Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!  I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year?  All those who are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces—­do they understand what makes them so gay?  Do they even know what is the meaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year’s gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of the vulgar.  I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and I bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.

(The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was Numa Pompilius who added January and February.  The former took its name from Janus, to whom it was dedicated.  As it opened the new year, they surrounded its beginning with good omens, and thence came the custom of visits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Year’s gifts.  The presents given by the Romans were symbolic.  They consisted of dry figs, dates, honeycomb, as emblems of “the sweetness of the auspices under which the year should begin its course,” and a small piece of money called stips, which foreboded riches.)

Here I close the parenthesis, and return to my ill-humor.  The little speech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my self-satisfaction, but made me more dissatisfied with others.  I could now enjoy my breakfast; but the portress has forgotten my morning’s milk, and the pot of preserves is empty!  Anyone else would have been vexed:  as for me, I affect the most supreme indifference.  There remains a hard crust, which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a man far above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls.

However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow more gloomy by reason of the difficulties of mastication.  I once read the story of an Englishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his tea without sugar.  There are hours in life when the most trifling cross takes the form of a calamity.  Our tempers are like an opera-glass, which makes the object small or great according to the end you look through.

Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me.  It is a mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlacing, and piled on one another, and upon which tall chimneys raise their peaks.  It was but yesterday that they had an Alpine aspect to me, and I waited for the first snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles and stone flues.  The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem no more than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard; the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of the panting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kitchen preparations and dishwater; and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower of Montmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretching its arms over the city.