One thing is certain: if I am
not forced to stop writing for three or four days, I shall fall sick."
In 1860 we find him complaining that he is "sick in soul, and _maybe in
body too_. I am, of a truth, fatigued, and a great deal more fatigued
than people think me." Death's shadow was upon him. The world thought
him in firmer health and in gayer spirits than ever. He knew better. He
felt as the traveller feels towards the close of the day and the end of
the journey. It was not strange that the world was deceived, for
Murger's gayety had always been factitious. He often turned off grief
with a smile, where other men relieve it with a tear. Sensitive natures
shrink from letting the world see their exquisite sensibility. Besides,
Murger's gayety was intellectual rather than physical. It consisted
almost entirely in bright gleams of repartee. It was quickness, 'twas
not mirth. No wonder, then, that the world was deceived; the mind
retained its old activity amid all its fatigue; and besides, the world
sees men only in their hours of full-dress, when the will lights up the
leaden eyes and wreathes the drawn countenance in smiles. Tears are for
our midnight pillow,--the hand-buried face for our solitary study.
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