And now let me tell what my present position is. I have hired a little room at twenty francs a month, near my cousin. He could not take me into his own family; my friend, Lefebvre, could not accommodate me either; and besides, the fact is that one must be alone and quite independent if one would work well; it is better to have a house of one's own. I take my meals at my cousin's; in short, I am in a very tolerable position, and one that will allow me to try my fortune for three months to come, and I hope much longer.
Add to this a most charming perspective, from which I hope much for the advancement of my fortunes and the maintenance of my courage. At the end of this month Quemper is going to change his lodgings. He has in view, still, in the rue des Petits-Augustins, an apartment consisting of three rooms, two bed-chambers and a parlor. He proposes that I should take one of these rooms, which would cost me twenty francs, like the one I have at present, and that we should share the parlor. You may imagine that I accepted the plan with both hands, especially because it will be so delightful to live with such a friend. We have already laid out a life of uninterrupted happiness not to be described, a sort of Le Val for us two in the midst of Paris. [{690}] Can discouragement seize upon me there? and if it comes, cannot we put it to flight? Quemper has drawn up a rule of life for me, and given lessons in a double economy of which I knew nothing—that of time and money; in short, as he says, he will pilot me through life and Paris, two paths where I lose myself completely, though I number twenty-three years of life and eight years of Paris. I begin to believe that in spite of myself or any evil genius, I shall accomplish something.
If I turn to the source of all these blessings, I find you, my dear friend, who by your exhortations and generous reproaches, sowed in my soul the first germs of the courage that I feel stirring within me now. You urged me to come to Paris when I was contemplating a cowardly retreat; you bound me in that ripe sheaf of friendship with yourself, Quemper, and Duquesnel, an endless blessing from which, perhaps, all the success of my life will grow; to you I owe two months of beautiful impressions and pure happiness. You let me look upon Le Val as a second Le Cayla, love it with the affection that belongs to one's birthplace, for it was the June of my second birth; weep for it in momenta of sadness, and sing of its charms when I am glad.
My cousin's little girl is nine months old; she is charming, can stand alone already, without walking of course, has an enchanting smile; in short, would be a companion angel for Marie. When her tongue is loosed, I will teach her all the little words that her baby sister in Le Val can say, "Bon jour, ma, à tantôt, le v'la lia" and I will swing her in a napkin; in short, I will do everything I can to make her another Marie, her faithful and bewitching likeness.
I have not yet written to my sister. I shall do so this evening with exhortations and entreaties. How happy it would make me to see a firm friendship grow up between Madame de La Morvonnais and Eugénie! those two souls so formed for mutual understanding, and to draw forth the wealth of sweetness from each other's souls.
Offer my homage to her who will, I hope, soon call my sister friend, and win the same title from her; as it is between you and me, my dear friend. Countless kisses to Marie. Don't forget me, I beg, when you write to Mordreux and St. Malo. Love to Duquesnel and François.
At the time the following idyl was written, the pernicious style of literature which it satirizes was confined to France. To-day, when our bookstores teem with works of the same class, we fear that the allegory may meet with less favor among American readers than it would have aroused thirty years ago.
MAURICE DE GUÉRIN TO
M. H. DE LA MORVONNAIS.
PARIS, February, 1834.
I fear me much that the month of May will bring us snow-balls instead of roses.
When I left you, dear friend, your solitude was just ready to burst forth into flowers and verdure. The reddening fruit walls in your garden, and the little chilly shrubs that love the sun, were trusting their tender foliage, in all confidence, to the benign and gentle winter, smiling upon them with the grace of spring. The wood that stretches over your sloping shore, dipping almost into the sea, wore that look of life and gladness that trees put on as spring-time draws near. The sticky, oval buds of the Indian chestnut, glistened in the sun; beech buds, sharp and slim, pricked themselves up with pert vivacity, even the small round oak buds were beginning to gather in bunches at the end of the branches, and yet the oak leaves out later than other forest-trees. We saw the young shoots of undergrowth blushing with the red tint that colors them at the awakening of vegetation, as if blood were purling through their veins instead of sap. The grass, pushing its way up through the bed of dead leaves and withered vegetation, thrown over [{691}] it in autumn, was bordering the paths, and spreading a velvet carpet in every glade, decked with the enamel of a thousand Easter buds and daisies. Everything was gay in preparation for the great feast of nature. Oh! if nightingale, swallow, oriole, and sparrow knew all this, how they would bestir themselves to fly dulcesque revisere nidos. It may be that their European brothers have sent messengers to tell them that everything is ready for their reception, woods, groves, hedge, and bush; that seeds and berries will come early; that, morning and evening, the gnats are whirling in myriads in the beams of the rising and setting sun; that all is lovely here, and they must hurry home to enjoy the glorious festival. I don't know that our domestic birds have paid this attention to their travelled brethren, but at least they have given themselves up to joy and harmony in awaiting their return. Do you remember, Hippolyte, how the blackbirds whistle, the gay, sweet warble of the thrush, or the twitter of some wren perched on the top of a wall, used to beguile us from our study, tempting us forth to pleasant rambles?