of thehill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium.
"That, too!" repeated the old man more briskly. "Ah! I shall go andlook for them; I have gathered them formerly on the hillside of Robaila."
My father proposed to take him. The stranger accepted his proposal withthanks, and hasteo collect together the plants he had gathered; butall of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple. He observed to hispanion that the road he was going was half the hill, and led inthe dire of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue; that bygoing to the top he would sequently turn out of his road, and that itwas nht he should take this trouble for a stranger.
My father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the merness he showed, the more obstihe old man refused; it evenseemed to my father that his good iion at last excited hissuspi. He therefore tented himself with pointing out the road tothe stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him.
Many hours passed by, ahought no more of the meeting. He hadreached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossyglade, he read once more the last volume of Emile. The delight ofreading it had so pletely absorbed him that he had ceased to see orhear anything around him. With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist,he repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him.
An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; he raisedhis head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before onthe crossroad at Viroflay.
He was loaded with plants, the colle of which seemed to have put himinto high good-humor.
"A thousand thanks, sir," said he to my father. "I have found all thatyou told me of, and I am ied to you for a charming walk."
My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply. The stranger hadgrown quite familiar, and even asked if his young "brother botanist" didnot think of returning to Paris. My father replied in the affirmative,and opened his tin box to put his book ba it.
The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence askthe name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseaus Emile.
The stranger immediately became grave.
They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with thewarmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work hadmade him feel; his panion remaining cold and silent. The formerextolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had madehim a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of greatthinkers, whn in spite of time and space, and gather together apeople of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenlyinterrupted him:
"And how do you know," said he, mildly, "whether Jean Jacques would notexge the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of thewood-cutters whose eys smoke we see? What has fame brought himexcept persecution? The unknown friends whom his books may have made forhim tent themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while thedeclared ehat they have drawn upon him pursue him with violend calumny! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times hasit been wounded by satire? And be assured that human pride is like theSybarite who revented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf. Theactivity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost alwaysturns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he growsolder; the ideal he pursues tinually disgusts him with the actual; heis like a man who, with a too-refined sight, diss spots and blemishesin the most beautiful face. I will not speak of stroemptations andof deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but whatvirtuous man is not afraid of being a king? He who feels only his greatpowers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing freat failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book isno object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeli,pity him!"
My father, asto the excitement with which his panionpronouhese last words, did not know what to answer.
Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle tothat of Versailles; a carriage assing.
The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamationof surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated:
"There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!"
Then the carriage disappeared in the distance.
My father remained motionless, founded, and amazed, his eyes wideopen, and his hands clasped.
Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turowardhim:
"You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his latermisfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques ot even hide himself:
he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to allhe is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signifyless if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, assoon as a man has had the misfortuo make himself a name, he beespublic property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivialas, and insults his feelings; he bees like those walls, whichevery passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps you willsay that I have myself enced this curiosity by publishing myfessions. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my housethrough the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opehe doors andwindows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir.
Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seenRousseau."
Nine oclock.--Ah! now I uand my fathers story! It tains theao one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I hat fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, whenthey dazzle the soul, both are ofte, as Madame de Stael says, but undeuil eclatant de bonheur!
Tis better to be lowly born,And rah humble livers in tent,Than to be perkd up in a glistering grief,And wear a golden sorrow.
[Henry VIII., Act II., Se 3.]
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