The Wandering Jew — Complete
all, in making a few verses, or in writing in this journal the good or
bad impressions I have received? Is Agricola the worse workman, because,
on returning home to his mother, he employs Sunday in composing some of
those popular songs, which glorify the fruitful labors of the artisan,
and say to all, Hope and brotherhood! Does he not make a more worthy use
of his time than if he spent it in a tavern? Ah! those who blame us for
these innocent and noble diversions, which relieve our painful toils and
sufferings, deceive themselves when they think, that, in proportion as
the intellect is raised and refined, it is more difficult to bear with
privations and misery, and that so the irritation increases against the
luckier few.
"Admitting even this to be the case--and it is not so--is it not better
to have an intelligent, enlightened enemy, to whose heart and reason you
may address yourself, than a stupid, ferocious, implacable foe? But no;
enmities disappear as the mind becomes enlightened, and the horizon
of compassion extends itself. We thus learn to understand moral
afflictions. We discover that the rich also have to suffer intense
pains, and that brotherhood in misfortune is already a link of sympathy.
Alas! they also have to mourn bitterly for idolized children, beloved
mistresses, reverend mothers; with them, also, especially amongst the
women, there are, in the height of luxury and grandeur, many broken
hearts, many suffering souls, many tears shed in secret. Let them not be
alarmed. By becoming their equals in intelligence, the people will learn
to pity the rich, if good and unhappy--and to pity them still more if
rejoicing in wickedness.
"What happiness! what a joyful day! I am giddy with delight. Oh, truly,
man is good, humane, charitable. Oh, yes! the Creator has implanted
within him every generous instinct--and, unless he be a monstrous
exception, he never does evil willingly. Here is what I saw just now. I
will not wait for the evening to write it down, for my heart would, as
it were, have time to cool. I had gone to carry home some work that was
wanted in a hurry. I was passing the Place du Temple. A few steps from
me I saw a child, about twelve years old at most, with bare head, and
feet, in spite of the severe weather, dressed in a shabby, ragged smock
frock and trousers, leading by the bridle a large cart-horse, with his
harness still on. From time to time the horse stopped short, and refused
to advance. The child, who had no whip, tugged in vain at the bridle.
The horse remained motionless. Then the poor little fellow cried out:
'O dear, O dear!' and began to weep bitterly, looking round him as if
to implore the assistance of the passers-by. His dear little face was
impressed with so heart piercing a sorrow, that, without reflecting, I
made an attempt at which I can now only smile, I must have presented so
grotesque a figure. I am horribly afraid of horses, and I am still more
afraid of exposing myself to public gaze. Nevertheless, I took courage,
and, having an umbrella in my hand, I approached the horse, and with the
impetuosity of an ant that strives to move a large stone with a little
piece of straw, I struck with all my strength on the croup of the
rebellious animal. 'Oh, thanks, my good lady!' exclaimed the child,
drying his eyes: 'hit him again, if you please. Perhaps he will get up.'
"I began again, heroically; but, alas! either from obstinacy or
laziness, the horse bent his knees, and stretched himself out upon the
ground; then, getting entangled with his harness, he tore it, and broke
his great wooden collar. I had drawn back quickly, for fear of receiving
a kick. Upon this new disaster, the child could only throw himself on
his knees in the middle of the street, clasping his hands and sobbing,
and exclaiming in a voice of despair: 'Help! help!'
"The call was heard; several of the passers-by gathered round, and a
more efficacious correction than mine was administered to the restive
horse, who rose in a vile state, and without harness.
"'My master will beat me,' cried the poor child, as his tears redoubled;
'I am already two hours after time, for the horse would not go, and now
he has broken his harness. My master will beat me, and turn me away. Oh
dear! what will become of me! I have no father nor mother.'
"At these words, uttered with a heart-rending accent, a worthy old
clothes-dealer of the Temple, who was amongst the spectators, exclaimed,
with a kindly air: 'No father nor mother! Do not grieve so, my poor
little fellow; the Temple can supply everything. We will mend the
harness, and, if my gossips are like me, you shall not go away
bareheaded or barefooted in such weather as this.'
"This proposition was greeted with acclamation; they led away both horse
and child; some were occupied in mending the harness, then one supplied
a cap, another a pair of stockings, another some shoes, and another
a good jacket; in a quarter of an hour the child was warmly clad, the
harness repaired, and a tall lad of eighteen, brandishing a whip, which
he cracked close to the horse's ears, by way of warning, said to the
little boy, who, gazing first at his new clothes, and then at the good
woman, believed himself the hero of a fairy-tale. 'Where does your
governor live, little 'un?'
"'On the Quai du Canal-Saint-Martin, sir,' answered he, in a voice
trembling with joy.
"'Very good,' said the young man, 'I will help you take home the horse,
who will go well enough with me, and I will tell the master that the
delay was no fault of your'n. A balky horse ought not to be trusted to a
child of your age.'
"At the moment of setting out, the poor little fellow said timidly to
the good dame, as he took off his cap to her: 'Will you let me kiss you,
ma'am?'
"His eyes were full of tears of gratitude. There was heart in that
child. This scene of popular charity gave me delightful emotions. As
long as I could, I followed with my eyes the tall young man and the
child, who now could hardly keep up with the pace of the horse, rendered
suddenly docile by fear of the whip.
"Yes! I repeat it with pride; man is naturally good and helpful.
Nothing could have been more spontaneous than this movement of pity and
tenderness in the crowd, when the poor little fellow exclaimed: 'What
will become of me? I have no father or mother!'
"'Unfortunate child!' said I to myself. 'No father nor mother. In the
hands of a brutal master, who hardly covers him with a few rags, and
ill treats him into the bargain. Sleeping, no doubt in the corner of
a stable. Poor little, fellow! and yet so mild and good, in spite of
misery and misfortune. I saw it--he was even more grateful than pleased
at the service done him. But perhaps this good natural disposition,
abandoned without support or counsel, or help, and exasperated by bad
treatment, may become changed and embittered--and then will come the age
of the passions--the bad temptations--'
"Oh! in the deserted poor, virtue is doubly saintly and respectable!
"This morning, after having (as usual) gently reproached me for not
going to mass, Agricola's mother said to me these words, so touching in
her simple and believing mouth, 'Luckily, I pray for you and myself too,
my poor girl; the good God will hear me, and you will only go, I hope,
to Purgatory.'
"Good mother; angelic soul! she spoke those words in so grave and mild
a tone, with so strong a faith in the happy result of her pious
intercession, that I felt my eyes become moist, and I threw myself on
her neck, as sincerely grateful as if I had believed in Purgatory. This
day has been a lucky one for me. I hope I have found work, which luck I
shall owe to a young person full of heart and goodness, she is to take
me to-morrow to St. Mary's Convent, where she thinks she can find me
employment."
Florine, already much moved by the reading, started at this passage in
which Mother Bunch alluded to her, ere she continued as follows:
"Never shall I forget with what touching interest, what delicate
benevolence, this handsome young girl received me, so poor, and so
unfortunate. It does not astonish me, for she is attached to the person
of Mdlle. de Cardoville. She must be worthy to reside with Agricola's
benefactress. It will always be dear and pleasant to me to remember
her name. It is graceful and pretty as her face; it is Florine. I am
nothing, I have nothing--but if the fervent prayers of a grateful heart
might be heard, Mdlle. Florine would be happy, very happy. Alas! I am
reduced to say prayers for her--only prayers--for I can do nothing but
remember and love her!"
These lines, expressing so simply the sincere gratitude of the
hunchback, gave the last blow to Florine's hesitations. She could no
longer resist the generous temptation she felt. As she read these last
fragments of the journal, her affection and respect for Mother Bunch
made new progress. More than ever she felt how infamous it was in her
to expose to sarcasms and contempt the most secret thoughts of this
unfortunate creature. Happily, good is often as contagious as evil.
Electrified by all that was warm, noble, and magnanimous in the pages
she had just read, Florine bathed her failing virtue in that pure and
vivifying source, and, yielding, at last to one of those good impulses
which sometimes carried her away, she left the room with the manuscript
in her hand, determined, if Mother Bunch had not yet returned, to
replace it--resolved to tell Rodin that, this second time, her search
for the journal had been vain, the sempstress having no doubt discovered
the first attempt.
(26) In the Ruche Populaire, a working man's organ, are the following
particulars:
"Carding Mattresses.--The dust which flies out of the wool makes carding
destructive to health in any case, but trade adulterations enhance the
danger. In sticking sheep, the skin gets blood-spotted; it has to be
bleached to make it salable. Lime is the main whitener, and some of it
clings to the wool after the process. The dresser (female, most often)
breathes in the fine dust, and, by lung and other complaints, is far
from seldom deplorably situated; the majority sicken of it and give up
the trade, while those who keep to it, at the very least, suffer with a
catarrh or asthma that torments them until death.
"As for horsehair, the very best is not pure. You can judge what the
inferior quality is, from the workgirls calling it vitriol hair, because
it is the refuse or clippings from goats and swine, washed in vitriol,
boiled in dyes, etc., to burn and disguise such foreign bodies as straw.
thorns, splinters, and even bits of skin, not worth picking out. The
dust rising when a mass of this is beaten, makes as many ravages as the
lime-wool."
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE DISCOVERY.
A little while before Florine made up her mind to atone for her shameful
breach of confidence, Mother Bunch had returned from the factory, after
accomplishing to the end her painful task. After a long interview with
Angela, struck, like Agricola, with the ingenuous grace, sense, and
goodness, with which the young girl was endowed, Mother Bunch had the
courageous frankness to advise the smith to enter into this marriage.
The following scene took place whilst Florine, still occupied in reading
the journal, had not yet taken the praiseworthy resolution of replacing
it. It was ten o'clock at night. The workgirl, returned to Cardoville
House, had just entered her chamber. Worn out by so many emotions, she
had thrown herself into a chair. The deepest silence reigned in the
house. It was now and then interrupted by the soughing of a high wind,
which raged without and shook the trees in the garden. A single candle
lighted the room, which was papered with dark green. That peculiar tint,