The Botanist.
GILBERT TOOK COURAGE and walked close up; but he opened his mouth and shut it again before he could utter a word. His philosophy wavered, and it seemed to him that he was about to entreat alms, and not to demand a right.
The old man observed this timidity, and it seemed to banish on his side all feelings of apprehension.
“Do you wish to speak to me, my friend?” said he, smiling, and laying down his bread on the trunk of the tree on which he sat.
“Yes, sir,” replied Gilbert.
“What do you wish to say?”
“Sir, I see you throw your bread to the birds as if we were not told that God feeds them.”
“Doubtless he does feed them, young man; but the hand of man is one of the means which he employs for that purpose. If you mean your words as a reproach, you are wrong; for neither in the silent wood nor in the crowded street is the bread ever lost which we cast from our hand. In the one place the birds pick it up, in the other the poor.”
“Well, sir,” said Gilbert, singularly moved by the soft penetrating voice of the old man, “although we are in the woods, I know a man who would dispute your bread with the birds.”
“Can it be you, my friend!” cried the old man; “are you, then, hungry?”
“Very, very hungry, sir, and if you will permit me —
The old man seized his bread at once with eager compassion. Then reflecting for a moment, ho looked at Gilbert with a keen and searching glance.
In fact, Gilbert so little resembled a starving man, that some consideration might be permitted. His coat was clean, except where it was in some places stained by its contact with the ground; his shirt was white, for at Versailles the evening before he had taken a clean one from his bundle, yet it was rendered damp by the den-s; it was quite evident that he had passed the night in the wood.
Besides all this, his hands were white and slender, like those of a man of thought rather than of labor.
Gilbert did not want tact; he read the stranger’s distrust and hesitation in his countenance, and hastened to anticipate further conjectures which he readily saw would not be favorable to him.
“We are always hungry, sir,” he said, “when we have not eaten for twelve hours, and it is now twenty-four since I have had any food.”
The emotion expressed on the young man’s face, his tremulous voice, and his extreme paleness, all declared that his words were true. The old man hesitated, or rather feared, no longer; he held out to Gilbert his bread arid the handkerchief containing his cherries.
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Gilbert, gently pushing aside the handkerchief containing the cherries; “nothing but the bread, it is quite sufficient.”
And he broke it in two, keeping one half for himself and returning the other to the old man; then he sat down on the grass a couple of paces from his companion, who looked at him with increasing wonder.
The repast did not last very long. There was but little bread, and Gilbert was very hungry. The old man did not disturb his occupation by a word; he continued to observe him furtively but silently, bestowing apparently great attention on the plants and flowers in his box, which, when he opened it again, raised their odoriferous heads to the level of the edge, as if to inhale the air. But seeing Gilbert approach the pond, he cried hastily, “Do not drink that water, young man; it is rendered unwholesome by the remains of last year’s plants, and by the spawn of frogs now on its surface. Take instead a few of these cherries, they will refresh you as much as the water. Take them, I beg of you, for you are not a forward guest, I see.”
“It is true, sir, forwardness is the reverse of my nature, and I fear nothing so much as being intrusive. I have just experienced that at Versailles.”
“Oh, you come from Versailles?” said the stranger, eying Gilbert with a strong expression of curiosity.
“Yes, sir.”
“It is a rich town; one must be either very poor or very proud to be starving there.”
“I am both, sir.”
“You have had a quarrel with your master, perhaps?” said the stranger, while ho apparently arranged the plants in his box, yet giving Gilbert a rapid interrogating glance.
“I have no master, sir.”
“My friend,” replied the old man, putting on his hat, “that is too ambitious a reply.”
“It is the truth, however.”
“No, young man. Every one has his master here below; we do not place our pride on a proper object when we say that we have no master.”
“How?”
“Yes. Whether old or young, it is so ordered that we must submit to some ruling power. Some are ruled by men, others by principles; and the severest masters are not always those who order with the voice or strike with the hand.”
“Be it so,” said Gilbert. “Then I am governed by principles. I confess. Principles are the only masters which a reflecting mind can recognize without shame.”
“And what are your principles? Let me hear them? You seem to be very young, my friend, to have any decided principles.”
“Sir, I know that all men are brethren, and that every man from his birth is bound to fulfill certain duties toward his fellowmen. I know that God has bestowed on me a certain amount of value in society; and as I acknowledge the worth of other men. I have a right to exact from them that they should acknowledge mine, If I do not exaggerate its importance. So long as I do nothing unjust and dishonorable, I merit some regard, even were it only as a human being.”
“Oh, oh!” said the stranger, “you have studied, I perceive.”
“Alas! sir, I have not; but I have read the ‘Discours sur l’Inegalite des Conditions,’ and ‘Le Contrat Social!’ From those two books I have learned all that I know, and even all that I have dreamed.”
At these words the eyes of the stranger flashed, and by an involuntary movement he was nearly destroying a beautiful xeranthemum, which he was trying to place securely in his box.
“And such are the principles which you profess?” said he.
“They may not be yours, sir,” replied the young man; “but they are those of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”
“But,” said the stranger, with a distrust so apparent that it was rather humbling to Gilbert’s vanity; “but are you sure you have rightly understood those principles?”
“I understand French, I think, sir, particularly when it is pure and poetical.”
“You see that you do not,” said the old man, smiling; “for what I ask you, if not poetical, is at least quite plain. I mean, have your philosophical studies enabled you to understand the groundwork of the system of—”
He stopped, almost blushing.
“Of Rousseau, sir?” continued Gilbert. “Oh, sir! I have not studied my philosophy in a college; but there is an instinct within me which revealed the excellence and utility of ‘Le Contrat Social’ above all other books that I had read.”
“A dry book for a young man, sir — a barren subject for reverie at twenty years of age — a bitter and unfragrant flower for fancy in its springtime!” said the old man with gentle sadness.
“Misfortune ripens man before his time, sir,” answered Gilbert; “and as to reverie, if we give it a free and unrestrained course, it very often leads to ill.”
The stranger opened his eyes, which he usually kept half closed in his moments of calmness and reflection, a peculiarity which gave an indefinable charm to his countenance.
“To whom do you allude?” asked he, reddening.
“Not to any one, sir,” said Gilbert.
“Oh, yes, you do.”
“No — I assure you I do not.”
“You appear to have studied the philosopher of Geneva. Do you not allude to his life?”
“I know nothing of his life,” replied Gilbert, frankly.
“Do you not?” and the stranger sighed. “Young man, he is a wretched creature.”
“Impossible! Jean Jacques Rousseau wretched? Then there is no justice on earth. Wretched? The man who has devoted his life to the happiness of mankind?”
“Well, well! I see that you know nothing about him. Let us speak of yourself, my friend, if you please.”
“I should prefer going on with our present subject. What can I tell you of myself worth hearing, sir, I, who am a mere nobody?”
“And besides, you do not know me, and are afraid of trusting a stranger.”
“Oh, sir, what have I to fear from any one? Who can make me more wretched than I am? Recollect in what guise I came before you — alone, poor, hungry.”
“Where were you going?”
“I was going to Paris. Are you a Parisian, sir?”
“Yes — that is to say — no.”
“Which of the two am I to believe?” asked Gilbert, smiling.
““ I abhor falsehood, and every moment I perceive how necessary it is to reflect before speaking. I am a Parisian, if by that is meant a man who has lived in Paris for a long time, and has mixed in its society; but I was not born in that city. But why do you ask?”
“It was from an association of ideas, arising out of our conversation. I thought if you lived in Paris you might have seen Rousseau, of whom we were speaking just now.”
“I have indeed seen him sometimes.”
“People look at him as he passes by — do they not? He is admired, and pointed out as the benefactor of the human race?”
“No; children, incited by their parents, follow him, and throw stones at him!”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Gilbert, with the most painful astonishment, “but at least he is rich?”
“He has sometimes to ask himself, as you asked yourself this morning, ‘Where shall I procure a breakfast?”
“But poor as he is, he is esteemed — has influence — is respected?”
“He knows not at night, when he lies down, whether he may not in the morning awake in the Bastille.”
“Oh, how he must hate mankind!”
“He neither loves them nor hates them; he is disgusted with them — that is all.”
“How can we avoid hating people who treat us ill?” cried Gilbert; “ I cannot comprehend that.”
“Rousseau has always been free, sir — Rousseau has always been strong enough to rely on himself alone. It is strength and freedom which make men mild and kind — slavery and weakness alone make them malevolent.”
“Those are my reasons for wishing to be free,” said Gilbert, proudly. “I have long thought what you have just so well explained to me.”
“But one may tie free even in prison, my friend,” replied the stranger. “Suppose Rousseau were in the Bastille to-morrow — and he certainly will be in it one day or other — he would think and write as freely as among the mountains of Switzerland. I have never thought, for my part, that man’s freedom consists in his being able to do whatever he wills, but that he should not, by any human power, be forced to do what is against his will.”
“Has Rousseau written what you have just said, sir?”
“I think he has.”
“It is not in ‘The Social Contract?’”
“No, it is in a new work of his, called ‘The Reveries of a Solitary Walker.’’
“Sir,” said Gilbert, warmly, “I think we shall agree on one point.”
“What is that?”
“That we both love and admire Rousseau.”
“Speak for yourself, young man; you are still in the age of illusions.”
“We may be deceived about things, but not about men.”
“Alas! you will learn at a later period that it is in the characters of men more than in aught else that we are deceived. Rousseau may be a little more just than other men, but believe me, he has faults, and very great ones.”
Gilbert shook his head in a way which showed that he was far from being convinced; but notwithstanding this rather uncivil demonstration, the stranger continued to treat him with the same kindness.
“Let us return to the point at which we set out,” said the stranger. “I was saying that you had quitted your master at Versailles.”
“And I,” replied Gilbert, but more mildly than before, “I answered that I had no master; I should have added that it depended entirely on myself to have one, and a very illustrious one too, and that I had refused a situation which many would have sought eagerly.”
“A situation?”
“Yes; one in which I should only have had to talk for the amusement of great lords in want of such an occupation; but I thought that being young and able to study and push my way in life, I ought not to lose my most precious years, and compromise in my person the dignity of man.”
“And you decided well. But have you any fixed plan of pursuing your career?”
“Sir, I should wish to be a physician.”
“A noble profession. In it you may choose between real science, ever modest and self-sacrificing, and quackery, ever noisy and empty. If you would become a physician, young man, study; if a quack, nothing but impudence and effrontery are necessary.”
“But it requires a great deal of money to study, does it not, sir?”
“It certainly requires some money; I should not say a great deal.”
“In fact, I believe that Jean Jacques Rousseau, who knows everything, studied at no expense.”
“At no expense? Oh, young man!” said the stranger, with a sad smile, “do you call it no expense when we expend the most precious of God’s gifts — innocence, health, sleep? These are what it has cost the philosopher of Geneva to acquire the little that he knows.”
“The little?” repeated Gilbert, almost angrily.
“Yes; ask any one about him, and you will hear him spoken of as I speak of him.”
“In the first place, he is a great musician.”
“Oh, because King Louis XV, sang a song out of an opera of Rousseau’s composing, that does not make it a good opera.”
“But he is a great botanist; I have only seen a few odd sheets of his letters on botany, but you, who gather plants in the woods, have read them, I dare say.”
“ Oh, sometimes a person thinks himself a botanist, and is only—”
“Only what?”
“Only an herborist — and even—”
“And which are you — herborist or botanist?”
“A very humble herborist, and a very ignorant one, when I contemplate those marvels of God’s creation — plants and flowers!”
“He is a Latin scholar.”
“A very bad one.”
“But I read in a newspaper that he translated an ancient author called Tacitus.”
“Because, in his pride — alas! every man has his moment of pride — because, in his pride, he thought he could undertake anything. In the preface, however, to the first book — the only one which he translated — he says he does not understand Latin well; and Tacitus, who is a rude antagonist, soon wearied him. No, no, my good young man, in spite of your admiration, there is no such thing as a man of universal knowledge; and believe me, almost all men lose in depth what they gain in superficies. A little river, when swollen by the rains, may overflow its banks till it looks like a lake, but try to sail on it, and your boat will soon touch the ground.”
“Then you think Rousseau a superficial man?”
“Yes; perhaps he presents a greater superficies than other men, but that is all.”
“There are some, I think, who would be very glad to be superficial in his fashion.”
“Do you intend that for me?” asked the stranger, with a good-natured frankness which quite disarmed Gilbert.
“Oh, no, sir! I am too much delighted to converse with you to say anything disagreeable to you.”
“In what way does my conversation delight you? Let me hear, for I do not think you would flatter me for a morsel of bread and a few cherries.”
“You do me justice; I would not flatter to obtain the empire of the world. You shall hear why I am pleased; you are the first person who has ever spoken to me without haughtiness — who has reasoned with me in a tone of kindness — as if speaking to a young man, and not a child — Although we did not agree about Rousseau, there has been in all that you have said something so calm and elevated, that it attracted me. I seem, when talking to you, to be in a richly furnished salon, the window-shutters of which are closed, but of which, notwithstanding the darkness, I can guess the richness and magnificence. I know that you could, if you wished, permit a ray of light to penetrate into your conversation which would dazzle me.”
“But you yourself speak with a certain degree of refinement, which might lead me to think that you had received a better education than you have confessed.”
“It is the first time, sir, that I have spoken so, and I am surprised myself at the terms which I have employed; there are even some of them of which I do not quite understand the signification, and which I have only heard once. I have met with them in books, but I did not comprehend them.”
“Have you read much?”
“Too much; but I shall re-read.”
The old man looked at Gilbert in astonishment.
“Yes. I read all that fell in my way, whether good or bad; I devoured all. Ah, if I had only had some one to direct me what I ought to forget and what I ought to remember.’ But excuse me, sir; I was forgetting that although your conversation is delightful to me, it does not therefore follow that mine must be so to you. You are herborizing, and I perhaps interfere with your occupation.”
Gilbert made a movement as if to withdraw, but at the same time with the greatest desire to be detained. The little gray eyes of the stranger were fixed on him, and they seemed to read his heart.
“No,” said he, “ray box is almost full; I only want a few mosses; I have been told there are some very beautiful hair-mosses in this quarter.”
“Stay, stay,” said Gilbert, “I think I have seen what you want on a rock just now.”
“ Far from this?”
“No, not more than fifty paces.”
“But how do you know that description of moss?”
“I have lived almost all my life in the woods, sir; and then the daughter of the gentleman at whose house I was brought up was fond of botany; she had an herbal, and under each plant the name was written in her own hand. I have often looked at the plants and the writing, and then I knew them when I saw them again in the woods.”
“Then you felt a taste for botany?”
“Oh, sir, whenever I heard Nicole say — Nicole was the waiting-maid of Mademoiselle Andree — when I heard Nicole say that her mistress had been trying in vain to find some particular plant, I asked her to get me the form of that plant. Then, without knowing that I had asked for it, Mademoiselle Andree would frequently sketch it in a moment, and Nicole would bring the drawing to me. I would then scour the fields, meadows, and woods until I had found the plant in question. When found, I dug it up and planted it in the lawn, where Mademoiselle Andree could see it, and, full of joy, she would exclaim on discovering it, ‘How strange! Here is the very plant which I have been searching for everywhere!’”
The old man looked at Gilbert with even more attention than he had yet bestowed on him; and if Gilbert, on reflecting on the purport of what he had said, had not cast down his eyes and blushed, he would have seen that this attention was mingled with an expression of tender interest.
“Well, young man,” said he, “continue to study botany; it will lead by a short route to a knowledge of medicine. God has made nothing in vain, and one day or other the utility of each plant will be distinctly marked in the book of science. Learn first to know simples, afterward you can study their properties.”
“Are there not schools in Paris?”
“Yes, and even some gratuitous ones. The school of surgery, for instance, is one of the benefits which we owe to the present reign.”
“I shall follow the course prescribed in it.”
“Nothing can be more easy, for your parents, seeing your inclinations, will no doubt provide you an adequate maintenance.”
“I have no parents; but I am not afraid; I can provide for myself by my labor.”
“Certainly, and as you have read Rousseau’s works, you know that he says that every man, even a prince, ought to be taught some manual trade.”
“I have not read ‘Emile.’ I think it is in ‘Emile’ he has given that recommendation?”
“It is.”
“I have heard the Baron de Taverney turn that advice into ridicule, and regret that he had not made his son a carpenter.”
“And what did he make him?”
“An officer.”
The old man smiled.
“Yes, our nobles are all so. Instead of teaching their children any trade by which life might be preserved, they teach them the trade of killing. When a revolution comes, and exile after revolution, they will be forced to beg their bread from foreigners, or to sell them their swords, which is still worse. You, however, are not the son of a noble; you know a trade, I presume?”
“Sir, I have already told you I know nothing. Besides, I must confess that I have always had an invincible repugnance for all labors requiring strong rough movements of the body.”
“Ah.” — aid the old man, “you are lazy.”
“Oh, no; I am not lazy. Instead of putting me to the labor of a mechanic, place me in a room half dark, and give me books, and you shall see whether I will not work day and night at the labor of my own choosing.”
The stranger looked at the young man’s white and slender hands.
“It is a sort of predisposition or instinct,” said he. “Sometimes this repugnance for manual labor leads to a good result; but it must be well directed. Well,” continued he, “if you have not been at college, you have at least been at school?”
Gilbert shook his head.
“You can read and write?”
“My mother had just time before she died to teach me to read. My poor mother, seeing that I was not strong, always said, ‘He will never make a good workman; he must be a priest or a learned man.’ When I showed any distaste for my lessons, she would say, ‘Learn to read, Gilbert, and you will not have to cut wood, drive a team, or break stones.’ So I commenced to learn, but unfortunately I could scarcely read when she died.”
“And who taught you to write?”
“I taught myself.”
“You taught yourself?”
“Yes, with a stick which I pointed, and with some sand which I made fine by putting it through a sieve. For two years I wrote the letters which are used in printing, copying them from a book. I did not know that there were any others than these, and I could soon imitate them very well. But one day, about three years ago, when Mademoiselle Andree had gone to a convent, the steward handed me a letter from her for her father, and then I saw that there existed other characters. M, de Taverney, having broken the seal, threw the cover away; I picked it up very carefully, and when the postman came again, I made him read me what was on it. It was. ‘To the Baron de Taverney-Maison-Rouge, at his chateau, near Pierrefitte.’ Under each of these letters I put its corresponding printed letter, and found that I had nearly all the alphabet. Then I imitated the writing; and in a week had copied the address ten thousand times perhaps, and had taught myself to write. You see, sir, that I am not extravagant in my expectations; since I can read and write — have read all that I could — have reflected on all that I read — why may I not perhaps find a man who requires my pen, a blind man who wants eyes, or a dumb man who wants a tongue?”
“But you forget that then you will have a master, and that is what you do not want. A secretary or a reader is only a sort of upper servant, after all.”
“That is true,” replied Gilbert, a little downcast; “but no matter, I must accomplish my object. I shall stir the paving-stones of Paris; I shall turn water-carrier if necessary, but I will attain my object, or I shall die in attempting it — and that will also be accomplishing an object.”
“Well,” replied the stranger, “you seem indeed full of ardor and courage — excellent qualities.”
“But have you not a profession yourself, sir? You are dressed like a man employed in the finances.”
The old man smiled sadly.
“I have a profession,” said he; “every man ought to have one, but mine is a complete stranger to everything connected with finance. A financier would not come out herborizing.”
“Are you an herborist by profession, then?”
“Almost.”
“Then you are poor?”
“Yes.”
“It is the poor who are charitable, for poverty makes them wise, and good advice is better than a louis-d’or. Give me your advice then.”
“I shall do more than that.”
Gilbert smiled.
“I suspected that,” said he.
“On how much do you think you could live?”
“Oh, very little!”
“But perhaps you do not know how expensive living is in Paris?”
“Yesterday I saw Paris for the first time from the hills near Luciennes.”
“Then you are not aware that living in great towns is dear?”
“How much does it cost? Give me an idea.”
“Willingly. For instance, what costs a sou in the country, costs three sous in Paris.”
“Well,” said Gilbert, “if I got any kind of shelter to rest in after my work; I should only need for my food six sous a day.”
“Ah!” cried the stranger, “that is what I like, young man! Come with me to Paris, and I shall find you an independent profession by which you may live.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Gilbert, with rapture; then, after a moment’s reflection, “But it must really be an occupation; I must not live on alms.”
“Do not be afraid of that, my child. I am not rich enough to bestow much in charity, and not foolish enough to do it without knowing the object better.”
This little sally of misanthropy pleased Gilbert, instead of giving him offense. “That is right!” said he; “I like such language. I accept your offer and thank you for it.”
“So you decide upon coming to Paris with me?”
“Yes, sir, if you have no objection.”
“Of course I have no objection, since I make you the offer.”
“What shall I have to do with you?”
“Nothing — but to work. But you shall regulate the quantity of your work yourself. You are young, you ought to be happy and free — even idle if you like, after you have gained the privileges of leisure,” said the stranger, smiling in spite of himself; then, raising his eyes to heaven, he exclaimed with a deep sigh, “O youth! O vigor! O freedom!” Then he rose with the assistance of his stick.
As he said these words, an expression of deep and poetic melancholy overspread his fine features.
“And now,” he continued, in a more cheerful voice, “now that you have got an employment, will you object to help me to fill another box with plants? I have some sheets of paper here in which we can class the others according to their orders. But, by-the-by, are you hungry?
“I have still some bread.”
“Keep it for the afternoon, if you please, sir.”
“Well, but at least eat the cherries; they will be troublesome to carry with us.”
“On that account I shall eat them. But allow me to carry your box; you will then be more at your ease, and I think, thanks to habit, my legs will tire yours.”
“Ah, see! you bring me good fortune. There is the vicris hieracioides, which I sought in vain until now, and just under your foot — take care! — the cerastium aquaticum. Stop, stop! Do not gather them! Oh! you are not an herborist yet. The one is too moist to be gathered now, the other not advanced enough. We can get the vicris hieracioides in the afternoon when we pass this way, and the cerastium a week hence. Besides, I wish to show it growing to a friend whose patronage I mean to solicit for you. And now, show me the place where you saw the beautiful mosses.”
Gilbert walked on, the old man followed him, and both disappeared in the shades of the forest.