by Eugène Sue
The proposition of Doctor Gasterini, unanimously welcomed, was carried out with perfect grace and uninterrupted joyousness. Henri David, who was the last but one to speak, interested the guests keenly in recounting the prodigies of devotion and generosity that Envy had inspired in Frederick Bastien, and even tears flowed at the account of the death of that noble child and that of his angelic mother. Happily the recital of Luxury concluded the dinner, and the lively marquise made the whole company laugh, when speaking of her adventure with the archduke, whose passion she did not share. She said that it was easier to induce the Pope’s legate to masquerade as a Hungarian hussar than to make an Austrian archduke comprehend that man was born for liberty. Moreover, the marquise announced that she contrived a plan of campaign against the old Radetzki, and finally engaged in transforming him into a coal merchant, and making him one of the chief instruments in the liberation of Italy.
“But this snow, dear and beautiful marquise,” said the doctor to her, in a low voice, after this recital, “this armour of ice, which renders you apparently disdainful to those whom you inflame, is it never melted by so many fires?”
“No, no, my good doctor,” replied the marquise, softly, with a melancholy smile; “the memory of my blond archangel, my ideal and only love, keeps the depths of my heart pure and fresh, like a flower under the snow.”
“And I had remorse!” cried the canon, in a transport of delight over his easy digestion. “I was miscreant enough to feel remorse for the indulgence of my appetite.”
“Instead of remorse, an excellent dinner gives, on the contrary, even to the most selfish hearts, a singular inclination to charity,” replied the doctor, “and if I did not fear I should be anathematised by our critical and dear Abbé Ledoux, I would add that, from the point of view of charity, — from that standpoint, gluttony would have the happiest results.”
“Go on,” replied the abbé, shrugging his shoulders, as he sipped a little glass of exquisite cream, flavoured with cinnamon of Madame Amphoux, 1788. “You have already uttered so many absurdities, dear doctor, that one more or less—”
“It depends not on chimeras, utopian schemes, but upon facts, palpable, practical, to-day and to-morrow,” interrupted the doctor, “facts which can pour every day considerable sums in the coffers of the benevolent enterprises of Paris! Is that an absurdity?”
“Speak, dear doctor,” said the guests, unanimously; “speak! We are all listening to you.”
“This is what happened,” replied the doctor; “and I regret that the thought did not occur to me sooner. Three days ago I was walking on one of the boulevards, about six o’clock in the evening. Surprised by a heavy shower, I took refuge in a café, one of the most fashionable restaurants in Paris. I never dine anywhere else than at home, but to keep myself in countenance, and satisfy my desire for observation, I ordered a few dishes which I did not touch, and, while I was waiting for the rain to stop, I amused myself by observing the persons who were dining. There could be a book, and a curious book, too, written upon the different shades of manner, character, and social and other conditions of people who reveal themselves unconsciously at the solemn hour of dinner. But that is not the question. I made this observation only, that each man, as he seated himself at the table, with an air indifferent, anxious, cheerful, or morose, as the case might be, seemed, in proportion as he dined upon excellent dishes, to yield to a sort of beatitude and inward happiness, which was reflected upon his countenance, that faithful mirror of the soul. As I was seated near one of the windows, I followed with my eye each one as he left the café. Outside the door stood a pale, ragged child, shivering under the cold autumn rain. Ah, well, my friends, — I say it to the praise of gourmands, — almost every one of those who had dined the best gave alms to the poor little hungry, trembling creature. Now, without speaking ill of my neighbour, I ask, would these same persons, fasting, have been as charitable? And I venture to affirm that the little beggar would have met with a harsh denial if he had asked them when they entered the café, instead of waiting until they came out.”
“Is this pagan going to tell us that charity owes its birth to gluttony?” cried Abbé Ledoux.
“To reply successfully, dear abbé, it would be necessary for me to enter into a physiological discussion upon the subject of the influence of the physical on the moral,” said the doctor. “I will tell you one simple thing. You have boxes for the poor at the doors of your churches. No one more than myself respects the charity of those faithful souls who put their rich or modest offering in these sacred places; but why not place alms-boxes in fashionable cafés, where the rich and the happy go to satisfy their refined tastes? Why not, I say, place your poor-boxes in some conspicuous spot, with the simple inscription, ‘For the hungry?’”
“The doctor is right!” shouted the guests. “It is an excellent idea; every great establishment would show large receipts every day.”
“And the little establishments also,” replied the doctor. “Ah, believe me, my friends, he who has made a modest repast, as well as the opulent diner, feels that compassion which is born of a satisfied want or pleasure, when he thinks of those who are deprived of the satisfaction of this want or this pleasure. Now, then, let me resume: If all the proprietors of these restaurants and cafés would follow my counsel, having an understanding with the members of benevolent enterprises, and would place in some conspicuous spot their poor-boxes, with the words, or others equivalent, ‘For the hungry,’ I am convinced, whether from charity, pride, or respect for humanity, you would see alms rain down in them to overflowing. For the most selfish man, who has spent a louis or more for his dinner, feels, in spite of himself, a painful sense of benefits, a sort of bitter after-taste, at the sight of those who suffer. A generous alms absolves him in his own eyes, and from a hygienic point of view, dear canon, this little act of charity would give him a most happy digestion.”
“Doctor, I confess myself vanquished!” cried Abbé Ledoux. “I drink, if not to the seven deadly sins in general, at least, in particular to gluttony.”
THE END
Envy
Anonymous 1899 translation, published by Francis A. Niccolls
The sin envy is characterised by an insatiable desire and the virtuous opposite is gratitude. Sue’s handling of this theme opens in 1828 on a ramshackle farm. However, a young pregnant woman named Marie Bastien has gone to great lengths to beautify the wing of the house lived in by the farming family, planting many flowering plants to create a more fitting environment to welcome her baby into. Her child would have soft green grass to play on, a shallow brook to bathe in, a verdant porch to shelter in and exquisite flowers to look at. Seventeen years later, Frederick, her adored son, is sixteen and her parlour has become almost a shrine to her devotion to his development. Marie herself is still only in her early thirties, sweet natured, devout and beautiful with her simple attire and pretty features, but remains passionately devoted to her son, schooling him at home, while confiding to the local doctor: ‘One lives for one’s son, you know.’
Despite this near-obsession with her child, Marie is aware of the hardships endured by others less fortunate than herself and is also happy to accept the doctor’s invitation for herself and Frederick to have a tour of the newly refurbished local Chateuax de Pont Brillant, which will be inhabited by a young aristocrat of similar age to Frederick. They are duly enchanted by the sumptuous palace, but whereas Marie can dismiss the opulence as alien to her own life, Frederick is subdued and restless after the visit, finding his own life and home drab and pedestrian by comparison, even though his mother had tried so hard to make it pleasing and elegant within her limited means. Although Frederick does his best to conceal his feelings from his mother, it becomes clear to the reader that Frederick is envious of the young nobleman who will soon be his neighbour. Will this envy, which is distorting and embittering the young boy’s character and souring his relationship with his mother, escalate into anything more sinister?
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
CHAPTER XLI.
CHAPTER XLII.
EPILOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE YEAR 1828 any tourist who was on his way from Blois to the little town of Pont Brillant to visit — as travellers seldom fail to do — the famous castle of that name, the magnificent feudal abode of the Marquises Pont Brillant, would have been obliged to pass a farmhouse standing near the edge of the road, about two miles from the château.
If this lonely dwelling attracted the attention of the traveller, he would have been almost certain to have regarded it with mingled melancholy and disgust as one of the too numerous specimens of hideous rural architecture in France, even when these habitations belong to persons possessed of a competence. This establishment consisted of a large barn and storehouse, with two long wings in the rear. The interior of the sort of parallelogram thus formed served as a courtyard, and was filled with piles of manure rotting in pools of stagnant water, for cow, horse, and sheep stables all opened into this enclosure, where all sorts of domestic animals, from poultry to hogs, were scratching and rooting.
One of the wings in the rear served as the abode of the family. It was a story and a half high, and had no outlook save this loathsome courtyard, with the dirty, worm-eaten doors of the cow-stable for a horizon. On the other side of the structure, where no window pierced the wall, stood a superb grove of century-old oaks, a couple of acres in extent, through which flowed a beautiful stream that served as an outlet for several distant lakes. But this grove, in spite of its beauty, had become well-nigh a desert on account of the large amount of gravel that had been deposited there, and the thick growth of rushes and thistles that covered it; besides, the stream, for want of cleaning out and of a sufficient fall, was becoming turbid and stagnant.
But if this same tourist had passed this same farmhouse one year afterward, he would have been struck by the sudden metamorphosis that the place had undergone, though it still belonged to the same owner. A beautiful lawn, close and fine as velvet, and ornamented with big clumps of rose-bushes, had taken the place of the dirty manure-strewn courtyard. New doors had been cut on the other side of the horse and cow stables; the old doors had been walled up, and the house itself, as well as the big barn at the foot of the courtyard, had been whitewashed and covered with a green trellis up which vigorous shoots of honeysuckle, clematis, and woodbine were already climbing.
The wing in which the family lived had been surrounded with flowering plants and shrubbery. A gravel path led up to the main doorway, which was now shaded by a broad, rustic porch with a thatched roof in which big clumps of houseleek and dwarf iris were growing. This rustic porch, overhung with luxuriant vines, evidently served as the family sitting-room. The window-frames, which were painted a dark green, contrasted strikingly with the dazzling whiteness of the curtains and the clearness of the window-panes, and on each sill was a small jardinière made of silver birch bark, and filled with freshly gathered flowers. A light fence, half concealed by roses, lilacs, and acacias, had been run from one wing of the establishment to the other, parallel with the barn, thus enclosing this charming garden. The grove had undergone a no less complete transformation. A rich carpet of velvety turf, cut with winding walks of shining yellow sand, had superseded the rushes and thistles; the formerly sluggish stream, turned into a new bed and checked in the middle of its course by a pile of large, moss-covered rocks three or four feet high, plunged from the height in a little bubbling, dancing waterfall, then continued its clear and rapid course on a level with its grassy borders.
A few beds of scarlet geraniums, whose brilliant hues contrasted vividly with the rich, green turf, brightened this charming spot, in which the few bright sunbeams that forced their way through dense foliage made a bewitching play of light and shade, especially in the vista through which one could see in the distance the forest of Pont Brillant, dominated by its ancient castle.
The details of this complete transformation, effected in so short a time by such simple and inexpensive means, seem puerile, perhaps, but are really highly significant as the expression of one of the thousand different phases of maternal love. Yes, a young woman sixteen years of age, married when only a little over fifteen, exiled here in this solitude, had thus metamorphosed it.
It was the desire to surround her expected child with bright and beautiful objects here in this lonely spot where he was to live, that had thus developed the young mother’s taste, and each pleasing innovation which she had effected in this gloomy, unattractive place, had been planned merely with the purpose of providing a suitable setting for this dear little eagerly expected child.
On the greensward in the carefully enclosed courtyard the child could play as an infant. The porch would afford a healthful shelter in case it rained or the sun was too hot. Later, when he outgrew his babyhood, he could play and run about in the shady grove, under his mother’s watchful eye, and amuse himself by listening to the soft murmur of the waterfall, or by watching it dance and sparkle along over the mossy rocks. The limpid stream, kept at a uniform depth of barely two feet now, held no dangers for the child, who, on the contrary, as soon as the warm summer days came, could bathe, whenever the desire seized him, in the crystal-clear water that filtered through a bed of fine gravel.
In this, as in many other details, as we shall see by and by, a sort of inspiration seemed to have guided this young mother in her plan of changing this untidy, ugly farmhouse into a cheerful and attractive home.
At the date at which this story begins, — the last of the month of June, 1845, — the young mother had been residing in this farmhouse for seventeen years. The shrubs in the courtyard had become trees; the buildings were almost completely hidden under a luxuriant mantle of flowering vines, while even in winter the walls and porch were thickly covered with ivy; while in the adjoining grove the melancholy murmur of the little cascade and the stream were still heard. The glass door of a large room which served at the same time as a parlour for the mother and a schoolroom for her son, now sixteen years of age, opened out upon this grove. This room likewise served as a sort of museum — one might be disposed to smile at this rather pretentious word, so we will say instead a maternal shrine or reliquary, for a large but inexpensive cabinet contained a host of articles which the fond mother had carefully preserved as precious mementoes of different epochs in her son’s life.
Everything bore a date, from the infant’s rattle to the crown of oak leaves which the youth had won at a competitive examination in the neighbouring town of Pont Brillant, where the proud mother had sent her son to test his powers. There, too, everything had its significance, from the little broken toy gun to the emblem of white satin fringed with gold, which neophytes wear so proudly at their first communion.
These relics were puerile, even ridiculous perhaps, and yet, when we remember that all
the incidents of her son’s life with which these articles were associated had been important, touching, or deeply solemn events to this young mother living in complete solitude and idolising her son, we can forgive this worship of the past and also understand the feeling that had prompted her to place among these relics a small porcelain lamp, by the subdued light of which the mother had watched over her son during a long and dangerous illness from which his life had been saved by a modest but clever physician of Pont Brillant.
It is almost needless to say, too, that the walls of the room were ornamented with frames containing here a page of infantile, almost unformed handwriting, there a couple of verses which the youth had composed for his mother’s birthday the year before. Besides there were the inevitable heads of Andromache and of Niobe, upon which the inexperienced crayon of the beginner usually bestows such drawn mouths and squinting eyes, apparently gazing in a sort of sullen surprise at a pretty water-colour representing a scene on the banks of the Loire; while the lad’s first books were no less carefully preserved by the mother in a bookcase containing some admirably chosen works on history, geography, travel, and literature. A piano, a music-rack, and a drawing-table completed the modest furnishings of the room.
Late in the month of June, Marie Bastien — for that was the name of this young mother — found herself in this room with her son. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon, and the golden rays of the declining sun, though obstructed to some extent by the slats of the Venetian blinds, were, nevertheless, playing a lively game of hide-and-seek, now with the dark woodwork, now with the big bouquets of fresh flowers in the china vases on the mantel.
