Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
CHAPTER IV—M. MABEUF
1710 words | Chapter 263
On the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marius: “Certainly I approve of
political opinions,” he expressed the real state of his mind. All
political opinions were matters of indifference to him, and he approved
them all, without distinction, provided they left him in peace, as the
Greeks called the Furies “the beautiful, the good, the charming,” the
Eumenides. M. Mabeuf’s political opinion consisted in a passionate love
for plants, and, above all, for books. Like all the rest of the world,
he possessed the termination in _ist_, without which no one could exist
at that time, but he was neither a Royalist, a Bonapartist, a Chartist,
an Orleanist, nor an Anarchist; he was a _bouquinist_, a collector of
old books. He did not understand how men could busy themselves with
hating each other because of silly stuff like the charter, democracy,
legitimacy, monarchy, the republic, etc., when there were in the world
all sorts of mosses, grasses, and shrubs which they might be looking
at, and heaps of folios, and even of 32mos, which they might turn over.
He took good care not to become useless; having books did not prevent
his reading, being a botanist did not prevent his being a gardener.
When he made Pontmercy’s acquaintance, this sympathy had existed
between the colonel and himself—that what the colonel did for flowers,
he did for fruits. M. Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling pears
as savory as the pears of St. Germain; it is from one of his
combinations, apparently, that the October Mirabelle, now celebrated
and no less perfumed than the summer Mirabelle, owes its origin. He
went to mass rather from gentleness than from piety, and because, as he
loved the faces of men, but hated their noise, he found them assembled
and silent only in church. Feeling that he must be something in the
State, he had chosen the career of warden. However, he had never
succeeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip bulb, nor any man as
much as an Elzevir. He had long passed sixty, when, one day, some one
asked him: “Have you never been married?” “I have forgotten,” said he.
When it sometimes happened to him—and to whom does it not happen?—to
say: “Oh! if I were only rich!” it was not when ogling a pretty girl,
as was the case with Father Gillenormand, but when contemplating an old
book. He lived alone with an old housekeeper. He was somewhat gouty,
and when he was asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism,
lay crooked up in the folds of his sheets. He had composed and
published a _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_, with colored plates,
a work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which sold well.
People rang his bell, in the Rue Mésières, two or three times a day, to
ask for it. He drew as much as two thousand francs a year from it; this
constituted nearly the whole of his fortune. Although poor, he had had
the talent to form for himself, by dint of patience, privations, and
time, a precious collection of rare copies of every sort. He never went
out without a book under his arm, and he often returned with two. The
sole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor, which composed
his lodgings, consisted of framed herbariums, and engravings of the old
masters. The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never
approached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides. He had a
passable stomach, a brother who was a curé, perfectly white hair, no
teeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a trembling in every limb, a
Picard accent, an infantile laugh, the air of an old sheep, and he was
easily frightened. Add to this, that he had no other friendship, no
other acquaintance among the living, than an old bookseller of the
Porte-Saint-Jacques, named Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo in
France.
His servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor good old woman was a
spinster. Sultan, her cat, which might have mewed Allegri’s miserere in
the Sixtine Chapel, had filled her heart and sufficed for the quantity
of passion which existed in her. None of her dreams had ever proceeded
as far as man. She had never been able to get further than her cat.
Like him, she had a moustache. Her glory consisted in her caps, which
were always white. She passed her time, on Sundays, after mass, in
counting over the linen in her chest, and in spreading out on her bed
the dresses in the piece which she bought and never had made up. She
knew how to read. M. Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque.
M. Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius, because Marius, being young and
gentle, warmed his age without startling his timidity. Youth combined
with gentleness produces on old people the effect of the sun without
wind. When Marius was saturated with military glory, with gunpowder,
with marches and countermarches, and with all those prodigious battles
in which his father had given and received such tremendous blows of the
sword, he went to see M. Mabeuf, and M. Mabeuf talked to him of his
hero from the point of view of flowers.
His brother the curé died about 1830, and almost immediately, as when
the night is drawing on, the whole horizon grew dark for M. Mabeuf. A
notary’s failure deprived him of the sum of ten thousand francs, which
was all that he possessed in his brother’s right and his own. The
Revolution of July brought a crisis to publishing. In a period of
embarrassment, the first thing which does not sell is a _Flora. The
Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_ stopped short. Weeks passed by
without a single purchaser. Sometimes M. Mabeuf started at the sound of
the bell. “Monsieur,” said Mother Plutarque sadly, “it is the
water-carrier.” In short, one day, M. Mabeuf quitted the Rue Mésières,
abdicated the functions of warden, gave up Saint-Sulpice, sold not a
part of his books, but of his prints,—that to which he was the least
attached,—and installed himself in a little house on the Rue
Montparnasse, where, however, he remained but one quarter for two
reasons: in the first place, the ground floor and the garden cost three
hundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on
his rent; in the second, being near Faton’s shooting-gallery, he could
hear the pistol-shots; which was intolerable to him.
He carried off his _Flora_, his copper-plates, his herbariums, his
portfolios, and his books, and established himself near the
Salpêtrière, in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of
Austerlitz, where, for fifty crowns a year, he got three rooms and a
garden enclosed by a hedge, and containing a well. He took advantage of
this removal to sell off nearly all his furniture. On the day of his
entrance into his new quarters, he was very gay, and drove the nails on
which his engravings and herbariums were to hang, with his own hands,
dug in his garden the rest of the day, and at night, perceiving that
Mother Plutarque had a melancholy air, and was very thoughtful, he
tapped her on the shoulder and said to her with a smile: “We have the
indigo!”
Only two visitors, the bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques and
Marius, were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Austerlitz, a
brawling name which was, to tell the truth, extremely disagreeable to
him.
However, as we have just pointed out, brains which are absorbed in some
bit of wisdom, or folly, or, as it often happens, in both at once, are
but slowly accessible to the things of actual life. Their own destiny
is a far-off thing to them. There results from such concentration a
passivity, which, if it were the outcome of reasoning, would resemble
philosophy. One declines, descends, trickles away, even crumbles away,
and yet is hardly conscious of it one’s self. It always ends, it is
true, in an awakening, but the awakening is tardy. In the meantime, it
seems as though we held ourselves neutral in the game which is going on
between our happiness and our unhappiness. We are the stake, and we
look on at the game with indifference.
It is thus that, athwart the cloud which formed about him, when all his
hopes were extinguished one after the other, M. Mabeuf remained rather
puerilely, but profoundly serene. His habits of mind had the regular
swing of a pendulum. Once mounted on an illusion, he went for a very
long time, even after the illusion had disappeared. A clock does not
stop short at the precise moment when the key is lost.
M. Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures. These pleasures were inexpensive
and unexpected; the merest chance furnished them. One day, Mother
Plutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room. She was
reading aloud, finding that she understood better thus. To read aloud
is to assure one’s self of what one is reading. There are people who
read very loud, and who have the appearance of giving themselves their
word of honor as to what they are perusing.
It was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was reading the
romance which she had in hand. M. Mabeuf heard her without listening to
her.
In the course of her reading, Mother Plutarque came to this phrase. It
was a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty:—
“—The beauty pouted, and the dragoon—”
Here she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses.
“Bouddha and the Dragon,” struck in M. Mabeuf in a low voice. “Yes, it
is true that there was a dragon, which, from the depths of its cave,
spouted flame through his maw and set the heavens on fire. Many stars
had already been consumed by this monster, which, besides, had the
claws of a tiger. Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting
the dragon. That is a good book that you are reading, Mother Plutarque.
There is no more beautiful legend in existence.”
And M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious reverie.
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