Chapter 187 Mr. Shimabefu

At that time, Mr. Mabeuf said, "Of course I agree with all my political views." At that time, he really expressed his true state of mind.Any political opinion was indifferent to him, and he agreed with it without distinction, as long as it set him free, just as the Greeks could call those gorgons "beauties, good women, nymphs, eumenes." Des" like that.Mr. Mabeuf's political opinion is that he loves flowers and trees, especially books.He belonged to a "party" like everyone else, and at that time a man without a faction could not survive, but he was neither a Royalist, nor a Bonapartist, nor a Chartist, nor an Orleanist, nor anarchist. He is a school of bookworms.

He couldn't understand that in the world there were all kinds of moss to look at, all kinds of folios, even thirty-two folios to read, and yet they had to hate each other for charters, democracy, orthodoxy, monarchy, republic... these things.He guarded himself against being useless. Having books did not prevent him from reading, and being a botanist did not prevent him from being a gardener.When he knew Pontmercy, he and the colonel had such a common hobby, that is, the colonel cultivated flowers, and he cultivated fruit trees.Mr. Mabeuf can use pear seeds to produce pears as delicious as St. Germain pears. The fragrance of the October Xiaohuangmei, which is as popular today as the summer Xiaohuangmei, is said to be grafted with a kind of pear invented by him. method cultivated.He goes to mass to cultivate his mind, not to worship God. He likes to see people's faces, but hates people's voices. Only in chapels can he find people gathered together without making a sound.He felt that he could not do without a profession, so he chose the profession of financial priest.He had never been able to love a woman as an onion bulb, nor a man as a rare book.One day, long after he was sixty years old, someone asked him: "Have you never been married?" He said: "I forgot." ?): "Ah! If I were rich!" It would never be when looking at a beautiful girl, like Father Gillenormand, but when looking at an old book.He lived alone, with an old maid.He was a little gouty, and his rheumatically stiff fingers bowed in the folds of the sheet when he was asleep.He edited and printed a "Illustration of the Plants of the Neighborhood of Kortretz," a highly regarded book with many color illustrations, the copper plate is his own, and he sells the book himself.Every day two or three people would ring the bell at the door of his house in the Rue Mézières to buy a book.He thus earns two thousand francs a year, which is all he has.Though poor, he was able through patience, economy and time to collect many rare books of all types.He never carried only one book under his arm when he went out, but he often brought two books with him when he came home.He lived downstairs, with four rooms and a small garden. The only decorations in the house were plant specimens embedded in glass frames and some old famous prints.Things like knives and guns made him terrified.He never went near a cannon in his life, not even in the Invalides.He had a decent stomach, a brother curate, all white hair, a toothless mouth and a toothless heart, trembling, a Picardian accent, a boy The laughter, the nerves that are easily startled, the expression of an old sheep.Apart from this, among the living people, he has only one close friend who is often seen, an old man who runs a bookstore in Porte Saint-Jacques, named Royol.His dream is to transplant indigo to France.

His maid is also an innocent character.That poor, kind woman was an old maid.Sultan, her cat, an old tomcat who can only purr and purr in the Sistine Chapel and sing the poem "God Have Me" by Allegoli, has filled her heart and satisfied her enthusiasm .She never touched a man in her dreams either, she never got beyond her cat.She, like him, had a beard on her mouth.Her halo comes from the always white nightcap.On Sunday, after mass, she spent her time counting the changes of clothes in her suitcase, and spreading out the dress materials that she had bought but never had anyone tailor them on the bed.she can read.Mabeuf named her "Mother Plutarch".

M. Mabeuf liked Marius because he was young and gentle, and could warm him in his old age without disturbing his timidity.Old people meeting kind young people are like seeing a warm and sunny day.Whenever Marius went to Monsieur Mabeuf with his mind full of military glory, gunpowder, attack, counter-offensive, and all those thrilling battles in which his father was there to slash and be slashed, Mabeuf The husband talked to him about this hero from the perspective of appreciating flowers. Around 1830, his brother who was the priest died, so suddenly, as if the night fell, and the scene before M. Mabeuf's eyes was completely darkened.A breach of contract on the part of the notary cost him ten thousand francs, all the money in his brother's name and in his own.The July Revolution caused a crisis in the book industry.In difficult times, books such as "Illustration of Plants" are the first books that cannot be sold. The "Illustrated Notes on the Plants Near Kortretz" immediately fell into disrepair.Weeks passed without seeing a single client.Sometimes M. Mabeuf was startled when he heard the doorbell ring.Mama Plutarch said sadly: "Water." Then M. de Mabeuf left the Rue de Mézières, resigned his priesthood of finance, left Saint-Sulpice, and sold a part of it that was not his. Instead of books, but his engravings--the last thing he could let go--he moved to a small house on the Avenue of Parnas Hill.He lived there only a season, for two reasons, first, that the ground floor and the garden cost three hundred francs, and he dared not let his rent exceed two hundred francs; It was the Fado shooting range, and all day long he heard pistols firing, and it was too much for him.

He took his Botanical Illustrated, his copperplate, his herbarium, his satchel and books, and went to live in a kind of hut near the women's almshouse, in the village of Austerlitz, at a rent of fifty dollars a year. The crown had three houses, a garden with a hedge, and a well.Taking advantage of this move, he sold almost all the furniture.On the day he moved into the new house, he was in a very happy mood. He nailed many nails and hung the pictures and specimens. He spent the rest of the time hoeing in the garden. Looking at her shoulder, he smiled at her and said, "It doesn't matter! We still have indigo!"

Only two guests, the bookseller at the Porte Saint-Jacques, and Marius, were allowed to visit him in the hut of Austerlitz, whose name, after all, was loud and harsh to him. . But, as we have just pointed out, a mind that is absorbed in one science or one hobby, or, as is often the case, both at the same time, is very slowly penetrated by the things of life.They feel they have a long way to go.From this single-mindedness of mind comes a passivity which, if it comes from the intellect, is like philosophy.These people turned to one side, walked down, slipped down, even fell down, and they themselves were not very alert.This situation will indeed have a day of awakening in the future, but this day will not come sooner.At present, these people seem to be indifferent to the gamble between their own happiness and their own suffering.I become a bet, but I am at the mercy of others with indifference.

Such was the case with M. Mabeuf, who, though childish, was obstinate in keeping his peace of mind even as his situation grew darker and his hopes vanished one by one.The habits of his mind are like a pendulum swinging back and forth.Once wound up by fantasy, he goes for a long time, even when the fantasy is broken.The wall clock will not stop suddenly when the key is lost. M. Mabeuf has some innocent fun.It costs little, and often comes by accident, a little chance can provide the pleasure.One day Mother Plutarch was sitting in a corner of the room reading a novel.She always likes to read aloud, and finds it easier to understand.To read aloud is to constantly affirm to myself that I am indeed reading.Some read very loudly, as if swearing at what they were reading.

Mama Plutarch was reading the novel she held in her hands with this vigor.Monsieur Mabeuf listened to her with indifference. Reading along the way, Mama Plutarch came across this sentence, which was about a dragoon officer and a beautiful woman: "...Beauty Forte and the Dragon..." After reading this, she stopped to polish her glasses. "Buddha and the dragon," whispered M. Mabeuf, "yes, there was such a thing. Once upon a time there was a dragon who lived in a cave and burned the sky with flames from his mouth. Several stars have been destroyed by this monster." Burnt to the point of fire, and it has tiger claws on its feet. Buddha went into its cave, and influenced it. You read a good book, Mother Plutarch. There is no better legend than this. "

M. Mabeuf immediately fell into a wonderful dream again.