Balsamo, the Magician; or, The Memoirs of a Physician
Page 28
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN THE LOFT.
To tell the truth, the loft where Jacques stowed his guest was not fitfor habitation. The mattress was on the floor and the chief article offurniture. Rats had pulled about and gnawed a heap of yellowed papers.On clotheslines across the attic were paper bags in which were dryingbeans, herbs and household linen.
"It is not nice to look upon," apologized the host, "but sleep anddarkness make the sumptuous palace and the meanest cottage much alike.Sleep as youth can do, and nothing will prevent you thinking you sleptin the royal palace. But mind you do not set the house afire. We willtalk over matters in the morning."
"Good-night and hearty thanks," said Gilbert, left alone in the garret.
With all the precaution recommended, he took up the light and made therounds of the room. As the newspapers and pamphlets were tied in baleshe did not open them; but the bean bags were made of printed pages ofa book, which caught his eye with the lines. One sack, knocked off theline by his head, burst on the floor, and in trying to replace thebeans, he fell to reading the wrappers. It was a page from the loveof a poor youth for a lovely and fashionable lady named Lady Warrens.Gilbert was congratulating himself on having the whole night to readthis love story on the wrappers when the candle went out and left himin gloom. He was ready to weep with rage. He dropped the papers on theheap of beans and flung himself on his couch where he slept deeply inspite of his disappointment.
He was roused only by the grating of the lock. It was bright day;Gilbert saw his host gently enter.
"Good-morning," he muttered, with the red of shame on his cheeks as hesaw Jacques staring at the beans and emptied bags.
"Did you sleep soundly?"
"Ye-es."
"Nay, are you not a sleep-walker?"
"Alas, I see why you say that. I sat up reading till the candle wasburnt out, from the first sheet on which my eyes fell so greatlyinteresting me. Do you, who know so much, know to what lovely novelthose pages belong?"
"I do not know, but as I notice the word 'Confessions' on the headline,I should think it was Memoirs."
"Oh, no, the man so speaking is not doing so of himself; the avowalsare too frank--the opinions too impartial."
"I think you are wrong," said the old gentleman quickly. "The authorwanted to set an example of showing himself to his fellows as heavencreated him."
"Do you know the author?"
"The writer is Jean Jacques Rousseau. These are stray pages out of his'Confessions.'"
"So this unknown, poor, obscure youth, almost begging his way afooton the highroads, was the man who was to write 'Emile' and the 'SocialContract?'"
"Yes--or, rather no!" said the other with unspeakable sadness. "Thisauthor is the man disenchanted with life, glory, society and almostwith heaven; but the other Rousseau, Lady Warrens', was the youthentering life by the same door as Aurora comes into the world; youthwith his joys and hopes. An abyss divides the two Rousseaus thirtyyears wide."
The old gentleman shook his head, let his arms sadly droop, andappeared to sink into deep musing.
"So," went on Gilbert, "it is possible for the meanly born likeRousseau to win the love of a mighty and beautiful lady? This iscalculated to drive those mad who have lifted their eyes to those abovetheir sphere."
"Are you in love and do you see some likeness between your case andRousseau's?" asked the old gentleman.
Gilbert blushed without answering the question.
"But he won, because he was Rousseau," he observed. "Yet, were I tofeel a spark of his flame of genius, I should aspire to the star, andseek to wear it even though----"
"You had to commit a crime?"
Jacques started and cut short the interview by saying:
"I think my wife must be up. We will go down stairs. Besides, a workingday never begins too soon. Come, young man, come."
On going forth, Jacques secured the garret door with a padlock.
This time he guided his ward into what Therese called the study.The furniture of this little room was composed of glazed cases ofbutterflies, herbs and minerals, framed in ebonized wood; books in awalnut case, a long, narrow table, covered with a worn and blackenedcloth; with manuscripts orderly arranged on it, and four wooden chairscovered in horsehair. All was glossy, lustrous, irreproachable in orderand cleanness, but cold to sight and heart, from the light through thegauze curtains being gray and weak, and luxury, or comfort itself,being far from this cold, ashy and black fireside.
A small rosewood piano stood on four legs, and a clock on themantel-piece alone showed any life in this domestic tomb.
Gilbert walked in respectfully, for it was grand in his eyes; almost asrich as Taverney, and the waxed floor imposed on him.
"I am going to show you the nature of your work," said the oldgentleman. "This is music paper. When I copy a page I earn ten cents,the price I myself fix. Do you know music?"
"I know the names of the notes but not their value, as well as thesesigns. In the house where I lived was a young lady who played theharpsichord----" and Gilbert hung his head, coloring.
"Oh, the same who studied botany," queried Jacques.
"Precisely; and she played very well."
"This does not account for your learning music."
"Rousseau says that the man is incomplete who enjoys a result withoutseeking the cause."
"Yes; but, also, that man in perfecting himself by the discovery, loseshis happiness, freshness and instincts."
"What matter if what he gains compensates him for the losses?"
"Gad! you are not only a botanist and a musician, but a logician. Atpresent we only require a copyist. While copying, you will train yourhand to write more easily when you compose for yourself. Meanwhile,with a couple of hours' copy work at night, you may earn thewherewithal to follow the courses in the colleges of medicine, surgeryand botany."
"I understand you," exclaimed Gilbert, "and I thank you from the bottomof my heart."
He settled himself to begin work on the sheet of paper held out by thekind gentleman.