The Atheist's Mass

," said Desplein, "I am on the verge of the tomb; I
may safely tell you about the beginning of my life."

At this moment Bianchon and the great man were in the Rue des
Quatre-Vents, one of the worst streets in Paris. Desplein pointed to
the sixth floor of one of the houses looking like obelisks, of which
the narrow door opens into a passage with a winding staircase at the
end, with windows appropriately termed "borrowed lights"--or, in French,
_jours de souffrance_. It was a greenish structure; the ground floor
occupied by a furniture-dealer, while each floor seemed to shelter a
different and independent form of misery. Throwing up his arm with a
vehement gesture, Desplein exclaimed:

"I lived up there for two years."

"I know; Arthez lived there; I went up there almost every day during my
first youth; we used to call it then the pickle-jar of great men! What
then?"

"The mass I have just attended is connected with some events which took
place at the time when I lived in the garret where you say Arthez lived;
the one with the window where the clothes line is hanging with linen
over a pot of flowers. My early life was so hard, my dear Bianchon, that
I may dispute the palm of Paris suffering with any man living. I have
endured everything: hunger and thirst, want of money, want of clothes,
of shoes, of linen, every cruelty that penury can inflict. I have blown
on my frozen fingers in that _pickle-jar of great men_, which I should
like to see again, now, with you. I worked through a whole winter,
seeing my head steam, and perceiving the atmosphere of my own moisture
as we see that of horses on a frosty day. I do not know where a man
finds the fulcrum that enables him to hold out against such a life.

"I was alone, with no one to help me, no money to buy books or to pay
the expenses of my medical training; I had not a friend; my irascible,
touchy, restless temper was against me. No one understood that this
irritability was the distress and toil of a man who, at the bottom of
the soc

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Thomas Hardy, OM (June 2, 1840 January 11, 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement, though he saw himself as a poet and wrote novels mainly for financial gain only. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardys poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.