Something new entered the heart of a 55-year-old man.
J had been alone in the world for twenty-five years. He had never been a father, lover, spouse, or friend. In prison, he was bitter, gloomy, celibate, ignorant, and solitary. The ex-convict’s heart was nonetheless full of virginal innocence.
His sister and her children had left him only a vague and far-off memory that gradually disappeared; he made every effort to locate them and, having failed, forgot them. Such is human nature. Other tender emotions of his youth, if he had any, had fallen away.
J promised a dying woman to find her eight-year-old girl who was hostage to an abusive couple. When he rescued and took charge of the little one, he felt stirred to the depth of his being.
Whatever affection within him came alive, and was directed towards the child. He approached the bed where she slept and trembled with the joy of a mother with her new born.
I will tell you who this man is, but first, I want to address his loneliness. It is not uncommon.
I have met such men. Some have themselves been abused, others neglected. A few received little parental guidance and grew up clueless. Usually, they had difficulty making friends and often endured being singled out and bullied. They never found the gift of making social contact and lacked the confidence to approach anyone attractive to them.
Family and relatives may be their most reliable and closest contacts. They tend to live with or near their kinfolk for much of their lives. Perhaps they make a decent living but remain in the shadows.
All of us have walked past them without noticing. They don’t cause trouble. Indeed, such males have mastered the art of invisibility and the rest of us the trick of recognizing an untroubling slice of what the world offers us, but nothing more.
It is worth wondering what they do during the holidays. Occupying themselves with themselves, I imagine. Unless, like J, they have the good luck of discovering a friend or neighbor’s kindness — or becoming a loving uncle or unexpected guardian to a young person.
There is a door to ending loneliness. I’ve known a few like J, the gentleman described above, who waited for another to open it.
Sometimes, one does well serving as a doorman.
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The little girl in the story above is Cosette. The man is called Jean Valjean. They are characters in Victor Hugo’s novel Les Misérables.
The photos are sourced from Wikimedia Commons. Both are pictures of fathers and daughters. The first is the work of Caroline Hernandez, while Reinhard Breitenstein photographed the second.
An incredible way to tell the story, Dr. Stein. I love your comment, “Sometimes, one does well serving as a doorman.” Beautiful!
Thanks, Wynne. Every little bit helps!
When I discovered your title very early this morning, caro dottor Stein, my heart immediately pounded in my chest..
Yes, you again pointed your finger exactly where my heart aches…
It was written somewhere in the secrecy of the spheres I was to meet your profound intelligence, humanity and…and sensitivity in giving confort even through ten dozens of kilometres and an ocean, even through a machine called computer…
When I discovered your last paragraphs, I cried.
Jean Valjean is my lover alike. Yes. Exactly as Baptiste in “Les enfants du paradis”.
Spoiled from early childhood, abandoned, mutilated in their simplest modest desires, never recognised in what their magnificent souls inhabit, jealous ed. Not loved.
I too had a very sad and difficult live, with a mutilating “padre padrone”. Dare I say my grandmother called him H. ( think of one of the most evil men ever appeared on globe…).
“Padre padrone”, one of the most violent movie ever created. By fratelli TAVIANI. Many many many years ago.
But God had decided against sadness, injustice, kicks, exactly as it happens to young non cultured sheperd in Taviani’s movie to offer me the grace of Music. He offered the grace of Poetry to the shepherd. The grace of Miming to Baptiste.
He gave to my man of grace, as I called my lover from the first caress and kiss the gift of feeling stones, just at watching one, of understanding the an8mus of animals, of trees, of anything related to Nature.
Of caressing so magnificently that one simple kiss is like a star jumping ino the skies, a simple caress a flux of lava burning my body.
Yes, I read Dostoïevsky, Manzoni, Hugo, Austen and dozens of poets, I visit Goya’s, van Gogh’s, Breughel’s, Rembrandt’s exhibitions, I will tomorrow make a 9 hours car journey to listen to a pianist I vener ate ( Mikhail Pletnëv. Rachmaninov’s 1st concerto).
But one single kiss from my lover, a sparkling diamond!
But. But. But…his childhood without love makes him refuse to live the grace of our rare profound common love and sharing.
Like Baptiste.
And I feel so sad, I roar like a wounded animal, I scream to God, to “my” Madonna del Sangue di Re”: why why why?
And I open Rabbi Nachman’s and other books of deep spirituality, I this morning discover your post, caro dottor Stein, to not despair, to smile, to hope, to stop crying.
Grazie, caro dottore.
Let me share with you and your followers the Rabbi’s page I just opened:
“The directest approach to God in this material world [Rabbi Nachman:1772 – 1810!] is music and singing.
Even if you don’t sing well, sing. Sing for yourself.
Sing in your house’s secrecy.
But sing.
How not be smiling and profoundly happy?
How could possibly Rabbi Nachman know I AM a singer?
I am glad you take joy and find paradise in his writings, Micaela.
You are a tender heart, Micaela. I hope tomorrow’s Rachmaninov assists in your healing. Be well.
Kisses like stars jumping into the nocturnal skies, have you seen them, yesterday night, caro dottor Stein?
They were ours.
Offered to the universe.
Baptiste kissed Garance and shared her bed.
I am Garance, never was a Nathalie.
Even before meeting my Baptiste, even imagining there could exist one, or not, as this is God’s grace, I was Garance when her eyes for the first time meet Baptiste’s.
I never was afraid by anything nor anyone (apart void, when walking on very dangerous mountain paths, always alone).
I have no fears, God’s Creation is just perfect.
I am now a woman, a female.
A chamois’ female.
You are the rare fearless one, Micaela. You have all my admiration.
Oh, forgot to tell you:
Michail Pletnëv’s Rachmaninov’s 1st concerto was…oh, just cried from first breath of him, first sound until last note and him leaving the stage and myself feeling an orphan.
Mr Pletnëv is my epiphany.
I am glad you enjoyed it, Micaela. Yes, from the mountain top we can only come down, at least for a while.
So lovely…and this reminder will stick with me: “All of us have walked past them without noticing. They don’t cause trouble. Indeed, such males have mastered the art of invisibility…” Thank you, Dr. Stein. 💕 Like Wynne, I love how you shared this message.
Thank you, Vicki. Hugo’s hero touches on many aspects of the darkness and the light, and Jean Valjean’s own decision to open doors for those less fortunate, including Cosette’s mother and Cosette herself. When I read the passages I quoted it was inevitable that I would write about them.
I can see/feel that…compelled, you were! 💕
An amazing story of inner transformation! The cases of abused and unloved men I witnessed in Brazil ended only in violence.
I suppose it would be more impressive if Jean Valjean was not a fictional character. Still, I can remember such transformed examples even as a child, including Nathan Leopold who, along with Richard Loeb, murdered Bobby Franks, a 14-year-old acquaintance in the 1920s in what was called “The Crime of the Century.” Thank you, Rosaliene, for your kudos. Much appreciated.
Les Misérables is on my favorite book list. The Broadway rendition brought me to tears, along with the beautiful musical score. Your post made me think of two other literature classics featuring redemption through a young child (girls in these examples): Silas Marner by George Eliot and Heidi by Johanna Spyri.
Yes, it is quite a story and Cosette made a great difference in his life, but in my view Jean Valjean had redeemed his humanity even before this. We may see it a bit differently because of the source we are using.
I never saw the play but did see an old movie with Frederick March as the lead. More recently I’ve been reading the book — all 1300 pages of it! The playwright might have left a few things out, I imagine!
But Jean Valjean’s transformative experience of his relationship with the little girl can’t be dismissed. And pointing to the other classics involving a central role played by a child is important. Thanks, Evelyn.