IX

We had taken furnished apartments in Maximilianstrasse, a remarkably

wide street, very gay and attractive with its rows of fine shops and

fascinating shop-windows. It begins in the heart of Munich, dose to the

Royal Theatre, and, extending for over a mile, ends at the Isar, a very

impetuous river, running madly over enormous stones, which appear to

have been artificially cut. These stones, by their sharp angles, form

giant steps over which the water dashes in cascades. We did not imagine

this torrent to be navigable, but one day an unexpected sight proved to

us that it was so.

On this very warm day, we slowly sauntered toward the Isar, hoping to

find a little freshness in the gardens, which on the other side of the

river, extend the whole length of the wide banks. Having stopped in the

middle of the bridge, above a dizzying tumult of waters, we suddenly

beheld in the distance four or five rafts loaded with men, which seemed

to be at the mercy of the current, but were, on the contrary, very

skilfully guided as they swept along.

"Savages! Pirogues!" cried Villiers.

And in fact it was a spectacle that suggested only adventurous savages

shooting the rapids in canoes made from the bark of trees.

The shallowness of the water as it ran over the rocks added to

the danger of being drowned that of being crushed to pieces at the

slightest error in the difficult manoeuvring. We had scarcely time to

tremble for these men, or even to distinguish them, standing on the

rafts and leaning on their short poles, before they had passed under

the bridge, and flying from the other side had disappeared from sight.

"The true course to the Abyss!" cried Villiers.

"Where do these beings come from?" I demanded, "and whither do they go?"

"Ah, it is better not to know. It is never good to investigate too

deeply. We have seen a vision, have we not, of ferocious warriors

descending the Ogowe, in the pursuit of a rival tribe: why should we

try to convince ourselves that we have only seen worthy peasants going

to the nearest market, for the very prosaic purpose of selling some

vulgar product of the soil?"

"In any case they are brave as well as worthy peasants!"

But Villiers was no longer listening: his imagination had followed the

warriors of the Ogowe and was wandering far away, and the part of the

man that was left with us expressed itself in a confused monotone,

mingled with laughter. He toyed with his ideas, as one amuses oneself

at the seashore, by letting the sand fall in cascades between the

fingers. But I well knew that there were some precious stones in the

sand that Villiers sifted, and I lay in wait for these.

When we were finally seated on grassy hillocks in the shadows of the

great trees of the English Garden, where we could look out over the

fresh meadows starred with saffron blossoms like thousands of goblin

fires, and the nearer willows, of a vivid green, with long strands

trailing in the Isar, then at last I began to distinguish some light

amid the obscurities of the discourse of Villiers.

"I have a glimpse of a misty sea, a dreamlike twilight around an

unknown isle, then, in a luminous eddy, a great sphinx emerges from

the waves and swims toward the bank. Across her back a violet banner

is floating, and on the banner in letters of gold gleams the word:

Inviolata!"

"And that is all," said Villiers; "it will never connect itself with

anything and will never be explained. The intense impression, the

charm, the mystery, the disquieting strangeness, are all in the picture

itself, seen through an opening in the clouds, and never more to be

forgotten."

"And there are some poems," added he, "which should have but a single

stanza: this one for example:--

'La lourde clé du rêve à ma ceinture sonne....[1]

Isn't that complete enough? Isn't that magnificent? What could one

add to that? In my foolishness and desire to make a poem I once

tried--impossible! There is nothing to add. Nor is there to this other

line:--

'O pasteur, Hespérus à l'occident s'allume!'[2]

The melancholy of the hour, the clear evening, the shining star and the

pastoral life, it is all there; why seek for anything further?"

"It is true," said I, "that that kind of stanza, the single stanza in

which a whole poem seems to be condensed, is sufficient unto itself and

disdains rhyme. I have composed one myself, very absurd, but who could

find a rhyme to add to it?

'Je suis le nautonier des océans lunaires!'[3]

The Italian poet, Gualdo, has quoted this line somewhere as an

epigraph, in order to silence his contemporaries and make them search

for its origin."

Villiers suddenly began to rummage in his pockets, and, after an

agitated search, he drew out some very crumpled sheets of paper.

"Let us be serious again," said he, "let us be practical and prosaic.

Here is my article upon the exposition: it is finished."

"What!" cried I, "have you not sent it yet? It will be too late: the

opening of the exposition is an old story now: they will not wish to

publish it."

"Oh, if you could see with what fine little touches it has all been

refreshed! In the first place, I have changed the title, which is now:

'Munich during the Exposition.' Really the article isn't bad, listen to

this:"