A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY
Sunday, on opening the window, I saw that the spring had returned. The
air had grown warmer, though it was yet somewhat chilly; I felt amid the
last quivers of winter the first fervid glow of the sun. I breathed my
fill of this wave of life rolling in the sky; I was delighted with the
warm and somewhat biting perfumes which arose from the earth.
Each spring my heart is rejuvenated, my flesh becomes lighter. There is
a purification of my entire being.
At the sight of the pale, clear sky, of a shining whiteness at dawn, my
youth awakened. I looked at the tall wall; it was well-defined and neat;
tufts of grass were growing between the stones. I glanced into the
street: the stones and sidewalks had been washed; the houses, over which
the rain storms had dashed, laughed in the sunlight. The young season
had imparted its gayety to everything. I folded my arms tightly; then,
turning around, I cried out to Laurence:
"Get up! get up! Spring is summoning you!"
Laurence arose, while I went out to borrow a dress and a hat from Marie,
and twenty francs from Jacques. The dress was white, sown with lilac
bouquets; the hat was trimmed with broad red ribbons.
I hurried Laurence, dressing her hair myself, so eager was I to get out
into the sunlight. In the street, I walked rapidly, without lifting my
head, waiting for the trees; I heard with a sort of thoughtful emotion
the sound of voices and footsteps. In the Luxembourg Garden, opposite
the great clusters of chestnut trees, my legs bent under me and I was
compelled to sit down. I had not been out of doors for two months. I
remained seated on the bench in the garden for a full quarter of an
hour, in an ecstasy over the young verdure and the young sky. I had come
out of darkness so thick that the bright spring bewildered and dazzled
me.
Then, I said to Laurence that we would walk for a long, long while,
straight ahead, until we could walk no longer. We would go thus into the
warm but still moist air, into the perfumed grass, into the broad
sunlight. Laurence, who had also been aroused by the revivifying
influence of the balmy season, arose and drew me along, with hurried
steps, like a child.
We took the Rue d'Enfer and the Orleans road. All the windows were open,
displaying the furniture within the houses. Upon the thresholds of the
street doors stood men in blouses, who engaged in friendly chat with
each other while smoking. We heard bursts of hearty laughter coming out
from the shops. Everything which surrounded me, streets, houses, trees
and sky, seemed to me to have been carefully cleaned. The sky had an
unusually enticing and new look, white with cleanliness and light.
At the fortifications, we encountered the first grass, short yet, but
spread out like a vast carpet of light green and emitting a perfume
intoxicating in its delicious freshness. We went down into the moat,
making our way along beside the high gray walls, penetrating with
curiosity into their secluded corners. On one side was the pale-hued
stretch of wall, on the other the verdant slope. We advanced as if in a
deserted and silent street which had no houses. In some of the corners
the sun's rays had massed themselves, and had caused to shoot up tall
thistles which were peopled by a whole nation of insects--beetles,
butterflies and bees; these corners were full of buzzing sounds and
grateful warmth. But, that morning, the slope threw its delightful
shadow at our feet; we walked noiselessly upon a fine, thick turf,
having before us a narrow band of sky, against which stood out in full
light the meagre trees which rose above the wall.
The moats of the fortifications are little deserts, amid which I have
very often forgotten myself and my troubles. The narrow horizon, the
shade and the silence, which render more audible the hollow murmur of
the great city and the bugles of the neighboring soldiers' barracks,
make them peculiarly dear to boys, to little and grown up children.
There, one is in an excavation at the gates of the city, feeling it pant
and start, but no longer perceiving it. For half an hour, Laurence and I
contented ourselves with this ravine which made us forget the houses and
the beaten paths; we were a thousand leagues from Paris, far from every
habitation, seeing only stones, grass and sky. Then, already
suffocating, eager for the plain, we joyously ran up the slope. The
broad country stretched out before us.
We found ourselves amid the airy and unconfined lands of Montrouge.
These neglected and muddy fields are stricken with eternal desolation,
poverty and lugubrious poesy. Here and there, the soil is cleft
frightfully, as with a horrible yawn, displaying, like open entrails,
old and abandoned stone quarries, wan and deep. Not a tree is to be
seen; huge windlasses alone stand out against the low, sad horizon. The
lands have I know not what miserable aspect, and are covered with
nameless wrecks. The roads twist, plunge into hollows and stretch away
in a melancholy fashion. New huts in ruins and heaps of rubbish thrust
themselves upon the eye at each turn of the paths. Everything has a raw
look--the black lands, the white stones and the blue sky. The entire
landscape, with its unhealthy aspect, its roughly cut up sections and
its gaping wounds, has the indescribable sadness of countries which the
hand of man has torn.
Laurence, who had become thoughtful in the moats of the fortifications,
timidly clung to me as we were crossing the desolated plain. We walked
on silently, sometimes turning to glance at Paris, which was grumbling
in the distance. Then, we brought back our eyes to our feet, avoiding
the gaps in the ground, contemplating with saddened souls this plain,
the open wounds of which were brutally shown by the sun. Afar off were
the churches, the Panthéons and the royal palaces; here were the ruins
of an overturned soil, which had been searched and robbed to build these
temples to men, to kings and to God. The city explained the plain; Paris
had at its threshold the desolation which all grandeur causes. I know of
nothing more mournful or more lamentable than those unconfined lands
which surround great cities; they are not yet a part of the town and
they are no longer the country; they have the dust, the mutilations of
man, and have no longer the verdure or the tranquil majesty given them
by God.
We were in haste to flee. Laurence had bruised her feet; she was afraid
of this disorder, of this melancholy which reminded her of our chamber.
As for me, I found in this wretched spot my love, my troubles and my
bleeding life. We hurried away.
We descended a hill. The Bièvre river flowed along at the bottom of the
valley, bluish and thick. Trees, here and there, bordered the stream;
tall houses, sombre, narrow and pierced with immense windows, loomed up
lugubriously. The valley was more discouraging than the plain; it was
damp, oily and full of disagreeable smells. The tanneries there emitted
sharp and suffocating odors; the waters of the Bièvre, that sort of
common sewer open to the sky, exhaled a fetid and powerful stench which
gave me a choking sensation. It was no longer the sad and gray
desolation of Montrouge; it was the disgusting sight of a gutter, black
with mud and refuse, bearing away with its waters horrible odors. A few
poplar trees had grown vigorously in this reeking soil, and, above,
against the clear sky, were pictured the long white lines of the
Hôpital de Bicêtre, that frightful abode of madness and death, which
worthily towers over the unhealthful and ignoble valley.
Despair seized upon me; I asked myself if I should not stop where I was
and pass the day upon the borders of the sewer. I could not, it seemed,
quit Paris, I could not escape from the gutter. Filth and infamy
followed me even into the fields; the waters were corrupted, the trees
had an unhealthy vigor, my eyes encountered only wounds and suffering.
This must be the country which God now reserved for me. Each Sunday, I
would come, with Laurence on my arm, to promenade upon the banks of the
Bièvre, beside the tanneries, and to talk of love in that sink; I would
come, at the noontide hour, to seat myself with my sweetheart on the
oily ground, yielding to the awful influence of that dead creature and
of the wretched valley. I paused in terror, ready to return to Paris on
a run, and glanced at Laurence.
Laurence had her weighed down look, her look of want and premature old
age. The smile she wore at her departure from the city had vanished. She
seemed weary and dull; she looked around her, calmly, without disgust. I
thought I saw her in our chamber; I realized that this slumbering soul
needed more sunlight and nature of a gentler aspect to restore the
innocence of a young girl's fifteenth year.
Then, I grasped her tightly by the arm; without permitting her to turn
her head, I dragged her along, reascending the hill, always pushing
straight ahead, following the roads, crossing the meadows, in quest of
the young and virgin spring. For two hours we went along thus, in
silence, rapidly. We passed two or three villages--Arcueil,
Bourg-la-Reine, I believe; we hurried over more than twenty paths,
between white walls and green hedges. Then, as we were about to leap
across a narrow brook, in a valley full of foliage, Laurence uttered a
childish shout, a burst of laughter, and escaped from my arm, running
among the grass, all gayety, all innocence.
We were upon a large square of turf, planted with trees, with tall
poplars, which arose like a jet of water, majestically, and balanced
themselves languidly in the blue air. The turf was close and thick, dark
in the shade and golden in the sunlight; one might have called it, when
the wind agitated the poplars, a broad carpet of silk with changing
reflections. All around extended cultivated lands, covered with shrubs
and plants: there was a sea of leaves at the horizon. A white house, low
and long, which was in the shade, at the edge of a neighboring grove of
trees, stood out gayly against all this green. Further away, higher up,
on the edge of the sky, across the shadows, were seen the first roofs of
Fontenay-aux-Roses.
The verdure was of recent growth, it had virgin freshness and innocence;
the young leaves, pale and tender, in transparent masses, seemed like
light and delicate lace placed upon the great blue veil of the sky. The
tree trunks themselves, the rough old trunks, appeared as if newly
painted; they had hidden their wounds beneath fresh moss. It was a
universal song, a bright and caressing gayety. The stones and the lands,
the sky and the waters, all appeared neat, vigorous, healthy and
innocent. The recently awakened country, green and golden beneath the
broad azure sky, laughed in the light, intoxicated with sap, youth and
purity.
And amid this youth, this purity, ran Laurence in the full light, amid
the flowing sap. She plunged into the grass, drank in the pure air; she
had again found her fifteenth year upon the bosom of this country which
had not been green fifteen days. The young verdure had refreshed her
blood; the young sunlight had warmed her heart, given roses to her
cheeks. All her being had awakened in this awakening of the earth; like
the earth, she had resumed her innocence under the mild influence of the
season.
Laurence, supple and strong, ran wildly about, carried away by the new
life which was singing in her being. She lay down, she arose, with
vivacity, bursting out laughing; she stooped to pick a flower, then fled
between the trees, afterwards returning all in a rosy glow. Her entire
face was animated; its features, unbent and rendered supple, had a
healthful expression of genuine joy. Her laugh was frank, her voice
sonorous and her gestures caressing. Seated, with my back against the
trunk of a tree, I followed her with my eyes, white amid the grass, her
hat fallen upon her shoulders; I was pleased with the pretty dress, so
neat and light, which she wore chastely, and which gave her the air of a
turbulent schoolgirl. She ran to me, threw me, stalk by stalk, the
flowers she had gathered--marguerites and gold buttons, eglantines and
lilies of the valley; then, she started off again, shining in the
sunlight, pale and dim in the shade, like an insect buzzing in the
light, without the ability to pause. She filled the grass and leaves
with noise and motion; she peopled the secluded corner in which we were;
the spring had assumed more brightness, more life, since this woman, who
had as if by enchantment become a spotless child, had been laughing amid
the verdure.
Fresh, blooming, all of a quiver, Laurence came to me and seated herself
at my side. She was moist with dew; her bosom rose and fell quickly,
full of young and fresh breath. From her came a delightful odor of grass
and health. I had at last beside me a woman who lived abundantly,
purely, looking straight at the light. I leaned over and kissed Laurence
on the forehead.
She took the flowers, one by one, arranging them in a bouquet. The sun
was ascending, the shadows were darker; around us reigned complete
silence. Lying flat on my back, I gazed at the sky, I gazed at the
leaves, I gazed at Laurence. The sky was of a dead blue; the leaves,
already languishing, were sleeping in the sunshine; Laurence, with her
head bent down, calm and smiling, was hurrying through her task with
quick and supple movements. I could not take my eyes from that partially
reclining woman, lost amid her skirts, her forehead in gilded shade, who
seemed to me innocent and active, restored to her fifteenth year. I felt
such peace, such deep joy, that I feared either to stir or speak; I
lived in the thought that spring was in me, around me, and that Laurence
was purity itself; I lost myself in this dream of the spotlessness of my
sweetheart and the worthiness of my love. At length I loved a woman;
that woman laughed, that woman existed; she possessed the healthful
color and the frank gayety of youth. The miserable days of the past were
no more, the future appeared to me with a calm and splendid brightness.
My dreams of innocence and my love of light were about to be satisfied;
from this hour, a life of ecstasy and tenderness would commence. I
thought no more of the Bièvre, that black sewer upon the borders of
which I had had the frightful temptation to sit down and embrace
Laurence. I now wished to inhabit the white dwelling, down there, at the
edge of the grove of trees, to live in it forever with my sweetheart,
with my wife, amid the dew, amid the sunlight, amid the pure air.
Laurence had finished her bouquet and tied it with a sprig of grass. It
was eleven o'clock, and we had not yet eaten anything. It was necessary
for us to quit these trees, beneath which my soul had loved for the
first time, and go in quest of an inn. I walked on ahead, across the
country, through narrow paths bordered with fields of strawberry plants.
Laurence followed me, holding up her skirts, forgetting herself at each
hedge. Suddenly, at the turn of a road, we found what we were looking
for.
The Coup du Milieu, the inn we entered, is situated in a corner of land
between Fontenay and Sceaux, near the pond of Plessis-Piquet. From
without, one sees only a grove, a patch of verdure, about twenty trees
which have grown vigorously; on Sundays, a sound of knives and forks, of
laughter and songs, floats from this immense nest. Within, when one has
passed through the door surmounted by a broad sign placed across it, and
when one has descended a gentle slope, one finds himself in an alley
shaded by foliage, bordered by groves to the right and to the left; each
of these groves is provided with a long table and two benches, fastened
in the ground, reddened and blackened by the rain. At its further end,
the alley widens; there is a glade, and a swing hangs between two trees.
The groves were silent and deserted. Men in blue blouses, peasants, were
swinging; a huge dog was sitting gravely in the middle of the alley.
Laurence and I sat down beneath an arbor, at a large table intended to
accommodate twenty persons. It was almost dark under the leaves, the
coolness was penetrating. In the distance, we saw, between the branches,
the country shining in the sunbeams, sleeping beneath the first rays.
The acacias of the grove had bloomed the previous day; the mild and
sweet odor of their flower clusters filled the calm and caressing air.
A servant spread a napkin over the end of the table, in guise of a
cloth; then we were served with what we had ordered, mutton chops, eggs,
I cannot remember exactly what. The wine, contained in a small jug of
bluish stone, rasped the throat; a trifle rough and sharp, it stimulated
the appetite marvellously. Laurence literally devoured all that was
placed before her; I did not recognize those beautiful and hungry white
teeth, biting the bread, as my companion laughed aloud. Never had I
eaten with such enjoyment. I felt myself light in soul and body; I
surprised myself believing that I was yet a student of those old days,
when we went to bathe in the little river and dine upon the grass of the
bank. I loved the white linen on the black table, the shade of the
foliage, the iron forks, the rude crockery ware; I looked at Laurence; I
lived abundantly in the plenitude of my sensations, intensely enjoying
everything which surrounded me.
At dessert, the chief cook came to receive our congratulations. He was a
tall old man, a trifle bent, clad all in white. He wore a cotton cap,
and had, pushed back upon his temples, two tufts of grayish and curled
hair, among which a few curl papers had been forgotten. Laurence laughed
for an hour at his excellent face, at once subtle and simple.
I cannot tell what we did to pass away the time until evening. The day
was a day of sunshine, of bewilderment. I know not what paths we took,
what shady spots we chose to rest in. There is, when I think of those
hours of ecstasy, a dazzling splendor before my eyes. The remembrance of
details is rebellious; my entire being has the sensation of a great
felicity, of a grand light. It seems to me vaguely that Laurence and I
forgot ourselves in the midst of a ravine, among the moss, seeing only a
vast stretch of sky; we remained there, hand clasping hand, speaking but
little, intoxicated with our new experience; our eyes, turned
heavenward, were filled with brightness even to the point of blindness;
we no longer saw anything save our hearts and our thoughts. But all this
is, perhaps, a dream; my memory is treacherous--I am conscious only of
having been blind, of having caught glimpses of thousands of stars amid
the darkness.
In the evening, without knowing how, we again found ourselves at the
Coup du Milieu. A crowd was there. Young women and young men filled the
groves, making a great noise and confusion; white dresses, red and blue
ribbons, stained the light green of the leaves; bursts of merry laughter
gently rippled along amid the twilight. Candles had been lighted upon
the tables, pricking with luminous points the growing obscurity. Some
Tyrolese were singing in the middle of the alley.
We ate upon the end of a table, as in the morning, joining in the
general laughter, making efforts to get out of ourselves. The noisy
youth surrounding us frightened me a little; I thought I saw among my
neighbors many Jacqueses and many Maries. Between the tree branches, I
perceived a corner of the sky, pale and melancholy, as yet without
stars; I experienced much difficulty in taking my eyes from the calm
heavens to fix them upon the world of folly shouting around me. I
remember now that Laurence appeared to be excited and troubled.
Then, silence was re-established; all the strangers had departed, and we
were left alone. I had resolved to sleep at the Coup du Milieu that I
might enjoy, on the morrow, the dew, the white brightness of the dawn.
While the servants were making preparations to accommodate us, Laurence
and I walked out into the garden, at the further end of which we seated
ourselves upon a bench. The night was mild, starry and transparent;
vague sounds arose from the earth; a horn, on a neighboring height,
complained in a faint and caressing tone. The plain, with its great
masses of black, motionless foliage, stretched out its mysterious
limits; it seemed to sleep, quivering, agitated by a dream of love.
Our chamber was damp. It was on the ground floor, low, new and already
degraded. Pieces of furniture were absent from their appointed places.
On the ceiling lovers had traced their names by passing the flame of a
candle over the plaster; the knotty and straggling letters spread out,
broad and black. I took a knife, and, like a child, cut the date beneath
a heart-shaped window which opened upon the country, without either
grating or shutter.
The bed was excellent, if the chamber did not present a handsome
appearance. In the morning, on awaking, while still half asleep, I saw,
upon the wall facing me, a sight which I could not comprehend and which
filled me with terror. The chamber was yet dark; in the midst of the
darkness, on the wall, an enormous heart was bleeding. I imagined that I
felt my breast empty, and despairingly began to search within me for my
love. I felt my love biting at my vitals, and then I realized that the
sun had risen and that its rays were pouring in copious floods through
the heart-shaped window.
Laurence arose; we opened the door and the window. A current of coolness
entered, bearing into the chamber all the odors of the delightful
country. The acacias, planted almost at the threshold, exhaled a milder
and sweeter perfume than on the preceding evening. The purity of dawn
rested upon the sky and upon the earth.
Laurence drank a cup of milk, and, before returning to Paris, I
expressed a desire to climb to the wood of Verrières, in order to carry
back with me, in my heart, a breath of the pure air of the morning.
Above, in the wood, we walked with lingering steps along the verdant
paths. The forest was like a beautiful bride on the day after the
wedding; it had delicious tears, a youthful languor, a damp coolness,
lukewarm and penetrating perfumes. The sunlight at the horizon slipped
along obliquely, between the trees, in broad sheets; there was I know
not what mildness in those golden rays which rolled down to earth like
supple and dazzling silken veils. And, amid the coolness, we heard the
stir of the awakening wood, those thousands of little sounds which bear
witness to the life of the springs and of the plants; above our heads
floated the songs of birds, beneath our feet were the murmurs of
insects; all around us were sudden cracklings, the gurgling noises of
flowing waters, deep and mysterious sighs which seemed to issue from the
knotty sides of the oak trees. We advanced slowly, feeling an intense
and indescribable delight in lingering amid sunlight and shadow drinking
in the fresh air, striving to seize the confused words which the
hawthorns seemed to address to us as we passed by them. Oh! the gentle
and smiling morning, all soaked with happy tears, all softened with joy
and youth! The country had reached that adorable age when old Nature has
for a few days the delicate grace of infancy.
I returned to Paris with Laurence on my arm, young and strong,
intoxicated with light and spring, my heart full of dew and love. I
loved worthily, as a true man should, and I believed that I was so loved
in return.