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CHAPTER X
OUR COUNTRY
October 12th, Seven Oclock A.M.
The nights are already become cold and long; the sun, shining through mycurtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even whenmy eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast under mycounterpane. Every morning there begins a long argument between myactivity and my indolence; and, snugly wrapped up to the eyes, I waitlike the Gascon, until they have succeeded in coming to an agreement.
This morning, however, a light, which shone from my door upon my pillow,awoke me earlier than usual. In vain I turned on my side; thepersevering light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into everyposition. At last, quite out of patience, I sat up and hurled mynightcap to the foot of the bed!
(I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions ofthis pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbolsof the vehement emotions of the mind; for our language has borrowed itsmost common images from them.)
But be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humor, grumbling at my newneighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep.
We are all made thus; we do not understand that others may live on theirown account. Each one of us is like the earth, according to the oldsystem of Ptolemy, and thinks he can have the whole universe revolvearound himself. On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to:
Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bonnet.
I had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mine to theother end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from the warmbedclothes, while making a host of evil reflections upon theinconvenience of having neighbors.
For more than a month I had not had to complain of those whom chance hadgiven me; most of them only came in to sleep, and went away again onrising. I was almost always alone on this top story--alone with theclouds and the sparrows!
But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, likethe seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take merepassengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along thelanding-place belonging to our attics! How many companions of a few dayshave disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the livingwhich whirls continually under the scourge of necessity, and others inthat resting-place of the dead, who sleep under the hand of God!
Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. Wrapped up in selfishness, helived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss wasneither mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; therewas merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied inour house.
It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days.
To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is gone with mynightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier thansuits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries hismisfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, withcheerfulness and moderation.