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CHAPTER VI
UNCLE MAURICE
June 7th, Four Oclock A.M.
I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing sojoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in atop story, that one comes to know how cheerful the mornings really are upamong the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and thebreeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that awandering 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, whilehere labor, light, and song already reign.
What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search forfood, with her beak full of insects for her young ones; the sparrowsshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in thesunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and welcome themorning with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, wheneverything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of daystrikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wandstruck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood! It is a moment ofrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and abreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! itis but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course:
the great human machine, with its long strains, its deep gasps, itscollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.
The tranquillity of this first morning hour reminds me of that of ourfirst years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air isfragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our lifes morning-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Where do thissadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, come from? Thecourse seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: atstarting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal,the bitter disappointment or reality! The road, which began amonghawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices! Whyis 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 theworld and is the individual man intended, after all, to find rest only inan eternal childhood?
How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has theadvantage or the danger of making us continually search more deeply intothe same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always givethe same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it tothe subject which occupies another mind, or interests anothers feelings;and so an involuntary inclination makes us return forever to knock at thesame doors!
I interrupted my reflections to put my attic in order. I hate the lookof disorder, because it shows either a contempt for details or anunaptness for spiritual life. To arrange the things among which we haveto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between themand us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which mantends to the savage state. What, in fact, is social organization but aseries of habits, settled in accordance with the dispositions of ournature?
I distrust both the intellect and the morality of those people to whomdisorder 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. Themind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything,still throw some light around. If our tastes did not reveal ourcharacter, they would be no longer tastes, but instincts.
While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on thelittle almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. I looked for the day ofthe 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 publicreligious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is,in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The daykept in honor of the Creator," says Chateaubriand, "happens at a timewhen the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods andfields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;there is not a single widowed plant in the fields."