The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales

by Harte, Bret

  IV

  Love is a mystery.

  A little friend of mine down in the country, at Auvergne, said to me one day: "Victor, Love is the world,—it contains everything."

  She was only sixteen, this sharp-witted little girl, and a beautiful blonde. She thought everything of me.

  Fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and touching manner. This is a peculiarity of French grisettes.

  You are an Englishman, and you don't understand. Learn, my friend, learn. Come to Paris and improve your morals.

  Fantine was the soul of modesty. She always wore high-neck dresses.

  High-neck dresses are a sign of modesty.

  Fantine loved Tholmoyes. Why? My God! What are you to do? It was the fault of her parents, and she hadn't any. How shall you teach her? You must teach the parent if you wish to educate the child. How would you become virtuous?

  Teach your grandmother!

  V

  When Tholmoyes ran away from Fantine,—which was done in a charming, gentlemanly manner,—Fantine became convinced that a rigid sense of propriety might look upon her conduct as immoral. She was a creature of sensitiveness,—and her eyes were opened.

  She was virtuous still, and resolved to break off the liaison at once.

  So she put up her wardrobe and baby in a bundle, child as she was, she loved them both,—then left Paris.

  VI

  Fantine's native place had changed.

  M. Madeline—an angel, and inventor of jet-work—had been teaching the villagers how to make spurious jet.

  This is a progressive age. Those Americans—children of the West,— they make nutmegs out of wood.

  I, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those children of the forest.

  But civilization has acquired deception too. Society is made up of deception. Even the best French society.

  Still there was one sincere episode.

  Eh?

  The French Revolution!

  VII

  M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.

  M. Myriel was a saint. M. Madeline a good man.

  M. Myriel was dead. M. Madeline was living.

  That made all the difference.

  M. Madeline made virtue profitable. I have seen it written,—

  "Be virtuous and you will be happy."

  Where did I see this written? In the modern Bible? No. In the Koran?

  No. In Rousseau? No. Diderot? No. Where then?

  In a copy-book.

  VIII

  M. Madeline was M. le Maire.

  This is how it came about.

  For a long time he refused the honor. One day an old woman, standing on the steps, said,—

  "Bah, a good mayor is a good thing.

  "You are a good thing.

  "Be a good mayor."

  This woman was a rhetorician. She understood inductive ratiocination.

  IX

  When this good M. Madeline, who, the reader will perceive, must have been a former convict, and a very bad man, gave himself up to justice as the real Jean Valjean, about this same time, Fantine was turned away from the manufactory, and met with a number of losses from Society. Society attacked her, and this is what she lost:—

  First her lover.

  Then her child.

  Then her place.

  Then her hair.

  Then her teeth.

  Then her liberty.

  Then her life.

  What do you think of Society after that? I tell you the present social system is a humbug.

  X

  This is necessarily the end of Fantine.

  There are other things that will be stated in other volumes to follow.

  Don't be alarmed; there are plenty of miserable people left.

  Au revoir—my friend.

  "LA FEMME"

  AFTER THE FRENCH OF M. MICHELET

  I

  WOMEN AS AN INSTITUTION

  "If it were not for women, few of us would at present be in existence." This is the remark of a cautious and discreet writer. He was also sagacious and intelligent.

  Woman! Look upon her and admire her. Gaze upon her and love her. If she wishes to embrace you, permit her. Remember she is weak and you are strong.

  But don't treat her unkindly. Don't make love to another woman before her face, even if she be your wife. Don't do it. Always be polite, even should she fancy somebody better than you.

  If your mother, my dear Amadis, had not fancied your father better than somebody, you might have been that somebody's son. Consider this. Always be a philosopher, even about women.

  Few men understand women. Frenchmen, perhaps, better than any one else. I am a Frenchman.

  II

  THE INFANT

  She is a child—a little thing—an infant.

  She has a mother and father. Let us suppose, for example, they are married. Let us be moral if we cannot be happy and free—they are married—perhaps—they love one another—who knows?

  But she knows nothing of this; she is an infant—a small thing—a trifle!

  She is not lovely at first. It is cruel, perhaps, but she is red, and positively ugly. She feels this keenly, and cries. She weeps. Ah, my God, how she weeps! Her cries and lamentations now are really distressing.

  Tears stream from her in floods. She feels deeply and copiously, like

  M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his "Confessions."

  If you are her mother, Madame, you will fancy worms; you will examine her linen for pins, and what not. Ah, hypocrite! you, even you, misunderstand her.

  Yet she has charming natural impulses. See how she tosses her dimpled arms. She looks longingly at her mother. She has a language of her own. She says, "goo, goo," and "ga, ga." She demands something—this infant!

  She is faint, poor thing. She famishes. She wishes to be restored. Restore her, Mother! It is the first duty of a mother to restore her child!

  III

  THE DOLL

  She is hardly able to walk; she already totters under the weight of a doll.

  It is a charming and elegant affair. It has pink cheeks and purple- black hair. She prefers brunettes, for she has already, with the quick knowledge of a French infant, perceived she is a blonde, and that her doll cannot rival her. Mon Dieu, how touching! Happy child! She spends hours in preparing its toilet. She begins to show her taste in the exquisite details of its dress. She loves it madly, devotedly. She will prefer it to bonbons. She already anticipates the wealth of love she will hereafter pour out on her lover, her mother, her father, and finally, perhaps, her husband.

  This is the time the anxious parent will guide these first outpourings. She will read her extracts from Michelet's "L'Amour," Rousseau's "Heloise," and the "Revue des deux Mondes."

  IV

  THE MUD PIE

  She was in tears to-day.

  She had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants.

  They had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet.

  They had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands. Her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. She made a graceful and lovely pie. She stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. She forgot everything. It was being baked in the solar rays, when madame came and took her away.

  She weeps. It is night, and she is weeping still.

  V

  THE FIRST LOVE

  She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved.

  She saw him secretly. He is vivacious and sprightly. He is famous. He

  has already had an affair with Finfin, the fille de chambre, and poor

  Finfin is desolate. He is noble. She knows he is the son of Madame la

  Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.

  She affects not to notice him. Poor little thing! Hippolyte is distracted—annihilated—inconsolable and c
harming.

  She admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves—his exquisite pantaloons—his coat, and cane.

  She offers to run away with him. He is transported, but magnanimous. He is wearied, perhaps. She sees him the next day offering flowers to the daughter of Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse.

  She is again in tears.

  She reads "Paul et Virginie." She is secretly transported. When she reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. Tasteful and virtuous Bernardin de Saint-Pierre!—the daughters of France admire you!

  All this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. The mud pie is broken on the road.

  VI

  THE WIFE

  She is tired of loving, and she marries.

  Her mother thinks it, on the whole, the best thing. As the day approaches, she is found frequently in tears. Her mother will not permit the affianced one to see her, and he makes several attempts to commit suicide.

  But something happens. Perhaps it is winter, and the water is cold.

  Perhaps there are not enough people present to witness his heroism.

  In this way her future husband is spared to her. The ways of Providence are indeed mysterious. At this time her mother will talk with her. She will offer philosophy. She will tell her she was married herself.

  But what is this new and ravishing light that breaks upon her? The toilet and wedding clothes! She is in a new sphere.

  She makes out her list in her own charming writing. Here it is. Let every mother heed it. [Footnote: The delicate reader will appreciate the omission of certain articles for which English synonyms are forbidden.]

  * * * * *

  She is married. On the day after, she meets her old lover, Hippolyte.

  He is again transported.

  VII

  HER OLD AGE

  A Frenchwoman never grows old.

  THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD

  BY SIR ED-D L-TT-N B-LW-R

  BOOK I

  THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL

  It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham, and was proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art. "'Tis true," said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, "the contact of the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of the Shiny and the Beautiful—and, yet, why am I here? I repeat it, calmly and deliberately—why am I here? Ha! Boy!"

  The Boy looked up—his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at the Philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet's boot, he answered in deep, rich tones: "The Ideal is subjective to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject to the limits of ME. You are an admirer of the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked. The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin."

  "Ah," said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal beauty of the Child before him; "you speak well. You have read Kant."

  The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of Kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the ground. The Baronet picked them up.

  "Ah!" said the Philosopher, "what's this? Cicero's 'De Sonertute,'—at your age, too! Martial's 'Epigrams,' Caesar's 'Commentaries.' What! a classical scholar?"

  "E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!" said the Boy enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the Student.

  "Ah, and Schiller's 'Robbers,' too?" queried the Philosopher.

  "Das ist ausgespielt," said the Boy modestly.

  "Then you have read my translation of Schiller's 'Ballads'?" continued the Baronet, with some show of interest.

  "I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original," said the Boy, with intellectual warmth. "You have shown how in Actual life we strive for a Goal we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable, and there effort is victory. You have given us the Antithesis which is a key to the Remainder, and constantly balances before us the conditions of the Actual and the privileges of the Ideal."

  "My very words," said the Baronet; "wonderful, wonderful!" and he gazed fondly at the Italian boy, who again resumed his menial employment. Alas! the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had been absorbed in the Boy.

  But Sir Edward's boots were blacked, and he turned to depart. Placing his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant music,—

  "Boy, you have done well. Love the Good. Protect the Innocent. Provide for the Indigent. Respect the Philosopher…. Stay! Can you tell me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?"

  "They are things that commence with a capital letter," said the Boy promptly.

  "Enough! Respect everything that commences with a capital letter! Respect ME!" and dropping a halfpenny in the hand of the boy, he departed.

  The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful and instantaneous change overspread his features. His noble brow was corrugated with baser lines of calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered with suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and feet, he crawled to the curbstone, and hissed after the retreating form of the Baronet the single word—

  "Bilk!"

  BOOK II

  IN THE WORLD

  "Eleven years ago," said Sir Edward to himself, as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the Committee Room, "just eleven years ago my natural son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in the world but that this little bootblack is he. His mother died in Italy. He resembles his mother very much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him. Shall I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should taste the sweets of Labor. Penury ennobles the mind and kindles the Love of the Beautiful. I will act to him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like a Friend—but like a Philosopher!" With these words, Sir Edward entered the Committee Room. His Secretary approached him. "Sir Edward, there are fears of a division in the House, and the Prime Minister has sent for you."

  "I will be there," said Sir Edward, as he placed his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough!

  No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his sarcastic and withering speech on the Drainage and Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the Lover of the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No one who listened to his eloquence would have dreamed of the Spartan resolution this iron man had taken in regard to the Lost Boy—his own beloved Lionel. None!

  "A fine speech from Sir Edward to-night," said Lord Billingsgate, as, arm and arm with the Premier, he entered his carriage.

  "Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!"

  "Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and altogether independent of pulmonary assistance."

  "How strange!" And the carriage rolled away.

  BOOK III

  THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD

  "Adon Ai, appear! appear!"

  And as the Seer spoke, the awful Presence glided out of Nothingness, and sat, sphinx-like, at the feet of the Alchemist.

  "I am come!" said the Thing.

  "You should say, 'I have come,'—it's better grammar," said the Boy-

  Neophyte, thoughtfully accenting the substituted expression.

  "Hush, rash Boy," said the Seer sternly. "Would you oppose your feeble knowledge to the infinite intelligence of the Unmista
kable? A word, and you are lost forever."

  The Boy breathed a silent prayer, and handing a sealed package to the Seer, begged him to hand it to his father in case of his premature decease.

  "You have sent for me," hissed the Presence. "Behold me, Apokatharticon,—the Unpronounceable. In me all things exist that are not already coexistent. I am the Unattainable, the Intangible, the Cause, and the Effect. In me observe the Brahma of Mr. Emerson; not only Brahma himself, but also the sacred musical composition rehearsed by the faithful Hindoo. I am the real Gyges. None others are genuine."

  And the veiled Son of the Starbeam laid himself loosely about the room, and permeated Space generally.

  "Unfathomable Mystery," said the Rosicrucian in a low, sweet voice. "Brave Child with the Vitreous Optic! Thou who pervadest all things and rubbest against us without abrasion of the cuticle. I command thee, speak!"

  And the misty, intangible, indefinite Presence spoke.

  BOOK IV

  MYSELF

  After the events related in the last chapter, the reader will perceive that nothing was easier than to reconcile Sir Edward to his son Lionel, nor to resuscitate the beautiful Italian girl, who, it appears, was not dead, and to cause Sir Edward to marry his first and boyish love, whom he had deserted. They were married in St. George's, Hanover Square. As the bridal party stood before the altar, Sir Edward, with a sweet, sad smile, said in quite his old manner,—