Chapter IV: Book III (1)

As for Rabbit, he had prudently taken flight at sight of the heavenly pack of hounds. While Francis had remained near him he had trusted in Francis. But now, even though he was in the abode of the Blessed, his distrust which was as natural to him as to the suspicious peasant gained the upper hand again. And since he did not yet feel himself entirely at home in this Paradise, tasting neither perfect security, nor the thrill of familiar danger against which he could battle, Long-Ear became bewildered.

Accordingly he strayed hither and thither, ill at ease, not knowing where he was, nor finding his way. He sought in vain for that from which he fled and that which fled from him. But what was the reason for this? Was not Heaven happiness? Was there any stillness that could be more still? In what other resting-place could Cleft-Lip have dreamed a sleep more undisturbed than on these beds of wool that the breeze spread beneath the flower-covered bushes of the stars?

But he did not sleep here, because he missed his constant uneasiness and other things. Crouching in the ditches of Heaven he no longer had the feeling beneath the whiteness of his short tail of the chilly dampness penetrating through and through him. The mosquitoes, who had withdrawn to their own Paradise of shallow pools, no longer filled his always open eyelids with the sharp burning sensation of summer. He longed regretfully for this fever. His heart no longer beat as powerfully as it had beaten when on knolls in the flame-colored heath a shot scattered the earth like rain about him. Under the smooth caress of the lawn-like grass hair grew again on the callous parts of his paws where it had been so sparse. And he began to deplore the over-abundance of heaven. He was like the gardener who, having become king, was forced to put on sandals of purple, and longed regretfully for his wooden shoes heavy with clay and with poverty.

* * * * *

And Francis in his Paradise heard of Rabbit's troubles and of his bewilderment. And the heart of Francis was grieved that one of his old companions was not happy. From that moment the streets of the celestial hamlet where he dwelled seemed less peaceful to him, the shadows of the evening less soft, less white the breath of the lilies, less hallowed the gleams of the carpenter's plane within the sheds, less bright the singing pitchers whose water radiated like fresh sheaves and fell cooling upon the flesh of the angels seated on the curb-stones of the wells.

Therefore Francis set out on his way to find God, and He received him in His Garden at the close of day. This garden of God was the most humble but also the most beautiful. No one knew whence came the miracle of its beauty. Perhaps because there was nothing in it but love. Over the walls which the ages had filled with chinks dark lilacs spread. The stones were joyous to support the smiling mosses whose golden mouths were drinking at the shadowy heart of the violets.

In a diffused light which was neither like that of the dawn nor like that of the twilight, for it was softer than either of these, a blue-flowered leek blossomed in the center of a garden-bed. A sort of mystery enveloped the blue globe of its inflorescence which remained motionless and closed on its tall stalk. One felt that this plant was dreaming. Of what? Perhaps of its soul's labor which sings on winter evenings in the pot where boils the soup of the poor. Oh divine destiny! Not far from the hedges of boxwood the lips of the lettuce radiated mute words while a low light clung about the shadow of the sleeping watering-pots. Their task was over.

And full of trust and serenity, without pride or humility, a sage-plant let its insignificant odor rise toward God.

* * * * *

Francis sat down beside God on a bench sheltered by an oak round which an ivy twined. And God said unto Francis:

"I know what brings thee hither. It shall never be said that there was any one, whether maggot or rabbit, who was unable to find his Paradise here. Go therefore to thy fleet-footed friend, and ask him what it is that he desires. And as soon as he has told thee, I shall grant him his wish. If he did not understand how to die and to renounce the world like the others, it was surely because his heart clove too much to my Earth which, indeed, I love well. Because, Oh Francis, like this creature of the long ears I love the earth with a profound love. I love the earth of men, of beasts, of plants, and of stones. Oh Francis, go and find Rabbit, and tell him that I am his friend."

* * * * *

And Francis set out toward the Paradise of beasts where none of the children of man except young girls had ever set their foot. There he met Rabbit who was disconsolately wandering about. But when Rabbit saw his old master approaching he experienced such joy that he crouched down with more fright in his eye than ever and with his nostrils quivering almost imperceptibly.

"Greeting, my brother," said Francis, "I heard the sufferings of your heart, and I have come here to learn the reason for your sadness. Have you eaten too many bitter kernels of grain? Why have you not found the peace of the doves, and of the lambs which are also white...? Oh harvester of the second crop, for what do you search so restlessly here where there is no more restlessness, and where never more will you feel the hunting-dogs' breath on your poor skin?"

"Oh my friend," answered he, "what am I seeking? I am seeking my God. As long as you were my God on earth I felt at peace. But in this Paradise where I have lost my way, because your presence is no longer with me, Oh divine brother of the beast, my soul feels suffocated for I do not find my God."

"Do you think, then," said Francis, "that God abandons rabbits, and that they alone of the whole world have no title to Paradise?"

"No," Rabbit replied, "I have given no thought to such things. I would have followed you because I came to know you as intimately as the earthly hedge on which the lambs hung the warm flakes of snow with which I used to line and keep warm my nest. Vainly I have sought throughout these heavenly meadows this God of whom you are speaking. But while my companions discovered Him at once and found their Paradise, I lost my way. From the day when you left us and from the instant that I gained Heaven, my childish and untamed heart has beaten with homesickness for the earth.

"Oh Francis, Oh my friend, Oh you in whom alone I have faith, give back to me my earth. I feel that I am not at home here. Give back to me my furrows full of mud, give back to me my clayey paths. Give back to me my native valley where the horns of the hunters make the mists stir. Give back to me the wagon-track on the roadway from which I heard sound the packs of hounds with their hanging ears, like an angelus. Give back to me my timidity. Give back to me my fright. Give back to me the agitation that I felt when suddenly a shot swept the fragrant mint beneath my bounds, or when amid the bushes of wild quince my nose touched the cold copper of a snare. Give back to me the dawn upon the waters from which the skillful fisherman withdraws his lines heavy with eels. Give back to me the blue gleaning under the moon, and my timid and clandestine loves amid the wild sorrel, where I could no longer distinguish the rosy tongue of my beloved from the dew-laden petal of the eglantine which had fallen upon the grass. Give back to me my weakness, oh thou, my dear heart. And go, and say unto God, that I can no longer live with Him."

"Oh Rabbit," Francis answered, "my friend, gentle and suspicious like a peasant, Oh Rabbit of little faith, you blaspheme. If you have not known how to find your God it is because in order to find this God, you would have had to die like your companions."

"But if I die, what will become of me?" cried he with the hide of the color of stubble.

And Francis said:

"If you die you will become your Paradise."

* * * * *

Thus talking they reached the edge of the Paradise of beasts. There the Paradise of men began. Rabbit turned his head, and read at the top of a sign-post on a plate of blue cast-iron where an arrow indicated the direction

Castétis to Balansun--5 M.

The day was so hot that the letters of the inscription seemed to quiver in the dull light of summer. In the distance, on the road, there were clouds of dust, as in Blue Beard when Sister Anne is asked: "Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anything coming?" This pale dryness, how magnificent it was, and how filled it was with the bitter fragrance of mint.

And Rabbit saw a horse and a covered cart approaching.

It was a sorry nag and dragged a two-wheeled cart and was unable to move except in a jerky sort of gallop. Every leap made its disjointed skeleton quiver and jolted its harness and made its earth-colored mane fly in the air, shiny and greenish, like the beard of an ancient mariner. Wearily as though they were paving-stones the animal lifted its hoofs which were swollen like tumors....

Then a doubt, stronger than all the doubts which hitherto had assailed the soul of Rabbit, pierced him.

* * * * *

This doubt was a leaden grain of shot which had just passed through the nape of his neck behind his long ears into his brain. A veil of blood more beautiful than the glowing autumn floated before his eyes in which the shadows of eternity rose. He cried out. The fingers of a huntsman pinioned his throat, strangled him, suffocated him. His heart-beat grew weaker and weaker; this heart which used to flutter like the pale wild rose in the wind dissolving at the morning hour when the hedge softly caresses the lambs. An instant he remained motionless, hollow-flanked and drawn-out like Death itself in the grasp of his murderer. Then poor old Rabbit leaped up. He clawed in vain for the ground which he could no longer reach because the man did not let go of him. Rabbit passed away drop by drop.

Suddenly his hair stood erect, and he became like unto the stubble of summer where he formerly dwelled beside his sister, the quail, and the poppy, his brother; and like unto the clayey earth which had wetted his beggar's paws; and like unto the gray-brown color with which September days clothe the hill whose shape he had assumed; like unto the rough cloth of Francis; like unto the wagon-track on the roadway from which he heard the packs of hounds with hanging ears, singing like the angelus; like unto the barren rock which the wild thyme loves. In his look where now floated a mist of bluish night there was something like unto the blessed meadow where the heart of his beloved awaited him at the heart of the wild sorrel. The tears which he shed were like unto the fountain of the seraphs at which sat the old fisher of eels repairing his lines. He was like unto life, like unto death, like unto himself, like unto his Paradise.

END OF THE ROMANCE OF THE RABBIT

TALES

PARADISE

The poet looked at his friends, his relatives, the priest, the doctor, and the little dog, who were in the room. Then he died. Some one wrote his name and age on a piece of paper. He was twenty-eight years.

As they kissed his forehead his friends and relatives found that he was cold, but he could not feel their lips because he was in heaven. And he did not ask as he had done when he was on earth, whether heaven was like this or like that. Since he was there, he had no need of anything else.

His mother and father, whether or not they had died before him, came to meet him. They did not weep any more than he, for the three had really never been separated.

His mother said to him:

"Put out the wine to cool, we are about to dine with the _Bon Dieu_ under the green arbor of the Garden of Paradise."

His father said to him:

"Go down and cull of the fruits. There is none that is poisonous. The trees will offer them to you of their own accord, without sufferance either to their leaves or their branches, for they are inexhaustible."

The poet was filled with joy in being able to obey his parents. When he had returned from the orchard and submerged the bottles of wine in the water, he saw his old dog. It too had died before him, and it came gently running toward him, wagging its tail. It licked his hands, and he patted it. Beside it were all the animals he had loved best while on earth: a little red cat, two little gray cats, two little white cats, a bullfinch, and two goldfish.

Then he saw that the table was set and about it were seated the _Bon Dieu_, his father and mother, and a lovely young girl whom he had loved here-below on earth. She had followed him to heaven even though she was not dead.

He saw that the Garden of Paradise was none other than that of his own birthplace here on earth, in the high reaches of the Pyrenees, all filled with lilies and pomegranates and cabbages.

The _Bon Dieu_ had laid his hat and stick on the ground. He was garbed like the poor on the great highways, those who have only a morsel of bread in their wallet, and whom the magistrates arrest at the town gates, and throw into prison, since they know not how to write their name. His beard and hair were white like the great light of day, and his eyes profound and black like the night. He spoke, and his voice was very soft:

"Let the angels come and minister unto us, for to serve is their happiness."

Then from all corners of the heavenly orchard legions were seen to hasten. They were the faithful servitors who here on earth had loved the poet and his family. Old Jean was there, he who was drowned while saving a little boy, old Marie who had fallen dead under a sunstroke, and lame Pierre was there and Jeanne and still another Jeanne.

Then the poet rose to do them honor, and said unto them:

"Sit down in my place, it is meet that you should be near God."

And God smiled because he knew in advance what their answer would be.

"Our happiness is service. This puts us close to God. Do you not serve your father and mother? Do they not serve Him who serves us?"

And suddenly he saw that the table had grown larger and that new guests were seated about it. They were the father and mother of his mother and father, and the generations that had gone before them.

Evening fell. The older of the people slumbered. Love held the poet and his sweetheart. But God to whom they had done honor, took up his way again like the poor on the great highways, those who have only a morsel of bread in their wallet, and whom the magistrates arrest at the town gates, and throw into prison, since they know not how to write their name.

CHARITY CHILDREN

One day the souls of the charity children cried out to God. It was on a stormy evening when their fevers and wounds made them suffer more than ever. They lay white with grief in their rows of beds, above which ignoble science had hung the placards of their maladies.

They were sad, very sad, for it was a day of festival. Their tiny arms were stretched out on the coverlets, and with their transparent hands they touched the meager toys that pious grand ladies had brought them. They did not even know what to do with these playthings. A President of the Republic had visited them, but they had not understood what it meant.

Their souls cried out toward God. They said:

"We are the daughters of misery, of scrofula, and of syphilis. We are the daughters of daughters of shame."

"I," said one, "was dragged out of a cesspool where in her distraction my mother, the servant of an inn, had thrown me." Another said: "I was born of a child with an enormous head that had a red gap in the forehead. My father killed my mother, and he killed himself."

Still others said:

"We are the survivors of abortions and infanticides. Our mothers are on the lists. Our fathers, cigar in mouth, saunter smiling amid the tumult of business and the markets. We are born like kings with a crown on our heads, a crown of red rash."

And God, hearing their cry, came down toward these souls. He entered the hospital of more than human sorrows. At his approach the fumes rose from the medicaments which the good sisters had prepared, as though from censers by the side of the child martyrs, who sat up in their narrow cots like white, weary flowers.

The sovereign Master said to them:

"Here I am. I heard your call, and am waiting to condemn those that caused you to be born. What torment do you implore for them?"

Then the souls of the children sang like the bindweed of the hedges.

They sang:

"Glory to God! Glory to God! Pardon those who gave us birth. Lead us some day to Heaven by their side."

THE PIPE

Once upon a time there was a young man who had a new pipe. He was smoking peacefully in the shade of an arbor hung with blue grapes. His wife was young and pretty; she had rolled up her sleeves as far as her elbows and was drawing water from the well. The wooden bucket bounded against the edge, and shed tears like a rainbow. The young man was happy smoking his pipe, because he saw the birds flying hither and thither, because his dear old mother was still among the living, because his old father was hale, and because he loved with all his heart his young wife, and was proud of her lithesomeness and her firm and smooth breasts that were like two ripe apples.

The young man, as I have said, was smoking a new pipe.

His mother fell very ill. They had to operate, and it made her cry out aloud, until after thirty-four days of horrible suffering she died. His father, who was always so hale, was talking one day with a workman at the door of the little village church, which was undergoing repair, when a stone became detached from the arch and crushed his head. The devoted son wept for these, his best and oldest friends, and, at night, he sobbed in the arms of his pretty wife.

The young man, as I have said, was smoking a new pipe.

But I have forgotten to say that he had an old spaniel of whom he was very fond and whose name was Thomas.

A very great illness had fallen on Thomas, since the good mother's and the good father's deaths. When he was called he could barely drag himself along by the paws of his fore-legs.

One day a man of the world took residence in the little village where the young man was smoking a new pipe. He wore decorations and was distinguished and spoke with an agreeable accent. They became acquainted, and once, when the young man still smoking his new pipe entered his house unexpectedly, he found this fine fellow abed with his pretty wife whose firm and smooth breasts were like two ripe apples.

The young man said nothing. He placed a poor old collar around the neck of Thomas, and with a line which his mother had once used to hang clothes upon, he dragged him along to a huge town, where the two dwelled together in sorrow and want.

The young man had now become an old man, but he was still smoking his new pipe which too had become old.

One evening Thomas died. People came from the police department, and carried off his carcass somewhere.

The old man was now all alone with his old pipe. A great cold fell upon him and a terrible trembling. And he knew that his time had come, and that he never would be able to smoke again. So from the wretched bag which he once had brought with him from his home, he took a sad old hat, and in this he wrapped his pipe.

Then he threw a cape, greenish with age, about his feverish shoulders, and dragged himself painfully to a little square near by, taking care that no policeman should see him. He knelt down, and dug in the earth with his finger nails, and devoutly buried his old pipe underneath a tuft of flowers. Then he returned to his dwelling-place and died.

MAL DE VIVRE

A poet, Laurent Laurini by name, was sick unto death with the illness, called weariness of life. It is a terrible malady, and those who have fallen prey to it are unable to look upon men, animals, and things without frightful suffering. Great scruples poison his heart.

The poet went away from the town where he dwelled. He sought out the fields to gaze at the trees and the corn and the waters, to listen to the quails that sing like fountains and to the falling of the weavers' looms and the hum of the telegraph wires. These things and these sounds saddened him.

The gentlest thoughts were bitterness to him. And when he picked a little flower in order to escape his terrible malady, he wept because he had plucked it.

He entered a village on an evening sweet with the perfume of pears. It was a beautiful village like those he had often described in his books. There was a town square, a church, a cemetery, gardens, a smithy, and a dark inn. Blue smoke rose from it, and within was the sheen of glasses. There was also a stream which wound in and out under the wild nut-trees.

The poet with his sick heart sat down mournfully on a stone. He was thinking of the torment he was enduring, of his old mother crying because of his absence, of the women who had deceived him, and he had homesickness for the time of his first communion.

"My heart," he thought, "my sad heart cannot change."

Suddenly he saw a young peasant-girl near by gathering her geese under the stars. She said to him:

"Why do you weep?"

He answered:

"My soul was hurt in falling upon the earth. I cannot be cured because my heart is too heavy."

"Will you have mine?" she said. "It is light. I will take yours and carry it easily. Am I not accustomed to burdens?"

He gave her his heart and took hers. Immediately they smiled at each other and hand in hand they followed the pathway.

The geese went in front of them like bits of the moon.

* * * * *

She said to him:

"I know that you are wise, and that I cannot know what you know. But I know that I love you. You are from elsewhere, and you must have been born in a wonderful cradle like that I once saw in a cart. It belonged to rich people. Your mother must speak beautifully. I love you. You must have loved women with very white faces, and I must seem ugly and black to you. I was not born in a wonderful cradle. I was born in the wheat of the fields at harvest time. They have told me this, and also that my mother and I and a little lamb to which a ewe had given birth on that same day were carried home on an ass. Rich people have horses."

He said to her:

"I know that you are simple, and that I cannot be like you. But I know that I love you. You are from here, and you must have been rocked in a basket placed on a black chair like that which I have seen in a picture. I love you. Your mother must spin linen. You must have danced under the trees with strong handsome laughing boys. I must seem sick and sad to you. I was not born in the fields at harvest time. We were born in a beautiful room, I and a little twin sister who died at birth. My mother was sick. Poor people are strong."

Then they embraced more closely on the bed where they lay together.

She said to him:

"I have your heart."

He said to her:

"I have your heart."

* * * * *

They had a sweet little boy.

And the poet, feeling that the illness which had so weighed upon him had fled, said to his wife:

"My mother does not know what has become of me. My heart is wrung with that thought. Let me go to the town, my beloved, and tell her that I am happy and that I have a son."

She smiled at him, knowing that his heart was hers, and said:

"Go."

And he went back by the way he had come.

He was soon at the gates of the town in front of a magnificent residence. There was laughter and chatter within for they were giving a feast, one to which the poor were not invited. The poet recognized the house, as that of an old friend of his, a rich and celebrated artist. He stopped to listen to the conversation before the latticed gate of the park through which fountains and statues could be seen. He recognized the voice of a woman. She was beautiful, and once had broken his boyish heart. She was saying:

"Do you remember the great poet, Laurent Laurini?...They say he has made a mésalliance, and has married a cowherd...."

* * * * *

Tears rose to his eyes, and he continued his way through the streets of the town until he came to the house where he was born. The paving-stones replied softly to the words of his tired steps. He pushed open his door and entered. And his old dog, faithful and gentle as ever, ran limpingly to meet him; it barked with joy, and licked his hand. He saw that since his departure the poor beast had had some sort of stroke or paralysis, for time and trouble afflict the bodies of animals as well.

Laurent Laurini mounted the stairs, keeping close to the bannisters, and he was deeply moved, when he saw the old cat turn around, arch her back, raise her tail, and rub against the steps. On the landing the clock struck, as if in gratitude.

He entered her room gently. He saw his mother on her knees praying. She was saying:

"Dear God, I pray unto Thee, that my son may still be among the living. Oh my God, he has suffered much...Where is he? Forgive me for this that I have given him birth. Forgive him for this that he is causing me to die."

Then he knelt down beside her, laying his young lips on her poor gray hair, and said:

"Come with me. I am healed. I know a land where there are trees and corn and waters, where quails sing, where the looms of the weavers fall, where the telegraph wires hum, where a poor woman dwells who holds my heart, and where your grandson is playing."

THE TRAMWAY

Once upon a time there was a very industrious workman who had a good wife and a charming little daughter. They lived in a great city.

It was the father's birthday and to celebrate it they bought beautiful white salad and a chicken made for roasting. Every one was happy that Sunday morning, even the little cat that looked slyly at the fowl, saying to herself: "I shall have good bones to pick."

After they had eaten breakfast, the father said:

"We are going to be extravagant for once, and ride in a tram to the suburbs."

They went out.

They had many times seen well-dressed men and beautiful ladies give a signal to the driver of the tram, who immediately stopped his horses to permit them to get on.

The honest workman was carrying his little girl. His wife and he stopped at a street-corner.

A tram, shiny with paint, came toward them, almost empty. And they felt a great joy when they thought of how they were going to enter it for four sous apiece. And the honest workman signaled to the conductor to stop the horses. But he seeing they were poor simple people looked at them disdainfully, and would not halt his vehicle.

ABSENCE

At eighteen Pierre left the home in the country where he had been born.

At the very moment when he left, his old mother was ill in bed in the blue room, where there were the daguerreotype of his father and peacock-feathers in a vase and a clock representing Paul and Virginia. Its hands pointed to the hour of three.

In the courtyard under the fig-tree his grandfather was resting.

In the garden his fiancée stood among roses and gleaming pear-trees.

* * * * *

Pierre went to earn his living in a country where there were negroes and parrots and india-rubber trees and molasses and fevers and snakes.

He dwelled there thirty years.

* * * * *

At the very moment when he returned to the home in the country where he had been born, the blue room had faded to white, his mother was reposing in the bosom of heaven, the picture of his father was no longer there, the peacock-feathers and the vase had disappeared. Some sort of object stood in the clock's place.

In the courtyard under the fig-tree where his grandfather, who had long since died, had been accustomed to rest, there were broken plates and a poor sick chicken.

In the garden of roses and gleaming pear-trees where his fiancée had stood, there was an old woman.

The story does not tell who she was.

THE HIGHWAY OF LIFE

One day a poet sat down at a table to write a story. Not a single idea would come to him, but nevertheless he was happy, because the sun shone on a geranium on the window-sill, and because a gnat flew about in the blue of the open window.

Suddenly his life appeared before him like a great white road. It began in a dark grove where there were laughing waters, and ended at a quiet grave overgrown with brambles, nettles, and soapwort.

In the dark grove he found the guardian-angel of his childhood. He had the golden wings of a wasp, fair hair, and a face as calm as the water of a well on a summer's day.

The guardian-angel said to the poet:

"Do you remember when you were a child? You came here with your father and mother who were going fishing. The field near by was warm and covered with flowers and grasshoppers. The grasshoppers looked like broken blades of moving grass. Do you wish to see this place again, my friend?"

The poet answered: "Yes."

So they went together as far as the blue river over which there were the blue sky and the dark nut-trees.

"Behold your childhood," said the angel.

The poet looked at the water and wept and said:

"I no longer see the reflection of the beloved faces of my mother and father. They used to sit on the bank. They were calm, good, and happy. I had on a white pinafore which was always getting dirty, and mamma cleaned it with her handkerchief. Dear angel, tell me what has become of the reflections of their beloved faces? I no longer see them. I no longer see them."

At that moment a cluster of wild nuts dropped from a hazel-tree and floated down the stream of water.

And the angel said to the poet:

"The reflection of your father and mother went on with the stream of water like those nuts. For everything obeys the current, substance as well as shadow. The image of your beloved parents is merged in the water and what remains is called memory. Recollect and pray. And you will find the dearly loved images again."

And as an azure kingfisher darted above the reeds, the poet cried:

"Dear angel! Do I not see the color of my mother's eyes in the wings of that bird?"

And the divine spirit answered:

"It is as you have said. But look again."

From the top of a tree where a turtle-dove had built her nest a downy white feather fell soaring and eddying to the water.

And the poet cried:

"Dear angel! Is not this white down, my mother's gentle purity?"

And the divine spirit answered:

"It is as you have said."

A light breeze ruffled the water and made the leaves rustle.

The poet asked:

"Is not that the grave sweet voice of my father?"

And the spirit answered:

"It is as you have said."

Then they walked along the road which left the grove and followed the river. And soon under the glare of the sun the road became white, very white. It was like the linen at Holy Communion. To the right and left hidden springs tinkled like pious bells. And the angel said:

"Do you recognize this part of your life?"

"This is the day of my first communion," answered the poet. "I remember the church and the happy faces of my mother and grandmother. I was happy and sad at the same time. With what fervor I knelt! Thrills ran through my hair. That evening at family supper they kissed me and said: 'He was the most beautiful.'"

And in recalling this the poet burst into sobs. And as he wept he became as beautiful as on the day of the blessed ceremony. His tears flowed through his hands like holy water.

And they went on along the road.

The day waned a little. The supple poplars swayed gently along the ditches. At a distance one of them in the center of a field looked like a tall young girl. The sky tinted it so delicately that it was pale and blue like the temple of a virgin.

And the poet dreamed of the first woman he had loved.

And his guardian-angel said to him:

"This love was so pure and so sad that it did not offend me."

And as they walked along, the shade was sweet. Lambs passed by. And seeing the sadness of the poet the divine spirit had on his lips a smile, grave and gentle like that of a dying mother. And the trembling of his golden wings pursued the whispers of the evening.

* * * * *

Soon the stars were lighted in the silence.

And the sky resembled a father's bed surrounded by wax tapers and dumb sorrows. And the night seemed like a great widow kneeling upon the earth.

"Do you recognize this?" asked the angel.

The poet made no answer but knelt down.

* * * * *

Finally they reached the end of the road near the small quiet grave overgrown with brambles, nettles, and soapwort.

And the angel said to the poet:

"I wished to show you your way. Here you will sleep, not far from the waters. Every day they will bring you the image of your memories: the azure of the kingfisher like your mother's eyes, the down of the turtle-dove like her sweetness, the echo of the leaves like the grave calm voice of your father, the reflected brightness of the road white as your first communion, and the form of your beloved supple as a poplar.

"At last the waters will bring you the great luminous Night."

INTELLIGENCE

One day the books which contained the wisdom of men disappeared by enchantment.

Then the great scholars assembled: those who were engaged in mathematics, in physics, in chemistry, in astronomy, in poetry, in history, and in other arts and letters.

They held counsel and said:

"We are the custodians of human genius. We will recall the noblest inventions of the wisest of men and the greatest of poets and have them graven in immortal marble. They will represent only the supreme summits of achievement since the beginning of the world. Pascal shall be entitled to but one thought, Newton to but one star, Darwin to but one insect, Galileo to but one grain of dust, Tolstoi to but one charity, Heinrich Heine to but one verse, Shakespeare to but one cry, Wagner to but one note...."

Then as the scholars summoned their thoughts to recall the masterpieces indispensable to the salvation of man, they realized with terror that their brains were void.

THE TWO GREAT ACTRESSES

I wish I could find new words to depict the gentleness of a little prostitute whom we met one evening in the center of a large, almost deserted square. The little prostitute was wearing wretched boots that were too large and soaked up the water. She had a parasol covered like an umbrella, and a little straw hat, the lining of which surely bore the words: _Dernière mode_.

She had a weak little voice, and she was intelligent. She was recovering, as the expression goes, from pleurisy. Moreover, she had the air of being as frail morally as physically.

I encountered her many times, after ten o'clock, when she was weary with seeking, often in vain, for any first-comer who would go with her.

She sat down on a bench in the shadows, beside me, and rested her poor pale head against me.

I knew that when she did this it was somewhat with the feeling of slight consolation, like that of a poor animal when it no longer feels itself abused. I was held by an infinite pity for this friend. I knew that she looked at her trade as an important task, however ungrateful it was. For a long time she waited thus for the train to the suburb where she lived.

One evening she asked if she might go with me to the end of the street.

We came to a great lighted square where there was a large theater. On one of the pillars of this edifice was a brilliant, gilded poster. It represented Sarah Bernhardt in the costume of Tosca, I believe. She wore a stiff rich robe and held a palm in her hand. And I called to mind the things I had been told of this famous woman: her caprices that were immediately obeyed, her extravagances, her coffin, her pride.

I felt the poor little sufferer trembling at my side. She saw this barbarous idol rise up and throw unconsciously upon her the splattering flood of her golden ornaments.

And I had a desire to cry out with grief at this meeting face to face of the two. And I said to myself:

"They are both born of woman. One holds a palm, and the other an old umbrella so shabby that she does not dare to open it before me.

"The one trails an admiring throng at her feet, and the other tatters of leather. The one sells her sorrow for the weight of gold and not a sob comes from her mouth that does not have the clinking sound of gold. Not a single sob of the other is heard."

And something cried aloud within me:

"The one is a human actress. She is applauded because she is of the same clay as those who listen to her. And they have need of the lie on which the most beautiful roles are builded.

"But the other, she is an actress of God. She plays a part so great and so sorrowful that she has not found one man who understands her and who is rich enough to pay her.

"And the great actress has never attained, even in her most beautiful roles, the true genius of sorrow which makes the little prostitute rest her forehead upon me."

THE GOODNESS OF GOD

She was a dainty and delicate little creature who worked in a shop. She was, perhaps, not very intelligent, but she had soft, black eyes. They looked at you a little sadly, and then drooped. You felt that she was affectionate and commonplace with that tender commonplaceness, which real poets understand, and which is the absence of hate.

You knew that she was as simple as the modest room in which she lived alone with her little cat that some one had given her. Every morning before she went to the shop, she left for her a little bit of milk in a bowl.

And like her gentle mistress the little cat had sad, kind eyes. She warmed herself on the window-sill in the sun beside a pot of basil. Sometimes she licked her little paw, and used it as a brush on the short fur of her head. Sometimes she played with a mouse.

One day the cat and the mistress both found themselves pregnant, the one by a handsome fellow who deserted her, and the other by a beautiful tom-cat who also went his way.

But there was this difference. The poor girl became ill, very ill, and passed her days sobbing. The little cat made for herself a kind of joyous cradling-place in the sun where it shone upon her white, drolly inflated abdomen.

The cat's lover had come later than the girl's. So things happened that they were both confined at the same time.

One day the little working-girl received a letter from the handsome fellow who had deserted her. He sent her twenty-five francs, and spoke of his generosity to her. She bought charcoal, a burner, and a sou's worth of matches. Then she killed herself.

When she had entered heaven, which a young priest had at first tried to prevent, the dainty and delicate creature trembled because that she was pregnant and that the _Bon Dieu_ would condemn her.

But the _Bon Dieu_ said to her:

"My dear young friend, I have made ready for you a charming room. Go there for your confinement. Everything ends happily in heaven and you will not die. I love little children and suffer them to come unto me."

And when she entered the little room which had been made ready for her in the great Hospital of Divine Mercy, she saw that God had arranged a surprise for her. There in a box lay the cat she loved, and there was also a pot of basil on the window-sill. She lay down.

She had a pretty, little, golden-haired daughter, and the cat had four sweet, delightfully black kittens.

THE LITTLE NEGRESS

Sometimes my imagination is fascinated by the yellowing of old ocean charts, and in my feverish brain I hear the roaring of monsoons. What then? Must I, in order to have an interest in this present life, exhume that which, perhaps, I led before my birth, between two black suns?

It was a vague region, abounding in stars and in the diffused sobbing of an ocean. There was a scratching at my door, and I said, "Come in."

A young negress in a loose blue loincloth, reaching halfway down her thighs, entered. She crouched down on the ground, and held out her thin clasped hands toward me. And I saw that her bare arms were covered with the blows of a lash.

"Who did this to you, Assumption?" I asked.

She did not answer, but all her limbs trembled, for she did not understand, and wondered, perhaps, whether I too was about to inflict some brutality upon her.

Gently I removed her garment, and saw that her back also was wounded. I washed it. But she, frightened by such kindness, fled for refuge under the table of my cabin. My eyes filled with tears. I tried to call her back. But her glance, like that of a beaten dog, shrank from me. I had a few potatoes, and a little butter. I mashed them to a pulp with a wooden spoon, and placed it in a bowl at some distance from the crouching Assumption. Then I lighted my pipe.

At the end of an hour the poor creature began to move. She put one arm forward, then the other, and then a knee. I thought she was directing her attention toward the food in order to eat. But to my astonishment, I saw her crawl on hands and knees toward a corner of the room, where I had left a few flowers lying. She rose up quickly, and with a sudden movement seized them.

* * * * *

It was perhaps a hundred and fifty years after this adventure occurred, that I met Assumption again. At least I was convinced that it was she. It was in Bordeaux at the _Restaurant du Pérou_. She was drying the glass of a gloomy student who had not found it clean enough.

THE PARADISE OF BEASTS

Once on a rainy midnight a poor old horse, harnessed to a cab, was drowsing in front of a dingy restaurant from whence came the laughter of women and young people.

And the poor spiritless animal with drooping head and shaking limbs made a sorry spectacle, as he stood there waiting the pleasure of the roisterers, that would at last permit him to go home to his reeking stable.

Half asleep, the horse heard the coarse jokes of these men and women. He had long since grown painfully accustomed to it. His poor brain understood that there was no difference between the monotonous unchanging screech of a turning wheel and the shrill voice of a prostitute.

And this evening he dreamed vaguely of the time when he had been a little colt that had gamboled on a smooth field, quite pink amid the green grass, and how his mother had given him to suck.

Suddenly he fell stone dead on the slippery pavement.

He reached the gate of heaven. A great scholar, who was waiting for St. Peter to come and open the gate, said to the horse:

"What are you doing here? You have no right to enter heaven. I have the right because I was born of a woman."

And the poor horse answered:

"My mother was a gentle mare. She died in her old age with her blood sucked out by leeches. I have come to ask the _Bon Dieu_ if she is here."

Then the gate of Heaven was opened to the two who knocked upon it, and the Paradise of animals appeared.

And the old horse recognized his mother, and she recognized him.

She greeted him by neighing. And when they were both in the great heavenly meadow the horse was filled with joy in finding again his old companions in misery and in seeing them happy forever.

There were some who had drawn stones along the slippery pavements of cities, and they had been beaten with whips, and had finally fallen under the weight of the wagons. There were some who with bandaged eyes had turned the merry-go-rounds ten hours a day. There were mares killed in bullfights before the eyes of young girls, who, rosy with joy, watched the intestines of these unhappy beasts sweep the hot sand of the arena. There were many more, and then still more.

And they all grazed eternally in the great plain of divine tranquillity.

Moreover, the other animals were happy here also.

The cats, mysterious and delicate, did not even obey the _Bon Dieu_ who smiled upon them. They played with the end of a string patting it lightly with an important air, out of which they made a sort of mystery.

The good mother-dogs spent their time nursing their little ones. The fish swam about without fear of the fisherman. The birds flew without dread of the hunter. And everything was like this.

There were no men in this Paradise.

OF CHARITY TOWARD BEASTS

There is in the look of beasts a profound light and gentle sorrow, which fills me with such understanding that my soul opens like a hospice to all the sorrows of animals.

They are forever in my heart, as when I see a tired horse, his nose drooping to the ground, asleep in the nocturnal rain, before a café; or the agony of a cat crushed beneath a carriage; or a wounded sparrow who has found refuge in a hole in a wall. Were it not for the feeling that it is undignified for a man, I would kneel before such patience and such torments, for I seem to see a halo around the heads of these mournful creatures, a real halo, as large as the universe, placed there by God Himself.

Yesterday I was at a fair, and watched the merry-go-round. There was an ass among the wooden animals. The sight of it almost made me weep, because I was reminded of those living martyrs, its brothers.

I wanted to pray, and to say to it: "Little ass, you are my brother. They say that you are stupid, because you are incapable of doing evil. You go your slow pace, and seem to think as you walk: 'See! I cannot go any faster...The poor make use of me, because they need not give me much to eat.' Little ass, the goad pricks you. Then you go a little faster, but not a great deal. You cannot go very fast...Sometimes you fall. Then they beat you, and pull at the rein fastened to the bit in your mouth. They pull so hard that your lips are drawn back showing your poor, yellow teeth which browse on miseries."

* * * * *

At the same fair I heard the shrilling of a bagpipe. F. asked me: "Doesn't it remind you of African music?"--"Yes," I answered, "at Touggart the bagpipes have the same nasal note. It must be an Arab who is playing."--"Let us go into the booth," he said...Dromedaries were on exhibition there.

A dozen little camels, crowded like sardines in a can, were stupidly going round and round in a sort of trench. These creatures which I have seen in the Sahara undulant like waves with only God and Death surrounding them, I now saw here, Oh sorrow of my heart! They went round and round again in that narrow space. The anguish which passed from them to me filled me as with nausea toward man. They went on and on, always on, proud as poor swans, hallowed as it were by their desolation. They were covered with grotesque trappings, and the butt of dancing women. They raised their poor verminous necks toward God, and toward the miraculous leaves of some imaginary oasis.

Ah! what a prostitution of God's creatures. Farther along there were rabbits in a cage. Then came goldfish, that were offered as prizes of a lottery. They swam about in blown glass bowls, the necks of which were so narrow that F. said to me: "How did they get in?"--"By squeezing them a little," I answered. Still farther on were living chickens, also lottery prizes, spun around in a whirligig. In the center a Tittle milk-fed pig, mad with fear, was crouching flat on his stomach.

Hens and pullets, overcome by vertigo, squawked and pecked frantically at one another. My companion called my attention to dead, plucked chickens hanging beside their living sisters.

My heart swells at these memories. An infinite pity overcomes me.

Oh poet, receive these poor suffering beasts into your soul. Let them warm themselves, and live there in eternal joy.

Preach the simple word which bestows kindness on the ignorant.

OF THINGS*

*Some of the instances here are purely imaginary. I invented them so that I might more deeply penetrate into the heart of these things.

I enter a great square of stirring shadow. Here close beside a red and black candle a man is driving nails into a shoe. Two children stretch their hands toward the hearth. A blackbird sleeps in its wicker cage. Water is boiling in the smoky earthenware pot from which rises a disagreeable soupy smell which mingles with that of tanner's bark and leather. A crouching dog gazes fixedly into the coals.

There is such an air of gentle peace about these souls and these obscure things that I do not ask whether they have any reason for being other than this very peace, nor whether I read a special charm into their humility.