He smiled, and I believed him convinced; but a moment after the doleful theme was resumed, and he was preaching his lamentable doctrines as if I had not interrupted him.
"You are sincere and perhaps even virtuous now," he said. "But that is no more than your duty, so you deserve no credit. I am so old in experience that sometimes my wisdom seems to have been bought with every drop of blood in my veins, and with every hope of happiness. Now, this is the fruit of my experience, which I will give you, and you can digest it at your leisure. Have no friends—live by yourself—never marry—live in a village rather than in a city, and in a forest rather than in either. You laugh, but let me tell you that it is no laughing matter, as you will find when you know the world as well as I do; and you will know it one of these days, when experience has come too soon and death too late for your prayers."
So spake the misanthrope, and I replied: "We must take men as they are and life as we find it; remembering that other people's faults are sooner seen than our own, and that they have as much reason to shun us as we have to despise them. God made us to live with our fellow-creatures, and if each person followed out your dismal precepts the world would become a vast solitude—a living tomb to engulf humanity."
"Alas! young man!" was his mournful reply, and it was only by dint of entreaty that I at last discovered the grounds of his grief and disappointment. One beautiful evening lie told me his story. The forest was radiant with a sunset glow; and the little birds were hopping about and building their nests in the branches of the trees, twittering and singing in the fulness of their joy.
"I was born," said he, "in the very place where I live to-day, for the one illusion, the supreme consolation that I have left, is a love of my native land. I was hatched in that crumbling old tower yonder covered with moss and ivy. My two brothers came into the world with me, and it was a dream of ours that we would go through life together, always sacrificing private interest to mutual happiness: promises suited to infancy and destined to be forgotten before youth had fled.
"We were the pride of our parents' hearts, and as we grew from day to day our mother gloried in our size and beauty—our father in the fancied promise we gave of strength and virtue. One day, when we had grown old enough to take a little care of ourselves, our parents addressed these words to us: 'In another month, little ones, you will need our help no longer, and will enter boldly upon life. Now listen to our directions: if we should die before you are old enough to take care of yourselves, go to our neighbor, the old owl, who lives in the oak that was struck by lightning last year, and who comes to see you sometimes. He will be father and mother in one to you, if a parent's place can be supplied. And another piece of advice: never let a silly curiosity prompt you to leave this wood and go in search of new places. Beyond this forest you would find treachery, misfortune, and death. Now mind and remember our words when we are taken from you, and never forget the father and mother who have love you so dearly.'
"All this made us cry so bitterly that we could hardly speak. The words had a dreadful sound, though we did not know what they meant. 'What was it all about?' thought we; and yet with a sense of dread and ill omen, we promised with tears to follow their device. We pledged ourselves to everything, and thought our fidelity unimpeachable—for childhood has such unbounded faith in itself. Our parents rejoiced in our docility, and for several days our happy life continued unclouded.
"One evening they went out as usual to get food for us after saying goodbye very tenderly. For a long time we awaited their return in vain, and fell asleep at last worn out with watching and listening. When we awoke they had not come back, and we asked each other in terror if this could be the eternal separation they had spoken of. The ruins rang with our cries, and the mocking echo sounded to our excited fancy like the laugh of some mysterious enemy. Then hunger came to add bodily misery to our sufferings; and I made up my mind that I, as the eldest, was bound to sacrifice myself to save my little brothers. Telling them to keep up their courage and wait for me patiently, I threw myself boldly out of the nest and flew off in search of the old friend of my mother and father. By help of all sorts of landmarks, I succeeded at last in finding the shattered oak, but he, alas! was not there; and trembling with fatigue I perched myself on a bough to wait in dumb resignation for whatever might come next. A few hours had taught me life's bitterest lesson, and I felt a century older than the day before. At length, hungry and tired, and crazy with grief, I made my way back to my brothers, who were waiting to tell me good news. Our old friend, our only protector now, was with them. From his hermitage he had seen his two poor friends pursued by an eagle and torn with his cruel claws. Then he had remembered us and flown to our nest, bringing food for us all. So my strength was restored, and I awoke once more to the full vigor of life and suffering. When the first anguish of grief passed away, it was only to leave room for fresh trial and disappointment. One day—it was in the beginning of June—I heard the birds singing in the foliage, I saw on every side living beings enjoying life in the great forest, and the thought came to me for the first time that I too might mingle in the festival of nature. I flew out of the nest and perched quietly on an oak that stood at the edge of the glade where all the little birds had met together for a concert. They were listening to a linnet; every one was attending in silence to her joyous notes, and all, even to the nightingale, were filled with admiration for the pretty songstress. And I too admired her. I too was penetrated with love for all these little birds who looked so kind and good. 'How sweet it would be to live among them!' thought I, and I determined to give up solitude and come with my brothers to live among them, to be their friend and admirer. Love seemed so sweet! Admiration of others so ennobling!
"Such were the thoughts in which I was luxuriating while the linnet's song lasted. When she ended, I was still rapt in attention and cried out: 'Oh! how beautiful, how exquisite that is!' Hardly were the words uttered when they discovered me. In an instant I was surrounded, hustled, assailed, insulted in a thousand discordant voices.