Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

T >> T. S. Arthur >> Friends and Neighbors, or Two Ways of Living in the World

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"What do you ask for them?" I inquired.

"I refused a hundred dollars for the pair. But I am compelled to
part with them now, and you shall have them for eighty."

I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and therefore shook my
head. But, as he looked disappointed, I offered to take one of the
pictures at forty dollars. To this he agreed. I paid the money, and
the picture was sent home. Some days afterward, I was showing it to
a friend.

"What did you pay for it?" he asked.

"Forty dollars," I replied.

The friend smiled strangely.

"What's the matter?" said I.

"He offered it to me for twenty-five."

"That picture?"

"Yes."

"He asked me eighty for this and another, and said he had refused a
hundred for the pair."

"He lied though. He thought, as you were well off, that he must ask
you a good stiff price, or you wouldn't buy."

"The scoundrel!"

"He got ahead of you, certainly."

"But it's the last time," said I, angrily.

And so things went on. Scarcely a day passed in which my fame as a
wealthy citizen did not subject me to some kind of experiment from
people in want of money. If I employed a porter for any service and
asked what was to pay, after the work was done, ten chances to one
that he didn't touch his hat and reply,

"Anything that you please, sir," in the hope that I, being a rich
man, would be ashamed to offer him less than about four times his
regular price. Poor people in abundance called upon me for aid; and
all sorts of applications to give or lend money met me at every
turn. And when I, in self-defence, begged off as politely as
possible, hints gentle or broad, according to the characters or
feelings of those who came, touching the hardening and perverting
influence of wealth, were thrown out for my especial edification.

And still the annoyance continues. Nobody but myself doubts the fact
that I am worth from seventy to a hundred thousand dollars, and I
am, therefore, considered allowable game for all who are too idle or
prodigal to succeed in the world; or as Nature's almoner to all who
are suffering from misfortunes.

Soon after the publication to which I have alluded was foisted upon
our community as a veritable document, I found myself a secular
dignitary in the church militant. Previously I had been only a
pew-holder, and an unambitious attendant upon the Sabbath
ministrations of the Rev. Mr----. But a new field suddenly opened
before me; I was a man of weight and influence, and must be used for
what I was worth. It is no joke, I can assure the reader, when I
tell them that the way my pocket suffered was truly alarming. I
don't know, but I have seriously thought, sometimes, that if I
hadn't kicked loose from my dignity, I would have been gazetted as a
bankrupt long before this time.

Soon after sending in my resignation as vestryman or deacon, I will
not say which, I met the Rev. Mr----, and the way he talked to me
about the earth being the "Lord's and the fullness thereof;" about
our having the poor always with us; about the duties of charity, and
the laying up of treasure in heaven, made me ashamed to go to church
for a month to come. I really began to fear that I was a doomed man
and that the reputation of being a "wealthy citizen" was going to
sink me into everlasting perdition. But I am getting over that
feeling now. My cash-book, ledger, and bill-book set me right again;
and I can button up my coat and draw my purse-strings, when guided
by the dictates of my own judgment, without a fear of the threatened
final consequences before my eyes. Still, I am the subject of
perpetual annoyance from all sorts of people, who will persist in
believing that I am made of money; and many of these approach me in,
such a way as to put it almost entirely out of my power to say "no."
They come with appeals for small amounts, as loans, donations to
particular charities, or as the price of articles that I do not
want, but which I cannot well refuse to take. I am sure that, since
I have obtained my present unenviable reputation, it hasn't cost me
a cent less than two thousand, in money given away, loaned never to
be returned, and in the purchase of things that I never would have
thought of buying.

And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I ever before had
in my life, and estranged half of my friends and acquaintances.

Seriously, I have it in contemplation to "break" one of these days,
in order to satisfy the world that I am not a rich man. I see no
other effectual remedy for present grievances.

"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE."

DESPAIR not of the better part
That lies in human kind--
A gleam of light still flickereth
In e'en the darkest mind;
The savage with his club of war,
The sage so mild and good,
Are linked in firm, eternal bonds
Of common brotherhood.
Despair not! Oh despair not, then,
For through this world so wide,
No nature is so demon-like,
But there's an angel side.

The huge rough stones from out the mine,
Unsightly and unfair,
Have veins of purest metal hid
Beneath the surface there;
Few rocks so bare but to their heights
Some tiny moss-plant clings,
And round the peaks, so desolate,
The sea-bird sits and sings.
Believe me, too, that rugged souls,
Beneath their rudeness hide
Much that is beautiful and good--
We've all our angel side.

In all there is an inner depth--
A far off, secret way,
Where, through dim windows of the soul,
God sends His smiling ray;
In every human heart there is
A faithful sounding chord,
That may be struck, unknown to us,
By some sweet loving word;
The wayward heart in vain may try
Its softer thoughts to hide,
Some unexpected tone reveals
It has its angel side.

Despised, and low, and trodden down,
Dark with the shade of sin:
Deciphering not those halo lights
Which God hath lit within;
Groping about in utmost night,
Poor prisoned souls there are,
Who guess not what life's meaning is,
Nor dream of heaven afar;
Oh! that some gentle hand of love
Their stumbling steps would guide,
And show them that, amidst it all,
Life has its angel side.

Brutal, and mean, and dark enough,
God knows, some natures are,
But He, compassionate, comes near--
And shall we stand afar?
Our cruse of oil will not grow less,
If shared with hearty hand,
And words of peace and looks of love
Few natures can withstand.
Love is the mighty conqueror--
Love is the beauteous guide--
Love, with her beaming eye, can see
We've all our angel side.

BLIND JAMES.

IN the month of December, in the neighbourhood of Paris, two men,
one young, the other rather advanced in years, were descending the
village street, which was made uneven and almost impassable by
stones and puddles.

Opposite to them, and ascending this same street, a labourer,
fastened to a sort of dray laden with a cask, was slowly advancing,
and beside him a little girl, of about eight years old, who was
holding the end of the barrow. Suddenly the wheel went over an
enormous stone, which lay in the middle of the street, and the car
leaned towards the side of the child.

"The man must be intoxicated," cried the young man, stepping forward
to prevent the overturn of the dray. When he reached the spot, he
perceived that the man was blind.

"Blind!" said he, turning towards his old friend. But the latter,
making him a sign to be silent, placed his hand, without speaking,
on that of the labourer, while the little girl smiled. The blind man
immediately raised his head, his sightless eyes were turned towards
the two gentlemen, his face shone with an intelligent and natural
pleasure, and, pressing closely the hand which held his own, he
said, with an accent of tenderness,

"Mr. Desgranges!"

"How!" said the young man, moved and surprised; "he knew you by the
touch of your hand."

"I do not need even that," said the blind man; "when he passes me in
the street, I say to myself, 'That is his step.'" And, seizing the
hand of Mr. Desgranges, he kissed it with ardour. "It was indeed
you, Mr. Desgranges, who prevented my falling--always you."

"Why," said the young man, "do you expose yourself to such
accidents, by dragging this cask?"

"One must attend to his business, sir," replied he, gayly.

"Your business?"

"Undoubtedly," added Mr. Desgranges. "James is our water-carrier.
But I shall scold him for going out without his wife to guide him."

"My wife was gone away. I took the little girl. One must be a little
energetic, must he not? And, you see, I have done very well since I
last saw you, my dear Mr. Desgranges; and you have assisted me."

"Come, James, now finish serving your customers, and then you can
call and see me. I am going home."

"Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir; good-by, sir."

And he started again, dragging his cask, while the child turned
towards the gentlemen her rosy and smiling face.

"Blind, and a water-carrier!" repeated the young man, as they walked
along.

"Ah! our James astonishes you, my young friend. Yes, it is one of
those miracles like that of a paralytic who walks. Should you like
to know his story?"

"Tell it to me."

"I will do so. It does not abound in facts or dramatic incidents,
but it will interest you, I think, for it is the history of a soul,
and of a good soul it is--a man struggling against the night. You
will see the unfortunate man going step by step out of a bottomless
abyss to begin his life again--to create his soul anew. You will see
how a blind man, with a noble heart for a stay, makes his way even
in this world."

While they were conversing, they reached the house of Mr.
Desgranges, who began in this manner:--

"One morning, three years since, I was walking on a large dry plain,
which separates our village from that of Noiesemont, and which is
all covered with mill-stones just taken from the quarry. The process
of blowing the rocks was still going on. Suddenly a violent
explosion was heard. I looked. At a distance of four or five hundred
paces, a gray smoke, which seemed to come from a hole, rose from the
ground. Stones were then thrown up in the air, horrible cries were
heard, and springing from this hole appeared a man, who began to run
across the plain as if mad. He shook his arms, screamed, fell down,
got up again, disappeared in the great crevices of the plain, and
appeared again. The distance and the irregularity of his path
prevented me from distinguishing anything clearly; but, at the
height of his head, in the place of his face, I saw a great, red
mark. In alarm, I approached him, while from the other side of the
plain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men and women were advancing,
crying aloud. I was the first to reach the poor creature. His face
was all one wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over his
garments, which were all in rags.

"Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman, followed by twenty
peasants, approached, and threw herself before him.

"'James, James, is it you? I did not know you, James.'

"The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously in our hands.

"'Ah!' cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heart-rending voice,
'it is he!'

"She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened his shirt,
which was covered with blood.

"It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three children, a poor
labourer, who, in blasting a rock with powder, had received the
explosion in his face, and was blind, mutilated, perhaps mortally
wounded.

"He was carried home. I was obliged to go away the same day, on a
journey, and was absent a month. Before my departure, I sent him our
doctor, a man devoted to his profession as a country physician, and
as learned as a city physician. On my return--

"'Ah! well, doctor,' said I, 'the blind man?'

"'It is all over with him. His wounds are healed, his head is doing
well, he is only blind; but he will die; despair has seized him, and
he will kill himself. I can do nothing more for him, This is all,'
he said; 'an internal inflammation is taking place. He must die.'

"I hastened to the poor man. I arrived. I shall never forget the
sight. He was seated on a wooden stool, beside a hearth on. which
there was no fire, his eyes covered with a white bandage. On the
floor an infant of three months was sleeping; a little girl of four
years old was playing in the ashes; one, still older, was shivering
opposite to her; and, in front of the fireplace, seated on the
disordered bed, her arms hanging down, was the wife. What was left
to be imagined in this spectacle was more than met the eye. One felt
that for several hours, perhaps, no word had been spoken in this
room. The wife was doing nothing, and seemed to have no care to do
anything. They were not merely unfortunate, they seemed like
condemned persons. At the sound of my footsteps they arose, but
without speaking.

"'You are the blind man of the quarry?"

"'Yes, sir.'

"'I have come to see you.'

"'Thank you, sir.'

"'You met with a sad misfortune there.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"His voice was cold, short, without any emotion. He expected nothing
from any one. I pronounced the words 'assistance,' 'public
compassion.'

"'Assistance!' cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone of despair;
'they ought to give it to us; they must help us; we have done
nothing to bring upon us this misfortune; they will not let my
children die with hunger.'

"She asked for nothing--begged for nothing. She claimed help. This
imperative beggary touched me more than the common lamentations of
poverty, for it was the voice of despair; and I felt in my purse for
some pieces of silver.

"The man then, who had till now been silent, said, with a hollow
tone,

"'Your children must die, since I can no longer see.'

"There is a strange power in the human voice. My money fell back
into my purse. I was ashamed of the precarious assistance. I felt
that here was a call for something more than mere almsgiving--the
charity of a day. I soon formed my resolution."

"But what could you do?" said the young man, to Mr. Desgranges.

"What could I do?" replied he, with animation. "Fifteen days after,
James was saved. A year after, he gained his own living, and might
be heard singing at his work."

"Saved! working! singing! but how?"

"How! by very natural means. But wait, I think I hear him. I will
make him tell you his simple story. It will touch you more from his
lips. It will embarrass me less, and his cordial and ardent face
will complete the work."

In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden shoes was heard
at the door, and then a little tap.

"Come in, James;" and he entered with his wife,

"I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges, the poor woman--she
must see you sometimes, must she not?"

"You did right, James. Sit down."

He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that he might not
knock against a chair. He found one, and seated himself. He was
young, small, vigorous, with black hair, a high and open forehead, a
singularly expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, a
magnificent smile of thirty-two teeth. His wife remained standing
behind him.

"James," said Mr. Desgranges to him, "here is one of my good
friends, who is very desirous to see you."

"He is a good man, then, since he is your friend."

"Yes. Talk with him; I am going to see my geraniums. But do not be
sad, you know I forbid you that."

"No, no, my dear friend, no!"

This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm the young man;
and after the departure of his friend, approaching the blind man, he
said,

"You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?"

"Fond of him!" cried the blind man, with impetuosity; "he saved me
from ruin, sir. It was all over with me; the thought of my children
consumed me; I was dying because I could not see. He saved me."

"With assistance--with money?"

"Money! what is money? Everybody can give that. Yes, he clothed us,
he fed us, he obtained a subscription of five hundred francs (about
one hundred dollars) for me; but all this was as nothing; he did
more--he cured my heart!"

"But how?"

"By his kind words, sir. Yes, he, a person of so much consequence in
the world, he came every day into my poor house, he sat on my poor
stool, he talked with me an hour, two hours, till I became quiet and
easy."

"What did he say to you?"

"I do not know; I am but a foolish fellow, and he must tell you all
he said to me; but they were things I had never heard before. He
spoke to me of the good God better than a minister; and he brought
sleep back to me."

"How was that?"

"It was two months since I had slept soundly. I would just doze, and
then start up, saying,

"'James, you are blind,' and then my head would go round--round,
like a madman; and this was killing me. One morning he came in, this
dear friend, and said to me,

"'James, do you believe in God?'

"'Why do you ask that, Mr. Desgranges?'

"'Well, this night, when you wake, and the thought of your
misfortune comes upon you, say aloud a prayer--then two--then
three--and you will go to sleep.'"

"Yes," said the wife, with her calm voice, "the good God, He gives
sleep."

"This is not all, sir. In my despair I would have killed myself. I
said to myself, 'You are useless to your family, you are the woman
of the house, and others support you.' But he was displeased--'Is it
not you who support your family? If you had not been blind, would
any one have given you the five hundred francs?'

"'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'

"'If you were not blind, would any one provide for your children?'

"'That is true, Mr. Desgranges.'

"'If you were not blind, would every one love you, as we love you?'

"'It is true, Mr. Desgranges, it is true.'

"'You see, James, there are misfortunes in all families. Misfortune
is like rain; it must fall a little on everybody. If you were not
blind, your wife would, perhaps, be sick; one of your children might
have died. Instead of that, you have all the misfortune, my poor
man; but they--they have none.'

"'True, true.' And I began to feel less sad. I was even happy to
suffer for them. And then he added,

"'Dear James, misfortune is either the greatest enemy or the
greatest friend of men. There are people whom it makes wicked; there
are others made better by it. For you, it must make you beloved by
everybody; you must become so grateful, so affectionate, that when
they wish to speak of any one who is good, they will say, good as
the blind man of the Noiesemont. That will serve for a dowry to your
daughter.' This is the way he talked to me, sir: and it gave me
heart to be unfortunate."

"Yes; but when he was not here?"

"Ah, when he was not here, I had, to be sure, some heavy moments. I
thought of my eyes--the light is so beautiful! Oh, God! cried I, in
anguish, if ever I should see clearly again, I would get up at three
o'clock. in the morning, and I would, not go to bed till ten at
night, that I might gather up more light."

"James, James!" said his wife.

"You are right, Juliana; he has forbidden me to be sad. He would
perceive it, sir. Do you think that when my head had gone wrong in
the night, and he came in the morning, and merely looked at me, he
would say--'James, you have been thinking that;' and then he would
scold me, this dear friend. Yes," added he, with an expression of
joy--"he would scold me, and that would give me pleasure, because he
tried to make his words cross, but he could not do it."

"And what gave you the idea of becoming a water-carrier?"

"He gave me that, also. Do you suppose I have ideas? I began to lose
my grief, but my time hung heavy on my hands. At thirty-two years
old, to be sitting all day in a chair! He then began to instruct me,
as he said, and he told me beautiful stories. The Bible--the history
of an old man, blind like me, named Tobias; the history of Joseph;
the history of David; the history of Jesus Christ. And then he made
me repeat them after him. But my head, it was hard--it was hard; it
was not used to learning, and I was always getting tired in my arms
and my legs."

"And he tormented us to death," said his wife, laughing.

"True, true," replied he, laughing also; "I became cross. He came
again, and said,

"'James, you must go to work.'

"I showed him my poor, burned hands.

"'It is no matter; I have bought you a capital in trade.'

"'Me, Mr. Desgranges?'

"'Yes, James, a capital into which they never put goods, and where
they always find them.'

"'It must have cost you a great deal, sir.'

"'Nothing at all, my lad.'

"'What is then this fund?'

"'The river.'

"'The river? Do you wish me to become a fisherman?'

"'Not all; a water-carrier.'

"'Water-carrier! but eyes?'

"'Eyes; of what use are they? do the dray-horses have eyes? If they
do, they make use of them; if they do not, they do without them.
Come, you must be a water-carrier.'

"'But a cask?'

"'I will give you one.'

"'A cart?'

"'I have ordered one at the cart-maker's.'

"'But customers?'

"I will give you my custom, to begin with, eighteen francs a month;
(my dear friend pays for water as dearly as for wine.) Moreover, you
have nothing to say, either yes or no. I have dismissed my
water-carrier, and you would not let my wife and me die with thirst.
This dear Madame Desgranges, just think of it. And so, my boy, in
three days--work. And you, Madam James, come here;' and he carried
off Juliana."

"Yes, sir," continued the wife, "he carried me off, ordered leather
straps, made me buy the wheels, harnessed me; we were all
astonishment, James and I; but stop, if you can, when Mr. Desgranges
drives you. At the end of three days, here we are with the cask, he
harnessed and drawing it, I behind, pushing; we were ashamed at
crossing the village, as if we were doing something wrong; it seemed
as if everybody would laugh at us. But Mr. Desgranges was there in
the street.

"'Come on, James,' said he, 'courage.'

"We came along, and in the evening he put into our hands a piece of
money, saying," continued the blind man, with emotion--

"'James, here are twenty sous you have earned to-day.'

"Earned, sir, think of that! earned, it was fifteen months that I
had only eaten what had been given to me. It is good to receive from
good people, it is true; but the bread that one earns, it is as we
say, half corn, half barley; it nourishes better, and then it was
done, I was no longer the woman, I was a labourer--a labourer--James
earned his living."

A sort of pride shone from his face.

"How!" said the young man, "was your cask sufficient to support
you?"

"Not alone, sir; but I have still another profession."

"Another profession!"

"Ha, ha, yes, sir; the river always runs, except when it is frozen,
and, as Mr. Desgranges says, 'water-carriers do not make their
fortune with ice,' so he gave me a Winter trade and Summer trade."

"Winter trade!"

Mr. Desgranges returned at this moment--James heard him--"Is it not
true, Mr. Desgranges, that I have another trade besides that of
water-carrier?"

"Undoubtedly."

"What is it then?"

"Wood-sawyer."

"Wood-sawyer? impossible; how could you measure the length of the
sticks? how could you cut wood without cutting yourself?"

"Cut myself, sir," replied the blind man, with a pleasant shade of
confidence; "I formerly was a woodsawyer, and the saw knows me well;
and then one learns everything--I go to school, indeed. They put a
pile of wood at my left side, my saw and saw horse before me, a
stick that is to be sawed in three; I take a thread, I cut it the
size of the third of the stick--this is the measure. Every place I
saw, I try it, and so it goes on till now there is nothing burned or
drunk in the village without calling upon me."

"Without mentioning," added Mr. Desgranges, "that he is a
commissioner."

"A commissioner!" said the young man, still more surprised.

"Yes, sir, when there is an errand to be done at Melun, I put my
little girl on my back, and then off I go. She sees for me, I walk
for her; those who meet me, say, 'Here is a gentleman who carries
his eyes very high;' to which I answer, 'that is so I may see the
farther.' And then at night I have twenty sous more to bring home."

"But are you not afraid of stumbling against the stones?"

"I lift my feet pretty high; and then I am used to it; I come from
Noiesemont here all alone."

"All alone! how do you find your way?"

"I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and this takes the
place of the sun with me."

"But the holes?"

"I know them all."

"And the walls?"

"I feel them. When I approach anything thick, sir, the air comes
with less force upon my face; it is but now and then that I get a
hard knock, as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left on
the road, I do not suspect it--whack! bad for you, poor
five-and-thirty, but this is soon over. It is only when I get
bewildered, as I did day before yesterday. O then---"

"You have not told me of that, James," said Mr. Desgranges.

"I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my dear friend. While I was
here the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of a
quarter of an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I
had lost my way, and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to
stir a step. You know the plain, not a house, no passersby. I sat
down on the ground, I listened; after a moment I heard at, as I
supposed, about two hundred paces distant, a noise of running water.
I said, 'If this should be the stream which is at the bottom of the
plain?' I went feeling along on the side from which the noise
came--I reached the stream; then I reasoned in this way: the water
comes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses it. I put in my
hand to feel the current."

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