No More Learning

THE WIDOWS.


Vauvenargues says that in public gardens there are alleys haunted
principally by thwarted ambition, by unfortunate inventors, by aborted
glories and broken hearts, and by all those tumultuous and contracted
souls in whom the last sighs of the storm mutter yet again, and who thus
betake themselves far from the insolent and joyous eyes of the
well-to-do. These shadowy retreats are the rendezvous of life's
cripples.

To such places above all others do the poet and philosopher direct their
avid conjectures. They find there an unfailing pasturage, for if there
is one place they disdain to visit it is, as I have already hinted, the
place of the joy of the rich. A turmoil in the void has no attractions
for them. On the contrary they feel themselves irresistibly drawn
towards all that is feeble, ruined, sorrowing, and bereft.

An experienced eye is never deceived. In these rigid and dejected
lineaments; in these eyes, wan and hollow, or bright with the last
fading gleams of the combat against fate; in these numerous profound
wrinkles and in the slow and troubled gait, the eye of experience
deciphers unnumbered legends of mistaken devotion, of unrewarded
effort, of hunger and cold humbly and silently supported.

Have you not at times seen widows sitting on the deserted benches? Poor
widows, I mean. Whether in mourning or not they are easily recognised.
Moreover, there is always something wanting in the mourning of the poor;
a lack of harmony which but renders it the more heart-breaking. It is
forced to be niggardly in its show of grief. They are the rich who
exhibit a full complement of sorrow.
Who is the saddest and most saddening of widows: she who leads by the
hand a child who cannot share her reveries, or she who is quite alone? I
do not know. . . . It happened that I once followed for several long hours
an aged and afflicted woman of this kind: rigid and erect, wrapped in a
little worn shawl, she carried in all her being the pride of stoicism.

She was evidently condemned by her absolute loneliness to the habits of
an ancient celibacy; and the masculine characters of her habits added to
their austerity a piquant mysteriousness. In what miserable cafe she
dines I know not, nor in what manner. I followed her to a reading-room,
and for a long time watched her reading the papers, her active eyes,
that once burned with tears, seeking for news of a powerful and personal
interest.

At length, in the afternoon, under a charming autumnal sky, one of those
skies that let fall hosts of memories and regrets, she seated herself
remotely in a garden, to listen, far from the crowd, to one of the
regimental bands whose music gratifies the people of Paris. This was
without doubt the small debauch of the innocent old woman (or the
purified old woman), the well-earned consolation for another of the
burdensome days without a friend, without conversation, without joy,
without a confidant, that God had allowed to fall upon her perhaps for
many years past--three hundred and sixty-five times a year!

Yet one more:

I can never prevent myself from throwing a glance, if not sympathetic at
least full of curiosity, over the crowd of outcasts who press around the
enclosure of a public concert. From the orchestra, across the night,
float songs of fete, of triumph, or of pleasure. The dresses of the
women sweep and shimmer; glances pass; the well-to-do, tired with doing
nothing, saunter about and make indolent pretence of listening to the
music. Here are only the rich, the happy; here is nothing that does not
inspire or exhale the pleasure of being alive, except the aspect of the
mob that presses against the outer barrier yonder, catching gratis, at
the will of the wind, a tatter of music, and watching the glittering
furnace within.

There is a reflection of the joy of the rich deep in the eyes of the
poor that is always interesting.