I went to bed, cradled by the pitching of the boat, and slept with the deep slumber that one sleeps at sea, till the moment when Bernard awoke me to say:
"Bad weather, sir, we cannot sail this morning." The wind had fallen, but the sea, very rough in the open, would not allow of our making sail for Saint-Raphaël.
Another day that must be spent at Cannes!
At about twelve o'clock, a westerly wind again got up, less strong than the day before, and I resolved to take advantage of it and visit the squadron in gulf Juan.
In crossing the roads, theBel-Amijumped about like a goat, and I had to steer very carefully in order to avoid, with each wave which took us broadsides, having a mass of water dashed in my face. Soon however I was sheltered by the islands and entered the channel under the fortress of Sainte-Marguerite.
Its straight wall stretches down to the rocks, washed by the waves, and its summit hardly overtops the slightly elevated coast of the island. It is somewhat like a head crammed down between two high shoulders.
The spot where Bazaine descended can be easily made out.
It was not necessary to be much of a gymnast to slide down those accommodating rocks.
The escape was related to me with every detail, by a man who pretended to be, and probably was, thoroughly well informed.
Bazaine was allowed a good deal of liberty, his wife and children being permitted to come and see him every day. Madame Bazaine, who was an energetic woman, declared to her husband that she would leave him for ever, and carry off the children, if he would not make his escape, and she explained her plan. He hesitated at first, on account of the danger of the flight and the doubtfulness of success, but when he saw that his wife was determined to carry out her plan, he consented.
Thereupon, every day some toys for the little ones were brought into the fortress, amongst others an entire set of appliances for drawing-room gymnastics. Out of these toys was made the knotted rope that the Marshal was to make use of. It was very slowly made, in order to give rise to no suspicion, and when finished it was hid away by a friendly hand in a corner of the prison yard.
The date of the flight was then decided upon. They chose a Sunday, the supervision appearing to be less rigorous on that day.
Madame Bazaine then absented herself for a few days.
The Marshal usually walked about in the yard till eight o'clock in the evening, in company with the governor of the prison, a pleasant man whose agreeable conversation was a resource to Bazaine. Then he would go back to his rooms, which the chief jailor locked and bolted in the presence of his superior officer.
On the evening of the escape, Bazaine pretended he was indisposed, and expressed a wish to retire an hour earlier than usual. He returned therefore to his apartment, but as soon as the governor had gone off to call the jailor and tell him to lock up the captive, the Marshal came out again quickly and hid himself in the yard.
The empty prison was locked up, and each man went home.
At about eleven o'clock Bazaine, armed with the ladder, left his hiding place, fastened the ropes, and made his descent on to the rocks.
At dawn of day, an accomplice unfastened the ladder and threw it over the walls.
Towards eight o'clock in the morning, the governor, surprised at not seeing anything of his prisoner, who was wont to be an early riser, sent to enquire about him. The Marshal's valet refused, however, to disturb his master.
At length at nine o'clock, the governor forced open the door and found the cage empty.
On her side Madame Bazaine, in order to carry out her scheme, had applied to a man who was indebted to her husband for a most important service. She appealed to a grateful heart, and gained an ally both energetic and devoted. Together they settled all the details; she then went in an assumed name to Genoa, and under pretext of an excursion to Naples hired for a thousand francs (forty pounds sterling) a day, a little Italian steamer, stipulating that the trip should last at least a week, and that it might be extended to another week on the same terms.
The vessel started, but no sooner were they at sea, than the traveller appeared to change her mind, and asked the captain if he would object to going as far as Cannes to fetch her sister-in-law. The sailor willingly consented, and he dropped anchor on Sunday evening in the gulf Juan.
Madame Bazaine was set on shore and ordered the boat to keep within hail. Her devoted accomplice was awaiting her in another boat near the promenade of theCroisette, and they crossed the channel which separates the mainland from the little island of Sainte-Marguerite. There her husband was waiting on the rocks, his clothes torn, face bruised, and hands bleeding. The sea being rather rough, he was obliged to wade through the water to reach the boat, which otherwise would have been dashed to pieces against the coast.
When they returned to the mainland, they cast the boat adrift.
They rejoined the first boat, and then at last the vessel, which had remained with steam up. Madame Bazaine informed the captain that her sister-in-law was not well enough to join her, and pointing to the Marshal, she added:
"Not having a servant, I have hired a valet. The fool has just tumbled down on the rocks and got himself in the mess you see. Send him, if you please, down to the sailors, and give him what is necessary to dress his wounds and mend his clothes."
Bazaine went down and spent the night in the forecastle.
The next morning at break of day, they were out at sea; then Madame Bazaine again changed her mind, and pleading indisposition, had herself reconducted to Genoa.
However, the news of the escape had already spread, and the populace hearing of it, a clamouring mob assembled under the hotel windows. The uproar soon became so violent, that the terrified landlord insisted on the travellers escaping by a private door.
I relate this story as it was told to me, but I guarantee nothing.
We drew near the squadron, the heavy ironclads standing out in single file, like battle towers built in the sea. They were theColbert,theDévastation,theAmiral-Duperré,theCourbet,theIndomptable,and theRichelieu;two despatch boats, theHirondelleand theMilan;and four torpedo boats going through evolutions in the gulf.
I wanted to visit theCourbet,as it passes for the most perfect type in the French navy.
Nothing can give a better idea of human labour, of the intricate and formidable labour done by the ingeniously clever hands of the puny human animal, than the enormous iron citadels which float and sail about bearing an army of soldiers, an arsenal of monstrous arms, the enormous masses of which are made of tiny pieces fitted, soldered, forged, bolted together, a toil of ants and giants, which shows at the same time all the genius, all the weakness, and all the irretrievable barbarousness of the race, so active and so feeble, directing all its efforts towards creating instruments for its own self-destruction.
Those who in former days raised up cathedrals in stone, carved as finely as any lacework, fairy-like palaces to shelter childish and pious fancies, were they worth less than those who now-a-days launch forth on the sea these iron houses, real temples of Death?
At the same moment that I leave the ship to get on board my cockleshell, I hear the sound of firing on shore. It is the regiment at Antibes practising rifle shooting on the sands and amongst the pine-woods. The smoke rises in white flakes, like evaporating clouds of cotton, and I can see the red trousers of the soldiers as they run along the beach.
The naval officers suddenly become interested, point their glasses landwards, and their hearts beat faster at this spectacle of mimic warfare.
At the mere mention of the word war, I am seized with a sense of bewilderment, as though I heard of witchcraft, of the inquisition, of some far distant thing, ended long ago, abominable and monstrous, against all natural law.
When we talk of cannibals, we proudly smile and proclaim our superiority over these savages. Which are the savages, the true savages? Those who fight to eat the vanquished, or those who fight to kill, only to kill?
The gallant little soldiers running about over there, are as surely doomed to death, as the flocks of sheep driven along the road by the butcher. They will fall on some plain, with their heads split open by sabre cuts, or their chests riddled by bullets, and yet they are young men who might work, produce something, be useful. Their fathers are old and poverty-stricken, their mothers, who during twenty years have loved them, adored them as only mothers can adore, may perchance hear in six months or a year, that the son, the child, the big fellow, reared with so much care, at such an expense and with so much love, has been cast in a hole like a dead dog, after having been ripped open by a bullet and trampled, crushed, mangled by the rush of cavalry charges. Why have they killed her boy, her beautiful boy, her sole hope, her pride, her life? She cannot understand. Yes, indeed, why?
War! fighting! slaughtering! butchering men! And to think that now, in our own century, with all our civilisation, with the expansion of science and the height of philosophy to which the human race is supposed to have attained, we should have schools, in which we teach the art of killing, of killing from afar, to perfection, numbers of people at the same time; poor devils, innocent men, fathers of families, men of untarnished reputation. The most astounding thing is that the people do not rise up against the governing power. What difference is there then between monarchies and republics? And what is more astounding still, why does society not rise up bodily in rebellion at the word "war."
Ah yes, we shall ever continue to live borne down by the old and odious customs, the criminal prejudices, the ferocious ideas of our barbarous forefathers, for we are but animals, and we shall remain animals led only by instinct, that nothing will ever change.
Should we not have spurned any other than Victor Hugo, who should have launched forth the grand cry of deliverance and truth?
"To-day, might is called violence, and is beginning to be condemned; war is arraigned. Civilisation, at the demand of all humanity, directs an inquiry and indicts the great criminal brief against conquerors and generals. The nations are beginning to understand that the aggrandizement of a crime can in no way lessen it; that if murder is a crime, to murder a great many does not create any attenuating circumstance; that if robbery is a disgrace, invasion cannot be a glory.
"Ah! Let us proclaim the peremptory truth, let us dishonour war."
Idle anger, poetic indignation! War is more venerated than ever.
A clever artist in such matters, a slaughtering genius, M. de Moltke, replied one day to some peace delegates, in the following extraordinary words:
"War is holy and of divine institution; it is one of the sacred laws of nature; it keeps alive in men all the great and noble sentiments, honour, disinterestedness, virtue, courage, in one word it prevents them from falling into the most hideous materialism."
Therefore to collect a herd of some four hundred thousand men, march day and night without respite, to think of nothing, study nothing, learn nothing, read nothing, be of no earthly use to any one, rot with dirt, lie down in mire, live like brutes in a continual besotment, pillage towns, burn villages, ruin nations; then meeting another similar agglomeration of human flesh, rush upon it, shed lakes of blood, cover plains with pounded flesh mingled with muddy and bloody earth; pile up heaps of slain; have arms and legs blown off, brains scattered without benefit to any one, and perish at the corner of some field while your old parents, your wife and children are dying of hunger; this is what is called, not falling into the most hideous materialism!
Warriors are the scourges of the earth. We struggle against nature and ignorance; against obstacles of all kinds, in order to lessen the hardships of our miserable existence. Men, benefactors, scholars wear out their lives toiling, seeking what may assist, what may help, what may solace their brethren. Eager in their useful work, they pile up discovery on discovery, enlarging the human mind, extending science, adding something each day to the stock of human knowledge, to the welfare, the comfort, the strength of their country.
War is declared. In six months the generals have destroyed the efforts of twenty years' patience and genius. And this is what is called, not falling into the most hideous materialism.
We have seen war. We have seen men maddened and gone back to their brute estate, killing for mere pleasure, killing out of terror, out of bravado, from sheer ostentation. Then when right no longer exists, when law is dead, when all notion of justice has disappeared, we have seen ruthlessly shot down, innocent beings who, picked up along the road, had become objects of suspicion simply because they were afraid. We have seen dogs as they lay chained up at their master's gate, killed in order to try a new revolver; we have seen cows riddled with bullets as they lay in the fields, without reason, only to fire off guns, just for fun.
And this is what is called, not falling into the most hideous materialism. To invade a country, to kill the man who defends his home on the plea that he wears a smock and has no forage cap on his head, to burn down the houses of the poor creatures who are without bread, to break, to steal furniture, drink the wine found in the cellars, violate the women found in the streets, consume thousands of francs' worth of powder, and leave behind misery and cholera.
This is what is called, not falling into the most hideous materialism.
What have they ever done to show their intelligence, these valiant warriors? Nothing. What have they invented? Guns and cannons. That is all.
The inventor of the wheelbarrow, has he not done more for humanity by the simple and practical idea of fitting a wheel between two poles, than the inventor of modern fortifications?
What remains of Greece? Books and marbles. Is she great by what she conquered, or by what she produced? Was it the invasion of the Persians that prevented her from falling into the most hideous materialism? Was it the invasion of the barbarians that saved Rome and regenerated her?
Did Napoleon the First continue the great intellectual movement begun by the philosophers at the end of the last century?
Well, yes, since governments assume the right of death over the people, there is nothing astonishing in the people sometimes assuming the right of death over governments.
They defend themselves. They are right. No one has an absolute right to govern others. It can only be done for the good of those who are governed. Whosoever governs must consider it as much his duty to avoid war, as it is that of the captain of a vessel to avoid shipwreck.
When a captain has lost his ship, he is judged and condemned if found guilty of negligence or even of incapacity.
Why should not governments be judged after the declaration of every war? If the people understood this, if they took the law into their own hands against the murdering powers, if they refused to allow themselves to be killed without a reason, if they used their weapons against those who distributed them to slaughter with, that day war would indeed be a dead letter. But that day will never dawn!
AGAY,April 8th.
"Fine weather, sir."
I get up and go on deck. It is three o'clock in the morning; the sea is calm, the infinite heavens look like an immense shady vault sown with grains of fire. A very light breeze comes from off the land.
The coffee is hot, we swallow it down, and, without losing a moment, in order to take advantage of the favourable wind, we set sail.
Once more we glide over the waters towards the open sea. The coast disappears, all around us looks black. It is indeed a sensation, an enervating and delicious emotion to plunge onward into the empty night, into the deep silence on the sea, far from everything. It seems as though one was quitting the world, as though one would never reach any land, as though there were no more shores and even no more days. At my feet, a little lantern throws a light upon the compass, that guides me on my way. We must run at least three miles in the open to round Cape Roux and the Drammont in safety, whatever may be the wind when the sun has risen. To avoid any accidents, I have had the side-lights lit, red on the port and green on the starboard side. And I enjoy with rapture this silent, uninterrupted, quiet flight.
Suddenly a cry is heard in front of us. I am startled, for the voice is near; and I can perceive nothing, nothing but the obscure wall of darkness into which I am plunging, and which closes again behind me. Raymond who watches forward says to me: "'Tis a tartan going east, put the helm up sir, we shall pass astern." And of a sudden, nigh at hand, uprises a vague but startling phantom; the large drifting shadow of a big sail, seen but for a few seconds and quickly vanishing. Nothing is more strange, more fantastic, and more thrilling, than these rapid apparitions at sea during the night. The fishing and sand boats carry no lights, they are therefore only seen as they pass by, and they impart a tightening of the heart strings, as of some supernatural encounter.
I hear in the distance the whistling of a bird. It approaches, passes by, and goes off. Oh that I could wander like it!
At last dawn breaks, slowly, gently, without a cloud, and the day begins, a real summer's day.
Raymond asserts that we shall have an east wind, Bernard still believes in a westerly one, and advises my changing our course, and sailing on the starboard tack straight towards the Drammont, which stands out in the distance. I am at once of his opinion, and under the gentle breath of a dying breeze, we draw nearer to the Esterel. The long red shore drops into the blue water, giving it a violet tinge. It is strange, pretty, bristling with numberless points and gulfs, capricious and coquettish rocks, the thousand whims of a much admired mountain. On its slopes, the pine forests reach up to the granite summits, which resemble castles, towns, and armies of stones running after each other. And at its foot the sea is so clear, that the sandy shoals or the weedy bottoms can be distinguished.
Ay, verily, I do feel on certain days such a horror of all that is, that I long for death. The invariable monotony of landscapes, faces and thoughts, become an intensely acute suffering. The meanness of the universe astonishes and revolts me, the littleness of all things fills me with disgust, and I am overwhelmed by the platitude of human beings.
At other times, on the contrary, I enjoy everything as an animal does. If my spirit, restless, agitated, hypertrophied by work, bounds onward to hopes that are not those of our race, and then after having realised that all is vanity, falls back into a contempt for all that is, my animal body at least, is enraptured with all the intoxication of life. Like the birds, I love the sky, like the prowling wolf, the forests; I delight in rocky heights, like a chamois; the thick grass, I love to roll in and gallop over like a horse, and, like a fish, I revel in the clear waters. I feel thrilling within me, the sensations of all the different species of animals, of all their instincts, of all the confused longings of inferior creatures. I love the earth as they do, not as other men do; I love it without admiring it, without poetry, without exultation; I love with a deep and animal attachment, contemptible yet holy, all that lives, all that grows, all we see; for all this, leaving my spirit calm, excites only my eyes and my heart: the days, the nights, the rivers, the seas, the storms, the woods, the hues of dawn, the glance of woman, her very touch.
The gentle ripple of water on the sandy shore, or on the rocky granite affects and moves me, and the joy that fills me as I feel myself driven forward by the wind, and carried along by the waves, proceeds from the abandonment of myself, to the brutal and natural forces of creation, from my return to a primitive state.
When the weather is beautiful as it is to-day, I feel in my veins the blood of the lascivious and vagabond fauns of olden times. I am no longer the brother of mankind, but the brother of all creatures and all nature!
The sun mounts above the horizon. The breeze dies away as it did the day before yesterday; but the west wind foretold by Bernard, does not rise any more than the easterly one, announced by Raymond.
Till ten o'clock, we float motionless like a wreck, then a little breath from the open sea starts us on our road, falls, rises again, seems to mock us, glancing across the sail, promising at each moment a breeze that does not come. It is nothing, a mere whiff, a flutter of a fan; nevertheless it is sufficient to prevent our being stationary. The porpoises, those clowns of the sea, play about around us, dashing out of the water with rapid bounds, as though they would take flight, striking into the air like lightning, then plunging and rising again further off.
At about one o'clock, as we lay broadside on to Agay, the breeze completely gave way, and I realized that I should sleep out at sea if I did not man the boat to tow the yacht and take shelter in the bay.
I therefore made the two men get into the dingy, and when at a distance of some thirty yards or so, they began to tug me along. A fierce sun was glaring on the water, and its burning rays beat down upon the decks.
The two sailors rowed in slow and regular fashion like worn-out cranks, which, though working with difficulty, ceaselessly continue their mechanical labour.
The bay of Agay forms a very pretty dock, well sheltered and closed on one side by upright, red rocks, overlooked by the semaphore on the summit of the mountain, and prolonged towards the open sea by theIle d'Or,so called on account of its colour; while on the other side is a line of sunken rocks, and a small headland level with the surface of the water, bearing a lighthouse to mark the entry.
At the further end is an inn, ready for the entertainment of skippers of vessels, that have taken refuge there from stress of weather, or for fishermen during the summer; and a railway station where trains only stop twice a day, and where no one ever gets out; and a pretty river that winds away into the Esterel, as far as the valley named Malin-fermet, which is as full of pink oleanders as any African ravine.
No road leads from the interior to the delicious bay. A pathway only, takes you to Saint-Raphaël, passing through the porphyry quarries of Drammont; but no vehicle could use it. We are therefore quite lost in the mountain.
I resolved to wander about till nightfall, in the paths bordered by cistus and lentisk. The scent of wild plants, strong and perfumed, filled the air, mingling with the powerful resinous breath of the forest, which seemed to pant in the heat.
After an hour's walk, I was deep among the pine trees, scattered sparsely on a gentle declivity of the mountain. The purple granite,—the bones of the earth,—seemed reddened by the sun, and I wended my way slowly, happy as the lizards must be on burning hot stones; when I perceived on the summit of the mountain, coming towards me, without seeing me, two lovers lost in the depths of their love dream.
'Twas a charmingly pretty sight; on they came, with arms entwined, moving with absent footsteps through the alternating sun and shade, that flecked the sloping banks.
She appeared to me very graceful and very simple, with a grey travelling dress and a bold coquettish felt hat. I hardly saw him, I only noticed that he seemed well bred. I had seated myself behind the trunk of a pine tree, to watch them pass by. They did not perceive me, and continued their descent with interlocked arms, silently, and without a word, so much did their love absorb them.
When I lost sight of them, I felt as though a sadness had fallen on my heart. A felicity that I knew not, had passed near me, and I guessed that it was the best of all. And I returned towards the bay of Agay, too dejected now to continue my stroll.
Until the evening, I lay stretched out on the grass, by the side of the river, and at about seven o'clock I went into the inn for dinner.
My men had warned the innkeeper, and he was expecting me. My table was set in the white-washed room, by the side of another at which were already settled my love-stricken couple, face to face, with eyes fondly gazing upon each other.
I felt ashamed at disturbing them, as though I were committing a mean and unbecoming action.
They stared at me for a few seconds, and then resumed their low-toned conversation.
The innkeeper who had known me for a long time took a seat near mine. He talked of wild boars, and rabbits, the fine weather, themistral,about an Italian captain who had slept at the inn a few nights before, and then, to flatter my vanity, he praised my yacht, the black hull of which I could see through the window, with its tall mast, and my red and white pennant floating aloft.
My neighbours, who had eaten very rapidly, soon left. As for me, I dawdled about looking at the slight crescent of the moon, shedding its soft rays over the little roadstead. At last I saw my dingy nearing the shore, scattering lines of silver as it advanced through the pale motionless light that fell upon the water.
When I went down to my boat, I saw the lovers standing on the beach gazing at the sea.
And as I went off to the quick sound of the oars, I still distinguished their outlines on the shore, their shadows erect side by side. They seemed to fill the bay, the night, the heavens, with a symbolic grandeur, so penetrating was the atmosphere of love they diffused around them, so widespread over the far horizon.
And when I had reached my yacht, I remained seated a long while on deck, overcome with sadness without knowing wherefore, filled with regrets without knowing why, unwilling even to decide on going down to my cabin, as though I would fain absorb a little more of the tenderness they had diffused around them. Suddenly, one of the windows of the inn was lit up, and I saw their profiles on the bright background. Then my loneliness overpowered me, and in the balminess of the springlike night, at the soft sound of the waves on the sand, under the delicate crescent shedding its rays over the sea, I felt in my heart such an intense desire of love, that I was near crying out in my envious distress.
Then, all at once, I became ashamed of this weakness, and, unwilling to admit to myself that I was a man like another, I accused the moonshine of disturbing my reason.
I have moreover always believed, that the moon exercises a mysterious influence on the human brain.
It fills poets with vagaries, rendering them delightful or ridiculous, and produces on lovers' affections, the effect of Ruhmkorff's pile on electric currents. The man who loves in a normal manner under the sunlight, adores with frenzy under the moon.
A youthful and charming woman maintained to me one day, I forget on what occasion, that moon strokes are infinitely more dangerous than sun strokes. They are caught, she said, unawares, out walking perchance on a beautiful night, and they are incurable; you remain mad; not raving mad, not mad enough to be shut up, but mad of a special madness, gentle, incurable; and you no longer think on any subject like other men.
I have certainly been moon-struck to-night, for I feel strangely unreasonable and light headed; and the little crescent in its downward course towards the sea affects me, melts me to tears, and rends my heart.
Wherein lies the power of seduction of this moon, aged dead planet that it is, rambling through the heavens with its yellow face and sad ghostly light, that it should thus agitate us, we whom even our vagabond thoughts disturb?
Do we love it because it is dead? as the poet Haraucourt says:
"Puis ce fut l'âge blond des tiédeurs et des vents.La lune se peupla de murmures vivants:Elle eut des mers sans fond et des fleuves sans nombre,Des troupeaux, des cités, des pleurs, des cris joyeux,Elle eut l'amour; elle eut ses arts, ses lois, ses dieux,Et lentement rentra dans l'ombre."[1]
Do we love it because the poets, to whom we owe the eternal illusion that surrounds us in this world, have dimmed our sight by all the images they have seen in its pallid rays, have taught our over-excited sensibility to feel in a thousand different ways, the soft and monotonous effects it sheds over the world?
When it rises behind the trees, when it pours forth its shimmering light on the flowing river, when it descends through the boughs on to the sand of the shaded alleys, when it mounts solitary in the black and empty sky, when it dips towards the sea, stretching out on the undulating surface of the waters a vast pathway of light, are we not haunted by all the charming verses with which it has inspired great dreamers?
If we wander forth by night in joyous spirits, and if we see its smooth circle, round like a yellow eye watching us, perched just over a roof, Musset's immortal ballad is recalled to our mind.
And is it not he, the mocking poet, who immediately presents it to us through his eyes?
"C'était dans la nuit brune,Sur le clocher jauniLa luneComme un point sur un I.Lune, quel esprit sombrePromène an bout d'un fil,Dans l'ombre,Ta face ou ton profil?"[2]
If we walk on some evening full of sadness, on the beach by the side of the ocean illuminated by its rays, do we not, in spite of ourselves, at once recite the two grand and melancholy lines:
"Seule au-dessus des mers, la lune voyageant,Laisse dans les flots noirs tomber ses pleurs d'argent."[3]
If we awake, to find our bed lighted up by a long beam coming in at the window, do we not feel at once as though the white figure evoked by Catulle Mendè's were descending upon us:
"Elle venait, avec un lis dans chaque main,La pente d'un rayon lui servant de chemin."[4]
If, in some evening walk in the country, we suddenly hear the long sinister howl of a farm dog, are we not forcibly struck by the recollection of the admirable poem of Leconte de Lisle,les Hurleurs?
"Seule, la lune pâle, en écartant la nue,Comme une morne lampe, oscillait tristement.Monde muet, marqué d'un signe de colère,Débris d'un globe mort au hasard dispersé,Elle laissait tomber de son orbe glacéUn reflet sépulcral sur l'océan polaire."[5]
At the evening trysting place, one saunters slowly through the leafy path, with arm encircling the beloved one, pressing her hand, and kissing her brow. She is perhaps a little tired, a little moved, and walks with lagging step.
With a lily in each hand she came,The slanting beam her pathway.
A bench appears in sight, under the leaves bathed by the soft light, as by a calm shower.
In our hearts and minds, like an exquisite love-song, the two charming lines start up:
"Et réveiller, pour s'asseoir à sa placeLe clair de lune endormi sur le banc!"[6]
Can one see the lessening crescent, as on this evening, cast its fair profile on the vast sky spangled with stars, without thinking of the end of that masterpiece of Victor Hugo's, which is called "Boaz Endormi:"
"Et Ruth se demandait,Immobile, ouvrant l'oeil à demi sous ses voiles,Quel Dieu, quel moissonneur de l'éternel étéAvait, en s'en allant, négligemment jetéCette faucille d'or dans le champ des étoiles."[7]
And who has better described the moon, courteous and tender to all lovers, than Hugo:
"La nuit vint, tout se tut; les flambeaux s'éteignirent;Dans les bois assombris, les sources se plaignirent.Le rossignol, caché dans son nid ténébreux,Chanta comme un poète et comme un amoureux.Chacun se dispersa sous les profonds feuillages,Les folles, en riant, entraînèrent les sages;L'amante s'en alla dans l'ombre avec l'amant;Et troublés comme ou l'est en songe, vaguement,Ils sentaient par degrés se mêler à leur âme,A leurs discours secrets, à leur regards de flamme,A leurs coeurs, à leurs sens, à leur molle raison,Le clair de lune bleu qui baignait l'horizon."[8]
And I remember also the admirable prayer to the moon, which is the opening scene, of the eleventh book of Apuleius'Golden Ass.
Still all the songs of mankind are not enough to account for the sentimental sadness with which this poor planet inspires us.
We pity the moon, in spite of ourselves, without knowing the reason, and for this it is we love it.
Even the tender feeling we bestow on it is mingled with compassion; we pity it like an old maid, for we vaguely feel, the poets notwithstanding, that it is not a corpse but a cold virgin.
Planets, like woman, need a husband, and the poor moon, disdained by the sun, is nothing more nor less than an old maid, as we mortals say.
And it is for this reason that, with its timid light, it fills us with hopes that cannot be realized, and desires that cannot be fulfilled.
All that we vainly and dimly wait and hope for upon this earth, works in our hearts like mysterious but powerless sap, beneath the pale rays of the moon. When we raise our eyes to it, we quiver with inexpressible tenderness and are thrilled by impossible dreams!
The narrow crescent, a mere thread of gold, now dipped its keen gleaming point in the water, and gradually plunged gently and slowly till the other point, so delicate that I could not detect the moment of its vanishing, had also disappeared.
Then, I raised my eyes towards the inn. The lighted window was closed. A dull melancholy crushed my heart, and I went below.
[1]Then it was the fair age of balminess and breezes.The moon became peopled with living whispers;She had bottomless seas and numberless rivers,Flocks, cities, tears, and cries full of joy,She had love; she had her arts, her laws, her gods,Then slowly sank back into darkness.
[1]Then it was the fair age of balminess and breezes.The moon became peopled with living whispers;She had bottomless seas and numberless rivers,Flocks, cities, tears, and cries full of joy,She had love; she had her arts, her laws, her gods,Then slowly sank back into darkness.
[2]'Twas in the dusky night,Above the yellowed steeple,Stood the moonLike a dot on an I.By what sombre spiritIs thy face or profile,Swung as from a threadThrough the shadows of the sky?
[2]'Twas in the dusky night,Above the yellowed steeple,Stood the moonLike a dot on an I.By what sombre spiritIs thy face or profile,Swung as from a threadThrough the shadows of the sky?
[3]Alone above the seas, the wandering moonLets fall her silver tears in the black billows.
[3]Alone above the seas, the wandering moonLets fall her silver tears in the black billows.
[4]"With a lily in each hand she came,The slanting beam her pathway.
[4]"With a lily in each hand she came,The slanting beam her pathway.
[5]Alone the pale moon parting the cloudsLike a gloomy lamp, sadly oscillatesDumb world, marked by a sign of anger,Fragment of a dead globe dispersed at haphazard,She let fall from her frozen orbA sepulchral reflection on a polar ocean.
[5]Alone the pale moon parting the cloudsLike a gloomy lamp, sadly oscillatesDumb world, marked by a sign of anger,Fragment of a dead globe dispersed at haphazard,She let fall from her frozen orbA sepulchral reflection on a polar ocean.
[6]And, to take her place, one awakensA ray of moonlight asleep on the bench.
[6]And, to take her place, one awakensA ray of moonlight asleep on the bench.
[7]And Ruth, motionless,Asked herself, as she opened her half-closed eye under her veil,What God, what reaper of the eternal summer,Had negligently thrown as he passed byThis golden sickle in the starry field.
[7]And Ruth, motionless,Asked herself, as she opened her half-closed eye under her veil,What God, what reaper of the eternal summer,Had negligently thrown as he passed byThis golden sickle in the starry field.
[8]Night fell, all was hushed; the torches died outUnder the darkening woods, the springs lament.The nightingale, hidden in its shady nest,Sang like a poet and like a lover.In the depths of the dark foliage all dispersed,The madcaps laughing carried off the wise,The fair one disappeared in the gloom with her loverAnd with the vague trouble of some dreamThey felt by degrees intermingled with their souls,With their secret thoughts, with their glances of flame,With their hearts, their senses, with their yielding reasonThe blue moonlight that bathed the vast horizon.
[8]Night fell, all was hushed; the torches died outUnder the darkening woods, the springs lament.The nightingale, hidden in its shady nest,Sang like a poet and like a lover.In the depths of the dark foliage all dispersed,The madcaps laughing carried off the wise,The fair one disappeared in the gloom with her loverAnd with the vague trouble of some dreamThey felt by degrees intermingled with their souls,With their secret thoughts, with their glances of flame,With their hearts, their senses, with their yielding reasonThe blue moonlight that bathed the vast horizon.
April 10th.
No sooner had I lain down than I felt sleep was impossible, and I remained lying on my back with my eyes closed, my thoughts on the alert, and all my nerves quivering. Not a motion, not a sound, near or far, nothing but the breathing of the two sailors through the thin bulkhead, could be heard.
Suddenly, something grated. What was it? I know not. Some block in the rigging, no doubt; but the tone—tender, plaintive, and mournful—of the sound sent a thrill through me; then nothing more. An infinite silence seemed to spread from the earth to the stars; nothing more—not a breath, not a shiver on the water, not a vibration of the yacht, nothing; and then again the slight and unrecognisable moan recommenced. It seemed to me as I listened, as though a jagged blade were sawing at my heart. Just as certain noises, certain notes, certain voices harrow us, and in one second pour into our soul all it can contain of sorrow, desperation, and anguish. I listened expectantly, and heard it again, the identical sound which now seemed to emanate from my own self,—to be wrung out of my nerves,—or rather, to resound in a secret, deep, and desolate cry. Yes, it was a cruel though familiar voice, a voice expected, and full of desperation. It passed over me with its weird and feeble tones as an uncanny thing, sowing broadcast the appalling terrors of delirium, for it had power to awake the horrible distress which lies slumbering, in the inmost heart of every living man. What was it? It was the voice ringing with reproaches which tortures our soul, clamouring ceaselessly, obscure, painful, harassing; a voice, unappeasable and mysterious, which will not be ignored; ferocious in its reproaches for what we have done, as well as what we have left undone; the voice of remorse and useless regrets for the days gone by, and the women unloved; for the joys that were vain, and the hopes that are dead; the voice of the past, of all that has disappointed us, has fled and disappeared for ever, of what we have not, nor shall ever attain; the small shrill voice which ever proclaims the failure of our life, the uselessness of our efforts, the impotence of our minds, and the weakness of our flesh.
It spoke to me in that short whisper, recommencing after each dismal silence of the dark night, it spoke of all I would have loved, of all that I had vaguely desired, expected, dreamt of; all that I would have longed to see, to understand, to know, to taste, all that my insatiable, poor, and weak spirit had touched upon with a useless hope, all that, towards which it had been tempted to soar, without being able to tear asunder, the chains of ignorance that held it.
Ah! I have coveted all, and delighted in nothing. I should have required the vitality of a whole race, the varying intelligence, all the faculties, all the powers scattered among all beings, and thousands of existences in reserve; for I bear within myself every desire and every curiosity, and I am compelled to see all, and grasp nothing.
From whence, therefore, arises this anguish at living, since to the generality of men it only brings satisfaction? Wherefore this unknown torture, which preys upon me? Why should I not know the reality of pleasure, expectation, and possession?
It is because I carry within me that second sight, which is at the same time the power and despair of writers. I write because I understand and suffer from all that is, because I know it too well, and above all, because without being able to enjoy it, I contemplate it inwardly in the mirror of my thoughts.
Let no one envy, but rather pity us, for in the following manner does the literary man, differ from his fellow-creatures.
For him no simple feeling any longer exists. All he sees, his joys, his pleasures, his suffering, his despair, all instantaneously become subjects of observation. In spite of all, in spite of himself, he analyses everything, hearts, faces, gestures, intonations. As soon as he has seen, whatever it may be, he must know the wherefore. He has not a spark of enthusiasm, not a cry, not a kiss that is spontaneous, not one instantaneous action done merely because it must be done, unconsciously, without reflection, without understanding, without noting it down afterwards.
If he suffers, he notes down his suffering, and classes it in his memory; he says to himself as he leaves the cemetery, where he has left the being he has loved most in the world: "It is curious what I felt; it was like an intoxication of pain, etc...." And then he recalls all the details, the attitude of those near him, the discordant gestures of feigned grief, the insincere faces, and a thousand little insignificant trifles noted by the artistic observation,—the sign of the cross made by an old woman leading a child, a ray of light through a window, a dog that crossed the funeral procession, the effect of the hearse under the tall yew trees in the cemetery, the face of the undertaker and its muscular contractions, the strain of the four men who lowered the coffin into the grave, a thousand things in fact that a poor fellow suffering with all his heart, soul and strength, would never have noticed.