Can I separate my father's twin brother, joint inheritor,
and next successor, from himself?
and next successor, from himself?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v08 - Dah to Dra
He was not of this part of
the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him. "
"Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated? »
"With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it,
Monseigneur. His head hanging over-like this! "
He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back,
with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down;
then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
"What was he like? "
"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered
with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre ! »
The picture produced an immense sensation in the little
crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes,
looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps to observe whether he
had any spectre on his conscience.
"Truly, you did well," said the Marquis, felicitously sensible
that such vermin were not to ruffle him, "to see a thief accom-
panying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of yours.
Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle! "
Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster and some other taxing
functionary, united; he had come out with great obsequiousness
to assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the
drapery of his arm in an official manner.
"Bah! Go aside! " said Monsieur Gabelle.
"Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle. "
« Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your
orders. "
"Did he run away, fellow ? -where is that Accursed? »
The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-
dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap.
Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly haled him out,
and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
"Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the
drag? "
་
Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head
first, as a person plunges into the river. "
"See to it, Gabelle. Go on! "
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still
among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly
that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had
very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.
## p. 4676 (#470) ###########################################
4676
CHARLES DICKENS
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village
and up the rise beyond was soon checked by the steepness of the
hill. Gradually it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lum-
bering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night.
The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about
them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the
lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier
was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-
ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of our Saviour on
it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced
rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life-his
own life, maybe-for it was dreadfully spare and thin.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long
been growing worse and was not at its worst, a woman was
kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her,
rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage door.
"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition. "
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable
face, Monseigneur looked out.
"How, then! What is it? Always petitions! "
"Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband,
the forester. "
"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with
you people. He cannot pay something? "
"He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead. "
"Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you? "
"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little
heap of poor grass. "
"Well? "
"Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass! '
"Again, well? »
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner
was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous
and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of
them on the carriage door-tenderly, caressingly, as if it had
been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the ap
pealing touch.
"Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My
husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will
die of want. "
"Again, well? Can I feed them? "
## p. 4677 (#471) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4677
"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My
petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's
name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Other-
wise the place will be quickly forgotten; it will never be found
when I am dead of the same malady; I shall be laid under
some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many,
they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
Monseigneur! "
The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had
broken into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace;
she was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the
Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance
that remained between him and his château.
The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him,
and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and
toil-worn group at the fountain not far away; to whom the
mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap without which he
was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a spectre as long
as they could bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no more,
they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled in little case-
ments; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars
came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
been extinguished.
The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-
hanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and
the shadow was exchanged for the light of a flambeau, as his
carriage stopped, and the great door of his château was opened
to him.
"Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from Eng-
land? »
"Monseigneur, not yet. "
THE GORGON'S HEAD
It was a heavy mass of building, that château of Monsieur the
Marquis, with a large stone court-yard before it, and two stone
sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the prin-
cipal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy stone balus-
trades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and stone faces of men,
and stone heads of lions, in all directions. As if the Gorgon's
head had surveyed it when it was finished two centuries ago.
## p. 4678 (#472) ###########################################
4678
CHARLES DICKENS
Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis,
flambeau-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing
the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof
of the great pile of stable-building away among the trees. All
else was so quiet that the flambeau carried up the steps, and the
other flambeau held at the great door, burnt as if they were in a
close room of state, instead of being in the open night air.
Other sound than the owl's voice there was none, save the falling
of a fountain into its stone basin; for it was one of those dark
nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Mar-
quis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and
knives of the chase; grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and
riding-whips, of which many a peasant, gone to his benefactor
Death, had felt the weight when his lord was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast
for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer
going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a corridor.
This thrown open admitted him to his own private apartment
of three rooms; his bedchamber and two others. High vaulted
rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon the hearths
for the burning of wood in winter-time, and all luxuries befitting
the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country. The
fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
break the fourteenth Louis-was conspicuous in their rich
furniture; but it was diversified by many objects that were illus-
trations of old pages in the history of France.
A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a
round room, in one of the château's four extinguisher-topped
towers. A small lofty room, with its window wide open, and the
wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the dark night only showed
in slight horizontal lines of black, alternating with their broad
lines of stone-color.
―――――
"My nephew," said the Marquis, glancing at the supper prepa-
ration; "they said he was not arrived. "
Nor was he; but he had been expected with Monseigneur.
"Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless,
leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour. ”
In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down
alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was
## p. 4679 (#473) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4679
opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup and was rais-
ing his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it down.
"What is that? " he calmly asked, looking with attention at
the horizontal lines of black and stone-color.
"Monseigneur? That? "
"Outside the blinds. Open the blinds. "
It was done.
"Well? »
«< 'Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all
that are here. "
The servant who spoke had thrown the blinds wide, had
looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood, with that blank
behind him, looking round for instructions.
«< Good," said the imperturbable master. "Close them again. "
That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper.
He was half-way through it, when he again stopped with his
glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It came on
briskly, and came up to the front of the château.
"Ask who is arrived. "
It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few
leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had
diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up
with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of Monseigneur,
at the posting-houses, as being before him.
In a
He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him
then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it.
little while he came. He had been known in England as Charles
Darnay.
Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did
not shake hands.
"You left Paris yesterday, sir? " he said to Monseigneur, as
he took his seat at table.
"Yesterday. And you? "
"I come direct. "
"From London ? »
"Yes. "
"You have been a long time coming," said the Marquis, with
a smile.
"On the contrary; I come direct. "
"Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long
time intending the journey. "
## p. 4680 (#474) ###########################################
4680
CHARLES DICKENS
"I have been detained by "the nephew stopped a moment
in his answer "various business. "
――――
"Without doubt," said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other words passed
between them. When coffee had been served and they were
alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meeting
the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a conver-
sation.
"I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object
that took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected
peril; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death
I hope it would have sustained me. "
"Not to death," said the uncle; "it is not necessary to say,
to death. "
"I doubt, sir," returned the nephew, "whether, if it had car-
ried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to
stop me there. »
The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of
the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to
that; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which was so
clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not reassuring.
"Indeed, sir," pursued the nephew, "for anything I know,
you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious ap-
pearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me. "
"No, no, no," said the uncle pleasantly.
«< But, however that may be," resumed the nephew, glancing
at him with deep distrust, "I know that your diplomacy would
stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as to
means. "
"My friend, I told you so," said the uncle, with a fine pulsa-
tion in the two marks. "Do me the favor to recall that I told
you so, long ago. "
"I recall it. "
"Thank you," said the Marquis very sweetly indeed.
His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
instrument.
-
"In effect, sir," pursued the nephew, "I believe it to be at
once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me
out of a prison in France here. "
"I do not quite understand," returned the uncle, sipping his
coffee. "Dare I ask you to explain? »
## p. 4681 (#475) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4681
"I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the court,
and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a
lettre de cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely. "
"It is possible," said the uncle, with great calmness. "For
the honor of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you
to that extent. Pray excuse me! "
"I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day
before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one," observed the
nephew.
"I would not say happily, my friend," returned the uncle,
with refined politeness; "I would not be sure of that. A good
opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of
solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage
than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss
the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little
instruments of correction, these gentle aids to the power and
honor of families, these slight favors that might so incommode
you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity.
They are sought by so many, and they are granted (compara-
tively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held
the right of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From
this room, many such dogs have been taken out to be hanged;
in the next room (my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge,
was poniarded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy
respecting his daughter- his daughter! We have lost many
privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the as-
sertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far
as to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience.
very bad, very bad! "
All
The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff and shook
his head; as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be,
of a country still containing himself, that great means of regen-
eration.
"We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and
in the modern time also," said the nephew, gloomily, "that I
believe our name to be more detested than any name in France. "
"Let us hope so," said the uncle. "Detestation of the high
is the involuntary homage of the low. "
"There is not," pursued the nephew, in his former tone, "a
face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which
## p. 4682 (#476) ###########################################
4682
CHARLES DICKENS
looks at me with any deference on it but the dark deference of
fear and slavery. "
"A compliment," said the Marquis, "to the grandeur of the
family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained
its grandeur. Hah! " And he took another gentle little pinch of
snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.
But when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, cov-
ered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine
mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of
keenness, closeness, and dislike than was comportable with its
wearer's assumption of indifference.
"Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark defer-
ence of fear and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis,
"will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,"
looking up to it, "shuts out the sky.
>>
That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed.
If a
picture of the château as it was to be a very few years hence,
and of fifty like it as they too were to be a very few years
hence, could have been shown to him that night, he might have
been at a loss to claim his own from the ghastly, fire-charred,
plunder-wrecked ruins. As for the roof he vaunted, he might
have found that shutting out the sky in a new way-to wit, for-
ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired,
out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
"Meanwhile," said the Marquis, "I will preserve the honor
and repose of the family, if you will not. But you must be
fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night? »
"A moment more. "
"An hour if you please. "
<< » said the nephew,
Sir,"
་ we have done wrong, and are reap-
ing the fruits of wrong. "
"We have done wrong? " repeated the Marquis, with an
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then
to himself.
"Our family; our honorable family, whose honor is of so
much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my
father's time we did a world of wrong, injuring every human
creature who came between us and our pleasure, whatever it
Why need I speak of my father's time, when it is equally
yours?
Can I separate my father's twin brother, joint inheritor,
and next successor, from himself? "
was.
## p. 4683 (#477) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4683
"Death has done that! " said the Marquis.
"And has left me," answered the nephew, "bound to a sys-
tem that is frightful to me, responsible for it but powerless in it;
seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and
obey the last look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me
to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance
and power in vain. "
«< Seeking them from me, my nephew," said the Marquis, touch-
ing him on the breast with his forefinger,—they were now stand-
ing by the hearth,-"you will forever seek them in vain, be
assured. "
Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face was
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again.
he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine
point of a small sword, with which in delicate finesse he ran
him through the body, and said, "My friend, I will die perpetu-
ating the system under which I have lived. "
When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff,
and put his box in his pocket.
"Better to be a rational creature," he added then, after ring-
ing a small bell on the table, "and accept your natural destiny.
But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see. ”
"This property and France are lost to me," said the nephew,
sadly; "I renounce them. "
«<
"Are they both yours to renounce?
France may be, but is
the property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but is it, yet? "
"I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If
it passed to me from you to-morrow
>>
"Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable. "
>>>
-
or twenty years hence-
"You do me too much honor," said the Marquis; "still, I
prefer that supposition. ”
"I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It
is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and
ruin! "
"Hah! " said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
"To the eye it is fair enough here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of
waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression,
hunger, nakedness, and suffering. "
## p. 4684 (#478) ###########################################
4684
CHARLES DICKENS
"Hah! " said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
"If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands
better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible)
from the weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people
who cannot leave it, and who have been long wrung to the
last point of endurance, may in another generation suffer less; but
it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on all this land. "
"And you? " said the uncle. "Forgive my curiosity; do you,
under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live? "
"I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even
with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day—work. "
"In England, for example? "
« Yes. The family honor, sir, is safe for me in this country.
The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it
in no other. "
The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bedchamber
to be lighted. It now shone brightly through the door of com-
munication. The Marquis looked that way, and listened for the
retreating step of his valet.
"England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently
you have prospered there," he observed then, turning his calm
face to his nephew with a smile.
"I have already said that for my prospering there, I am
sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my
Refuge. "
"They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of
many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there?
A Doctor? "
"Yes. "
"With a daughter? "
"Yes. "
"Yes," said the Marquis. "You are fatigued. Good-night! "
As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a
secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery
to those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew
forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight lines of the set-
ting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips, and the markings in
the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked handsomely diabolic.
"Yes," repeated the Marquis. "A Doctor with a daughter.
Yes. So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued.
Good-night! "
## p. 4685 (#479) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4685
It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone
fence outside the château as to interrogate that face of his.
The nephew looked at him in vain, in passing on to the door.
"Good-night! " said the uncle. "I look to the pleasure of
seeing you again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur
my nephew to his chamber, there! And burn Monsieur my
nephew in his bed, if you will," he added to himself, before he
rang his little bell again, and summoned his valet to his own
bedroom.
The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to
and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for
sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the room, his softly-
slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a
refined tiger;-looked like some enchanted marquis of the im-
penitently wicked sort, in story, whose periodical change into
tiger form was either just going off or just coming on.
He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, look-
ing again at the scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden
into his mind; the slow toil up the hill at sunset, the setting
sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag, the little vil-
lage in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain, and the mender
of roads with his blue cap pointing out the chain under the
carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain, the little
bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
tall man with his arms up, crying, "Dead! "
"I am cool now," said Monsieur the Marquis, "and may go
to bed. "
So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let
his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night
break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself to
sleep.
The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black
night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours the horses
in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl
made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise con-
ventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But it is the
obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set
down for them.
For three heavy hours the stone faces of the château, lion and
human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the
landscape, dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust
## p. 4686 (#480) ###########################################
4686
CHARLES DICKENS
on all the roads. The burial-place had got to the pass that its
little heaps of poor grass were undistinguishable from one an-
other; the figure on the Cross might have come down, for any-
thing that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed
were fast asleep. Dreaming perhaps of banquets, as the starved
usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and the
yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed
and freed.
The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and
the fountain at the château dropped unseen and unheard - both
melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring
of Time through three dark hours. Then the gray water of
both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone
faces of the château were opened.
Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of
the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the
glow, the water of the château fountain seemed to turn to blood,
and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud
and high, and on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of
the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its
sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face
seemed to stare amazed, and with open mouth and dropped under-
jaw, looked awe-stricken.
Now the sun was full up, and movement began in the village.
Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and peo-
ple came forth shivering-chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air.
Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the vil-
lage population. Some to the fountain; some to the fields; men
and women here to dig and delve; men and women there to see
to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out to such pasture
as could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the
Cross a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers,
the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.
The château awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke
gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of
the chase had been reddened as of old; then had gleamed trench-
ant in the morning sunshine; now doors and windows were
thrown open, horses in their stables looked round over their
shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves
sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at
their chains and reared, impatient to be loosed.
## p. 4687 (#481) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4687
All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life and
the return of morning. Surely not so the ringing of the great
bell of the château, nor the running up and down the stairs, nor
the hurried figures on the terrace, nor the booting and tramping
here and there and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses
and riding away?
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of
roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with
his day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it
was worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones?
Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped
one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the
mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got
to the fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing
about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but show-
ing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led
cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would
hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the
cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they
had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people
of the château, and some of those of the posting-house, and all
the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were
crowded on the other side of the little street in a purposeless
way that was highly fraught with nothing. Already the mender
of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty par-
ticular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his
blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the
swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horse-
back, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden
though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the
German ballad of Leonora ?
It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at
the château.
The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night,
and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for
which it had waited through about two hundred years.
It was
It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis.
like a fine mask, suddenly started, made angry, and petrified.
## p. 4688 (#482) ###########################################
4688
CHARLES DICKENS
Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it,
was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was
scrawled:
"Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES. "
OH
THE IVY GREEN
H, A dainty plant is the Ivy Green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the moldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak-Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days.
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
## p. 4689 (#483) ###########################################
4689
•
(1713-1784)
MONG the French Encyclopædists of the eighteenth century
Denis Diderot holds the place of leader. There were intel-
lects of broader scope and of much surer balance in that
famous group, but none of such versatility, brilliancy, and outburst-
ing force. To his associates he was a marvel and an inspiration.
He was born in October 1713, in Langres, Haute-Marne, France;
and died in Paris July 31st, 1784. After a classical education in Jes-
uit schools, he utterly disgusted his father by turning to the Bohe-
mian life of a littérateur in Paris. Although
very poor, he married at the age of thirty.
The whole story of his married life-the
common Parisian story in those days-
reflects no credit on him; though his liaison
with Mademoiselle Voland presents the as-
pects of a friendship abiding through life.
Poverty spurred him to exertion. Four
days of work in 1746 are said to have pro-
duced 'Pensées Philosophiques' (Philosophic
Thoughts). This book, with a little essay
following it, 'Interprétation de la Nature,'
was his first open attack on revealed re-
ligion. Its argument, though only negative,
and keeping within the bounds of theism,
foretokened a class of utterances which were frequent in Diderot's
later years, and whose assurance of his materialistic atheism would
be complete had they not been too exclamatory for settled convic-
tion. He contents himself with glorifying the passions, to the annul-
ling of all ethical standards. On this point at least his convictions
were stable, for long afterward he writes thus to Mademoiselle Vo-
land: "The man of mediocre passion lives and dies like the brute.
If we were bound to choose between Racine, a bad husband,
a bad father, a false friend, and a sublime poet, and Racine, good
father, good husband, good friend, and dull worthy man, I hold to
the first. Of Racine the bad man, what remains? Nothing. Of Ra-
cine the man of genius? The work is eternal. "
About 1747 he produced an allegory, Promenade du Sceptique. '
This French Pilgrim's Progress' scoffs at the Church of Rome for
VIII-294
•
·
DENIS DIDEROT
DENIS DIDEROT
## p. 4690 (#484) ###########################################
4690
DENIS DIDEROT
denying pleasure, then decries the pleasures of the world, and ends.
by asserting the hopeless uncertainty of the philosophy which both
scoffs at the Church and decries worldly pleasure. At this period he
was evidently inclined to an irregular attack on the only forms of
Christianity familiar to him, asceticism and pietism.
In 1749 Diderot first showed himself a thinker of original power,
in his Letter on the Blind. This work, 'Lettre sur les Aveugles
à l'Usage de Ceux qui Voient' (Letter on the Blind for the Use of
Those who See) opened the eyes of the public to Diderot's peculiar
genius, and the eyes of the authorities to the menace in his princi-
ples. The result was his imprisonment, and from that the spread of
his views. His offense was, that through his ingenious supposition of
the mind deprived of its use of one or more of the bodily senses,
he had shown the relativity of all man's conceptions, and had thence
deduced the relativity, the lack of absoluteness, of all man's ethical
standards—thus invalidating the foundations of civil and social order.
The broad assertion that Diderot and his philosophic group caused
the French Revolution has only this basis, that these men were
among the omens of its advance, feeling its stir afar but not recog-
nizing the coming earthquake. Yet it may be conceded that Diderot
anticipated things great and strange; for his mind, although neither
precise nor capable of sustained and systematic thought, was amaz-
ingly original in conception and powerful in grasp. The mist, blank
to his brethren, seems to have wreathed itself into wonderful shapes
to his eye; he was the seer whose wild enthusiasm caught the oracles
from an inner shrine. A predictive power appears in his Letter on
the Blind, where he imagines the blind taught to read by touch; and
nineteenth-century hypotheses gleam dimly in his random guess at
variability in organisms, and at survival of those best adapted to
their environment.
Diderot's monumental work, 'L'Encyclopédie,' dates from the mid-
dle of the century. It was his own vast enlargement of Ephraim
Chambers's Cyclopædia of 1727, of which a bookseller had demanded
a revision in French. D'Alembert was secured as his colleague, and
in 1751 the first volume appeared. The list of contributors includes
most of the great contemporary names in French literature. From
these, Diderot and D'Alembert gathered the inner group known as
the French Encyclopædists, to whose writings has been ascribed a
general tendency to destroy religion and to reconstitute society.
The authorities interfered repeatedly, with threats and prohibitions
of the publication; but the science of government included the sci-
ence of connivance for an adequate consideration, and the great
work went forward. Its danger lurked in its principles; for Diderot
dealt but little in the cheap flattery which the modern demagogue
## p. 4691 (#485) ###########################################
DENIS DIDEROT
4691
addresses to the populace. D'Alembert, wearied by ten years of per-
secution, retired in 1759, leaving the indefatigable Diderot to struggle
alone through seven years, composing and revising hundreds of
articles, correcting proofs, supervising the unrivaled illustrations of.
the mechanic arts, while quieting the opposition of the authorities.
The Encyclopædia under Diderot followed no one philosophic
path. Indeed, there are no signs that he ever gave any considera-
tion to either the intellectual or the ethical force of consistency.
His writing indicates his utter carelessness both as to the direction
and as to the pace of his thought. He had an abiding conviction
that Christianity was partly delusion and largely priestcraft, and was
maintained chiefly for upholding iniquitous privilege. His antagonism
was developed primarily from his emotions and sympathies rather
than from his intellect; hence it sometimes swerved, drawing peril-
ously near to formal orthodoxy. Moreover, this vivacious philosopher
sometimes rambled into practical advice, and easily effervesced into
fervid moralizings of the sentimental and almost tearful sort. His
immense natural capacity for sentiment appears in his own account
of his meeting with Grimm after a few months' absence.
His sen-
timentalism, however, had its remarkable counterpoise in a most
practical tendency of mind. In the Encyclopædia the interests of
agriculture and of all branches of manufacture were treated with
great fullness; and the reform of feudal abuses lingering in the laws
of France was vigorously urged in a style more practical than cyclo-
pædic.
Diderot gave much attention to the drama, and his 'Paradoxe sur
le Comédien (Paradox on the Actor) is a valuable discussion. He is
the father of the modern domestic drama. His influence upon the
dramatic literature of Germany was direct and immediate; it appeared
in the plays of Lessing and Schiller, and much of Lessing's criticism
was inspired by Diderot. His 'Père de Famille' (Family-Father) and
'Le Fils Naturel' (The Natural Son) marked the beginning of a new
era in the history of the stage, in the midst of which we are now
living. Breaking with the old traditions, Diderot abandoned the lofty
themes of classic tragedy and portrayed the life of the bourgeoisie.
The influence of England, frequently manifest in the work of the
Encyclopædists, is evident also here. Richardson was then the chief
force in fiction, and the sentimental element so characteristic in him
reappears in the dramas of Diderot.
Goethe was strongly attracted by the genius of Diderot, and
thought it worth his while not only to translate but to supply with
a long and luminous commentary the latter's Essay on Painting. '
It was by a singular trick of fortune, too, that one of Diderot's
most powerful works should first have appeared in German garb, and
## p. 4692 (#486) ###########################################
4692
DENIS DIDEROT
not in the original French until after the author's death. A manu-
script copy of the book chanced to fall into the hands of Goethe,
who so greatly admired it that he at once translated, annotated,
and published it. This was the famous dialogue Le Neveu de
Rameau' (Rameau's Nephew), a work which only Diderot's peculiar
genius could have produced. Depicting the typical parasite, shame-
less, quick-witted for every species of villainy, at home in every pos-
sible meanness, the dialogue is a probably unequaled compound of
satire, high æsthetics, gleaming humor, sentimental moralizing, fine
musical criticism, and scientific character analysis, with passages of
brutal indecency.
Among literary critics of painting, Diderot has his place in the
highest rank. His nine Salons'-criticisms which in his good-nature
he wrote for the use of his friend Grimm, on the annual exhibitions
in the Paris Salon from 1759 onward-have never been surpassed
among non-technical criticisms for brilliancy, freshness, and philo-
sophic suggestiveness. They reveal the man's elemental strength;
which was not in his knowledge, for he was without technical train-
ing in art and had seen scarcely any of the world's masterpieces,
but in his sensuously sympathetic nature, which gave him quickness.
of insight and delicacy in interpretation.
He had the faculty of making and keeping friends, being un-
affected, genial, amiable, enthusiastically generous and helpful to his
friends, and without vindictiveness to his foes. He needed these
qualities to counteract his almost utter lack of conscientiousness, his
gush of sentiment, his unregulated morals, his undisciplined genius,
his unbalanced thought. His style of writing, often vivid and strong,
is as often awkward and dull, and is frequently lacking in finish.
As a philosophic author and thinker his voluminous work is of little
enduring worth, for though plentiful in original power it totally lacks
organic unity; his thought rambles carelessly, his method is con-
fused.
the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him. "
"Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated? »
"With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it,
Monseigneur. His head hanging over-like this! "
He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back,
with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down;
then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
"What was he like? "
"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered
with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre ! »
The picture produced an immense sensation in the little
crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes,
looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps to observe whether he
had any spectre on his conscience.
"Truly, you did well," said the Marquis, felicitously sensible
that such vermin were not to ruffle him, "to see a thief accom-
panying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of yours.
Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle! "
Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster and some other taxing
functionary, united; he had come out with great obsequiousness
to assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the
drapery of his arm in an official manner.
"Bah! Go aside! " said Monsieur Gabelle.
"Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle. "
« Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your
orders. "
"Did he run away, fellow ? -where is that Accursed? »
The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-
dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap.
Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly haled him out,
and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
"Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the
drag? "
་
Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head
first, as a person plunges into the river. "
"See to it, Gabelle. Go on! "
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still
among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly
that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had
very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.
## p. 4676 (#470) ###########################################
4676
CHARLES DICKENS
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village
and up the rise beyond was soon checked by the steepness of the
hill. Gradually it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lum-
bering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night.
The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about
them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the
lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier
was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-
ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of our Saviour on
it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced
rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life-his
own life, maybe-for it was dreadfully spare and thin.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long
been growing worse and was not at its worst, a woman was
kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her,
rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage door.
"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition. "
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable
face, Monseigneur looked out.
"How, then! What is it? Always petitions! "
"Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband,
the forester. "
"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with
you people. He cannot pay something? "
"He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead. "
"Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you? "
"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little
heap of poor grass. "
"Well? "
"Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass! '
"Again, well? »
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner
was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous
and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of
them on the carriage door-tenderly, caressingly, as if it had
been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the ap
pealing touch.
"Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My
husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will
die of want. "
"Again, well? Can I feed them? "
## p. 4677 (#471) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4677
"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My
petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's
name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Other-
wise the place will be quickly forgotten; it will never be found
when I am dead of the same malady; I shall be laid under
some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many,
they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
Monseigneur! "
The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had
broken into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace;
she was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the
Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance
that remained between him and his château.
The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him,
and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and
toil-worn group at the fountain not far away; to whom the
mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap without which he
was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a spectre as long
as they could bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no more,
they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled in little case-
ments; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars
came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
been extinguished.
The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-
hanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and
the shadow was exchanged for the light of a flambeau, as his
carriage stopped, and the great door of his château was opened
to him.
"Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from Eng-
land? »
"Monseigneur, not yet. "
THE GORGON'S HEAD
It was a heavy mass of building, that château of Monsieur the
Marquis, with a large stone court-yard before it, and two stone
sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the prin-
cipal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy stone balus-
trades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and stone faces of men,
and stone heads of lions, in all directions. As if the Gorgon's
head had surveyed it when it was finished two centuries ago.
## p. 4678 (#472) ###########################################
4678
CHARLES DICKENS
Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis,
flambeau-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing
the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof
of the great pile of stable-building away among the trees. All
else was so quiet that the flambeau carried up the steps, and the
other flambeau held at the great door, burnt as if they were in a
close room of state, instead of being in the open night air.
Other sound than the owl's voice there was none, save the falling
of a fountain into its stone basin; for it was one of those dark
nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Mar-
quis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and
knives of the chase; grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and
riding-whips, of which many a peasant, gone to his benefactor
Death, had felt the weight when his lord was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast
for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer
going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a corridor.
This thrown open admitted him to his own private apartment
of three rooms; his bedchamber and two others. High vaulted
rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon the hearths
for the burning of wood in winter-time, and all luxuries befitting
the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country. The
fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
break the fourteenth Louis-was conspicuous in their rich
furniture; but it was diversified by many objects that were illus-
trations of old pages in the history of France.
A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a
round room, in one of the château's four extinguisher-topped
towers. A small lofty room, with its window wide open, and the
wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the dark night only showed
in slight horizontal lines of black, alternating with their broad
lines of stone-color.
―――――
"My nephew," said the Marquis, glancing at the supper prepa-
ration; "they said he was not arrived. "
Nor was he; but he had been expected with Monseigneur.
"Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless,
leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour. ”
In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down
alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was
## p. 4679 (#473) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4679
opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup and was rais-
ing his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it down.
"What is that? " he calmly asked, looking with attention at
the horizontal lines of black and stone-color.
"Monseigneur? That? "
"Outside the blinds. Open the blinds. "
It was done.
"Well? »
«< 'Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all
that are here. "
The servant who spoke had thrown the blinds wide, had
looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood, with that blank
behind him, looking round for instructions.
«< Good," said the imperturbable master. "Close them again. "
That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper.
He was half-way through it, when he again stopped with his
glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It came on
briskly, and came up to the front of the château.
"Ask who is arrived. "
It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few
leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had
diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up
with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of Monseigneur,
at the posting-houses, as being before him.
In a
He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him
then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it.
little while he came. He had been known in England as Charles
Darnay.
Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did
not shake hands.
"You left Paris yesterday, sir? " he said to Monseigneur, as
he took his seat at table.
"Yesterday. And you? "
"I come direct. "
"From London ? »
"Yes. "
"You have been a long time coming," said the Marquis, with
a smile.
"On the contrary; I come direct. "
"Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long
time intending the journey. "
## p. 4680 (#474) ###########################################
4680
CHARLES DICKENS
"I have been detained by "the nephew stopped a moment
in his answer "various business. "
――――
"Without doubt," said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other words passed
between them. When coffee had been served and they were
alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meeting
the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a conver-
sation.
"I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object
that took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected
peril; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death
I hope it would have sustained me. "
"Not to death," said the uncle; "it is not necessary to say,
to death. "
"I doubt, sir," returned the nephew, "whether, if it had car-
ried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to
stop me there. »
The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of
the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to
that; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which was so
clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not reassuring.
"Indeed, sir," pursued the nephew, "for anything I know,
you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious ap-
pearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me. "
"No, no, no," said the uncle pleasantly.
«< But, however that may be," resumed the nephew, glancing
at him with deep distrust, "I know that your diplomacy would
stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as to
means. "
"My friend, I told you so," said the uncle, with a fine pulsa-
tion in the two marks. "Do me the favor to recall that I told
you so, long ago. "
"I recall it. "
"Thank you," said the Marquis very sweetly indeed.
His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
instrument.
-
"In effect, sir," pursued the nephew, "I believe it to be at
once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me
out of a prison in France here. "
"I do not quite understand," returned the uncle, sipping his
coffee. "Dare I ask you to explain? »
## p. 4681 (#475) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4681
"I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the court,
and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a
lettre de cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely. "
"It is possible," said the uncle, with great calmness. "For
the honor of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you
to that extent. Pray excuse me! "
"I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day
before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one," observed the
nephew.
"I would not say happily, my friend," returned the uncle,
with refined politeness; "I would not be sure of that. A good
opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of
solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage
than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss
the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little
instruments of correction, these gentle aids to the power and
honor of families, these slight favors that might so incommode
you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity.
They are sought by so many, and they are granted (compara-
tively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held
the right of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From
this room, many such dogs have been taken out to be hanged;
in the next room (my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge,
was poniarded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy
respecting his daughter- his daughter! We have lost many
privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the as-
sertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far
as to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience.
very bad, very bad! "
All
The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff and shook
his head; as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be,
of a country still containing himself, that great means of regen-
eration.
"We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and
in the modern time also," said the nephew, gloomily, "that I
believe our name to be more detested than any name in France. "
"Let us hope so," said the uncle. "Detestation of the high
is the involuntary homage of the low. "
"There is not," pursued the nephew, in his former tone, "a
face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which
## p. 4682 (#476) ###########################################
4682
CHARLES DICKENS
looks at me with any deference on it but the dark deference of
fear and slavery. "
"A compliment," said the Marquis, "to the grandeur of the
family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained
its grandeur. Hah! " And he took another gentle little pinch of
snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.
But when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, cov-
ered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine
mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of
keenness, closeness, and dislike than was comportable with its
wearer's assumption of indifference.
"Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark defer-
ence of fear and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis,
"will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,"
looking up to it, "shuts out the sky.
>>
That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed.
If a
picture of the château as it was to be a very few years hence,
and of fifty like it as they too were to be a very few years
hence, could have been shown to him that night, he might have
been at a loss to claim his own from the ghastly, fire-charred,
plunder-wrecked ruins. As for the roof he vaunted, he might
have found that shutting out the sky in a new way-to wit, for-
ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired,
out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
"Meanwhile," said the Marquis, "I will preserve the honor
and repose of the family, if you will not. But you must be
fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night? »
"A moment more. "
"An hour if you please. "
<< » said the nephew,
Sir,"
་ we have done wrong, and are reap-
ing the fruits of wrong. "
"We have done wrong? " repeated the Marquis, with an
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then
to himself.
"Our family; our honorable family, whose honor is of so
much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my
father's time we did a world of wrong, injuring every human
creature who came between us and our pleasure, whatever it
Why need I speak of my father's time, when it is equally
yours?
Can I separate my father's twin brother, joint inheritor,
and next successor, from himself? "
was.
## p. 4683 (#477) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4683
"Death has done that! " said the Marquis.
"And has left me," answered the nephew, "bound to a sys-
tem that is frightful to me, responsible for it but powerless in it;
seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and
obey the last look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me
to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance
and power in vain. "
«< Seeking them from me, my nephew," said the Marquis, touch-
ing him on the breast with his forefinger,—they were now stand-
ing by the hearth,-"you will forever seek them in vain, be
assured. "
Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face was
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again.
he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine
point of a small sword, with which in delicate finesse he ran
him through the body, and said, "My friend, I will die perpetu-
ating the system under which I have lived. "
When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff,
and put his box in his pocket.
"Better to be a rational creature," he added then, after ring-
ing a small bell on the table, "and accept your natural destiny.
But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see. ”
"This property and France are lost to me," said the nephew,
sadly; "I renounce them. "
«<
"Are they both yours to renounce?
France may be, but is
the property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but is it, yet? "
"I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If
it passed to me from you to-morrow
>>
"Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable. "
>>>
-
or twenty years hence-
"You do me too much honor," said the Marquis; "still, I
prefer that supposition. ”
"I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It
is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and
ruin! "
"Hah! " said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
"To the eye it is fair enough here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of
waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression,
hunger, nakedness, and suffering. "
## p. 4684 (#478) ###########################################
4684
CHARLES DICKENS
"Hah! " said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
"If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands
better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible)
from the weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people
who cannot leave it, and who have been long wrung to the
last point of endurance, may in another generation suffer less; but
it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on all this land. "
"And you? " said the uncle. "Forgive my curiosity; do you,
under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live? "
"I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even
with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day—work. "
"In England, for example? "
« Yes. The family honor, sir, is safe for me in this country.
The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it
in no other. "
The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bedchamber
to be lighted. It now shone brightly through the door of com-
munication. The Marquis looked that way, and listened for the
retreating step of his valet.
"England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently
you have prospered there," he observed then, turning his calm
face to his nephew with a smile.
"I have already said that for my prospering there, I am
sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my
Refuge. "
"They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of
many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there?
A Doctor? "
"Yes. "
"With a daughter? "
"Yes. "
"Yes," said the Marquis. "You are fatigued. Good-night! "
As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a
secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery
to those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew
forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight lines of the set-
ting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips, and the markings in
the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked handsomely diabolic.
"Yes," repeated the Marquis. "A Doctor with a daughter.
Yes. So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued.
Good-night! "
## p. 4685 (#479) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4685
It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone
fence outside the château as to interrogate that face of his.
The nephew looked at him in vain, in passing on to the door.
"Good-night! " said the uncle. "I look to the pleasure of
seeing you again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur
my nephew to his chamber, there! And burn Monsieur my
nephew in his bed, if you will," he added to himself, before he
rang his little bell again, and summoned his valet to his own
bedroom.
The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to
and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for
sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the room, his softly-
slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a
refined tiger;-looked like some enchanted marquis of the im-
penitently wicked sort, in story, whose periodical change into
tiger form was either just going off or just coming on.
He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, look-
ing again at the scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden
into his mind; the slow toil up the hill at sunset, the setting
sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag, the little vil-
lage in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain, and the mender
of roads with his blue cap pointing out the chain under the
carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain, the little
bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
tall man with his arms up, crying, "Dead! "
"I am cool now," said Monsieur the Marquis, "and may go
to bed. "
So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let
his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night
break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself to
sleep.
The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black
night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours the horses
in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl
made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise con-
ventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But it is the
obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set
down for them.
For three heavy hours the stone faces of the château, lion and
human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the
landscape, dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust
## p. 4686 (#480) ###########################################
4686
CHARLES DICKENS
on all the roads. The burial-place had got to the pass that its
little heaps of poor grass were undistinguishable from one an-
other; the figure on the Cross might have come down, for any-
thing that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed
were fast asleep. Dreaming perhaps of banquets, as the starved
usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and the
yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed
and freed.
The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and
the fountain at the château dropped unseen and unheard - both
melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring
of Time through three dark hours. Then the gray water of
both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone
faces of the château were opened.
Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of
the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the
glow, the water of the château fountain seemed to turn to blood,
and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud
and high, and on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of
the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its
sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face
seemed to stare amazed, and with open mouth and dropped under-
jaw, looked awe-stricken.
Now the sun was full up, and movement began in the village.
Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and peo-
ple came forth shivering-chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air.
Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the vil-
lage population. Some to the fountain; some to the fields; men
and women here to dig and delve; men and women there to see
to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out to such pasture
as could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the
Cross a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers,
the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.
The château awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke
gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of
the chase had been reddened as of old; then had gleamed trench-
ant in the morning sunshine; now doors and windows were
thrown open, horses in their stables looked round over their
shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves
sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at
their chains and reared, impatient to be loosed.
## p. 4687 (#481) ###########################################
CHARLES DICKENS
4687
All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life and
the return of morning. Surely not so the ringing of the great
bell of the château, nor the running up and down the stairs, nor
the hurried figures on the terrace, nor the booting and tramping
here and there and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses
and riding away?
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of
roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with
his day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it
was worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones?
Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped
one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the
mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got
to the fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing
about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but show-
ing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led
cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would
hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the
cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they
had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people
of the château, and some of those of the posting-house, and all
the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were
crowded on the other side of the little street in a purposeless
way that was highly fraught with nothing. Already the mender
of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty par-
ticular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his
blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the
swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horse-
back, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden
though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the
German ballad of Leonora ?
It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at
the château.
The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night,
and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for
which it had waited through about two hundred years.
It was
It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis.
like a fine mask, suddenly started, made angry, and petrified.
## p. 4688 (#482) ###########################################
4688
CHARLES DICKENS
Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it,
was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was
scrawled:
"Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES. "
OH
THE IVY GREEN
H, A dainty plant is the Ivy Green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the moldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak-Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days.
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
## p. 4689 (#483) ###########################################
4689
•
(1713-1784)
MONG the French Encyclopædists of the eighteenth century
Denis Diderot holds the place of leader. There were intel-
lects of broader scope and of much surer balance in that
famous group, but none of such versatility, brilliancy, and outburst-
ing force. To his associates he was a marvel and an inspiration.
He was born in October 1713, in Langres, Haute-Marne, France;
and died in Paris July 31st, 1784. After a classical education in Jes-
uit schools, he utterly disgusted his father by turning to the Bohe-
mian life of a littérateur in Paris. Although
very poor, he married at the age of thirty.
The whole story of his married life-the
common Parisian story in those days-
reflects no credit on him; though his liaison
with Mademoiselle Voland presents the as-
pects of a friendship abiding through life.
Poverty spurred him to exertion. Four
days of work in 1746 are said to have pro-
duced 'Pensées Philosophiques' (Philosophic
Thoughts). This book, with a little essay
following it, 'Interprétation de la Nature,'
was his first open attack on revealed re-
ligion. Its argument, though only negative,
and keeping within the bounds of theism,
foretokened a class of utterances which were frequent in Diderot's
later years, and whose assurance of his materialistic atheism would
be complete had they not been too exclamatory for settled convic-
tion. He contents himself with glorifying the passions, to the annul-
ling of all ethical standards. On this point at least his convictions
were stable, for long afterward he writes thus to Mademoiselle Vo-
land: "The man of mediocre passion lives and dies like the brute.
If we were bound to choose between Racine, a bad husband,
a bad father, a false friend, and a sublime poet, and Racine, good
father, good husband, good friend, and dull worthy man, I hold to
the first. Of Racine the bad man, what remains? Nothing. Of Ra-
cine the man of genius? The work is eternal. "
About 1747 he produced an allegory, Promenade du Sceptique. '
This French Pilgrim's Progress' scoffs at the Church of Rome for
VIII-294
•
·
DENIS DIDEROT
DENIS DIDEROT
## p. 4690 (#484) ###########################################
4690
DENIS DIDEROT
denying pleasure, then decries the pleasures of the world, and ends.
by asserting the hopeless uncertainty of the philosophy which both
scoffs at the Church and decries worldly pleasure. At this period he
was evidently inclined to an irregular attack on the only forms of
Christianity familiar to him, asceticism and pietism.
In 1749 Diderot first showed himself a thinker of original power,
in his Letter on the Blind. This work, 'Lettre sur les Aveugles
à l'Usage de Ceux qui Voient' (Letter on the Blind for the Use of
Those who See) opened the eyes of the public to Diderot's peculiar
genius, and the eyes of the authorities to the menace in his princi-
ples. The result was his imprisonment, and from that the spread of
his views. His offense was, that through his ingenious supposition of
the mind deprived of its use of one or more of the bodily senses,
he had shown the relativity of all man's conceptions, and had thence
deduced the relativity, the lack of absoluteness, of all man's ethical
standards—thus invalidating the foundations of civil and social order.
The broad assertion that Diderot and his philosophic group caused
the French Revolution has only this basis, that these men were
among the omens of its advance, feeling its stir afar but not recog-
nizing the coming earthquake. Yet it may be conceded that Diderot
anticipated things great and strange; for his mind, although neither
precise nor capable of sustained and systematic thought, was amaz-
ingly original in conception and powerful in grasp. The mist, blank
to his brethren, seems to have wreathed itself into wonderful shapes
to his eye; he was the seer whose wild enthusiasm caught the oracles
from an inner shrine. A predictive power appears in his Letter on
the Blind, where he imagines the blind taught to read by touch; and
nineteenth-century hypotheses gleam dimly in his random guess at
variability in organisms, and at survival of those best adapted to
their environment.
Diderot's monumental work, 'L'Encyclopédie,' dates from the mid-
dle of the century. It was his own vast enlargement of Ephraim
Chambers's Cyclopædia of 1727, of which a bookseller had demanded
a revision in French. D'Alembert was secured as his colleague, and
in 1751 the first volume appeared. The list of contributors includes
most of the great contemporary names in French literature. From
these, Diderot and D'Alembert gathered the inner group known as
the French Encyclopædists, to whose writings has been ascribed a
general tendency to destroy religion and to reconstitute society.
The authorities interfered repeatedly, with threats and prohibitions
of the publication; but the science of government included the sci-
ence of connivance for an adequate consideration, and the great
work went forward. Its danger lurked in its principles; for Diderot
dealt but little in the cheap flattery which the modern demagogue
## p. 4691 (#485) ###########################################
DENIS DIDEROT
4691
addresses to the populace. D'Alembert, wearied by ten years of per-
secution, retired in 1759, leaving the indefatigable Diderot to struggle
alone through seven years, composing and revising hundreds of
articles, correcting proofs, supervising the unrivaled illustrations of.
the mechanic arts, while quieting the opposition of the authorities.
The Encyclopædia under Diderot followed no one philosophic
path. Indeed, there are no signs that he ever gave any considera-
tion to either the intellectual or the ethical force of consistency.
His writing indicates his utter carelessness both as to the direction
and as to the pace of his thought. He had an abiding conviction
that Christianity was partly delusion and largely priestcraft, and was
maintained chiefly for upholding iniquitous privilege. His antagonism
was developed primarily from his emotions and sympathies rather
than from his intellect; hence it sometimes swerved, drawing peril-
ously near to formal orthodoxy. Moreover, this vivacious philosopher
sometimes rambled into practical advice, and easily effervesced into
fervid moralizings of the sentimental and almost tearful sort. His
immense natural capacity for sentiment appears in his own account
of his meeting with Grimm after a few months' absence.
His sen-
timentalism, however, had its remarkable counterpoise in a most
practical tendency of mind. In the Encyclopædia the interests of
agriculture and of all branches of manufacture were treated with
great fullness; and the reform of feudal abuses lingering in the laws
of France was vigorously urged in a style more practical than cyclo-
pædic.
Diderot gave much attention to the drama, and his 'Paradoxe sur
le Comédien (Paradox on the Actor) is a valuable discussion. He is
the father of the modern domestic drama. His influence upon the
dramatic literature of Germany was direct and immediate; it appeared
in the plays of Lessing and Schiller, and much of Lessing's criticism
was inspired by Diderot. His 'Père de Famille' (Family-Father) and
'Le Fils Naturel' (The Natural Son) marked the beginning of a new
era in the history of the stage, in the midst of which we are now
living. Breaking with the old traditions, Diderot abandoned the lofty
themes of classic tragedy and portrayed the life of the bourgeoisie.
The influence of England, frequently manifest in the work of the
Encyclopædists, is evident also here. Richardson was then the chief
force in fiction, and the sentimental element so characteristic in him
reappears in the dramas of Diderot.
Goethe was strongly attracted by the genius of Diderot, and
thought it worth his while not only to translate but to supply with
a long and luminous commentary the latter's Essay on Painting. '
It was by a singular trick of fortune, too, that one of Diderot's
most powerful works should first have appeared in German garb, and
## p. 4692 (#486) ###########################################
4692
DENIS DIDEROT
not in the original French until after the author's death. A manu-
script copy of the book chanced to fall into the hands of Goethe,
who so greatly admired it that he at once translated, annotated,
and published it. This was the famous dialogue Le Neveu de
Rameau' (Rameau's Nephew), a work which only Diderot's peculiar
genius could have produced. Depicting the typical parasite, shame-
less, quick-witted for every species of villainy, at home in every pos-
sible meanness, the dialogue is a probably unequaled compound of
satire, high æsthetics, gleaming humor, sentimental moralizing, fine
musical criticism, and scientific character analysis, with passages of
brutal indecency.
Among literary critics of painting, Diderot has his place in the
highest rank. His nine Salons'-criticisms which in his good-nature
he wrote for the use of his friend Grimm, on the annual exhibitions
in the Paris Salon from 1759 onward-have never been surpassed
among non-technical criticisms for brilliancy, freshness, and philo-
sophic suggestiveness. They reveal the man's elemental strength;
which was not in his knowledge, for he was without technical train-
ing in art and had seen scarcely any of the world's masterpieces,
but in his sensuously sympathetic nature, which gave him quickness.
of insight and delicacy in interpretation.
He had the faculty of making and keeping friends, being un-
affected, genial, amiable, enthusiastically generous and helpful to his
friends, and without vindictiveness to his foes. He needed these
qualities to counteract his almost utter lack of conscientiousness, his
gush of sentiment, his unregulated morals, his undisciplined genius,
his unbalanced thought. His style of writing, often vivid and strong,
is as often awkward and dull, and is frequently lacking in finish.
As a philosophic author and thinker his voluminous work is of little
enduring worth, for though plentiful in original power it totally lacks
organic unity; his thought rambles carelessly, his method is con-
fused.
