It is still night; the dawn is just breaking. I open my window to let
the refreshing air drive away my drowsiness. From the end of the garden,
in the underbrush, and now all about me, I hear much lively chirping. It
tells of the blessing of love, of springtime.
It is almost day. The blackbird has ended his scene of love; no one was
about when he sang his song of spring and harmony. The flowers listened,
and blossomed at the call of this unseen Orpheus. The air is laden with
misty melodies. These songs do not disturb the silence; they are part
of it. Later we shall still hear the happy call of birds, but no longer
these songs of love that proclaim the eternal reign of our mother earth.
Now is the time for sighs of happiness; the flowers consecrate
themselves to the beautifying of Demeter, goddess of the under-world.
Orpheus searches for Eurydice; he calls her, and his notes break the
harmonious silence.
I must bathe my brows in the vague mist, in the fragrance of the earth,
in the light of the dawning day. Spacious room, I leave you. I shall
return to you to work, for here only have I known complete silence.
I hurry into the garden, where I find inspiring freshness. I had looked
forward to it; my whole body was awaiting it. A sprouting twig proclaims
the fullness of life. I am freed from the memory of yesterday, born anew
for all the seasons to come. In the _palais_ thoughts are more subdued
and modest, content to be bounded by the splendid proportions of the
apartments--proportions that are correct, but nothing more.
The flight of time is marked by the song of the blackbird, and, as in
Mozart's music, one cannot quite define whence its charm springs. It
is everywhere, to the right, to the left. That voice seems to pierce
through the gaps and hollows of the wood, for now one hears it as an
echo, now as a solo, at the farthest end of the wood.
My flight of steps is my place for reflection, my _salle de pas
perdus_.[1] At the foot of the steps the verdant carpet, sown with
little stars of green, stretches out. It might be an old Arabian
material or a rich marble. Bits of earth are to be seen in delicate gray
patches. The shadow of night still enshrouds the garden in a cloudy
veil. In the distance, outlined against the horizon, are the bleak walls
of houses, like huge stones. About me stretches that enormous Babylon,
that Paris where my tired nerves relax, where the substance of my life
is woven, where my heart has found appreciation and no reproach, and
where my mind, imbued with the true knowledge of life, has taught my
soul the gracious lesson of submission.
This broad, beautiful lane is like a Corot, and recalls his nymphs.
The bare trees look like limbs. A bright carpet of turf moistens their
roots. Now a rabbit runs by. In the distance the carriages rumble like
artillery. This is a fitting haunt for fauns, their rustic arbor.
The trees serve as a roof, their green shoots melting into the sky.
The freshness of new life is everywhere, and little exclamations of
admiration spring from every creature.
With this universal youth new thoughts are born. In this delightful
retreat one feels that only an antique statue could add to its beauty.
The trees expand with vigor, their buds outlined against the sky. The
rest of the lane seems an avenue of enchantment. Far down at the end
I seem to see happiness. But no, I am wrong: it is not only in the
distance; it is here, all about me, now.
The slanting rays of the sun strike the trees and the grass; over
the lane bluish shadows play. The spreading shade of the trees falls
softly on the fresh green. Those little dashes of blue among the grass
are forget-me-nots. Those beautiful trees, garbed only since a week
ago, trail their lovely green draperies on the ground, while detached
garlands cling to the shrubs.
The majesty of youth in nature is unique; it is charm itself, an
inimitable thing. Yet some men of genius have been able to express the
spirit of spring.
[Illustration: RODIN IN HIS GARDEN.]
The very soul of meditation dwells in this garden, in this alley of
trees. Polyhymnia, the Muse, in her graceful draperies, walks with me,
and I follow her reverently.
Away from the turmoil, I can forget the constant hurry of our days. How
we allow ourselves to be harassed! Reaching out for everything without
possessing anything truly, we do not even realize what treasures we have
lost. A few puffs of empty air are not poetry, and seeing happiness in
the distance is not enjoying it. What hurries you? Ah, your life is out
there, elsewhere? Go, then; but I shall remain here with the antique in
my charming garden.
I will sit down on this old stone bench, surrounded by dense shrubs. The
dead wood is piled in little heaps. The tree-tops form a semicircle,
and stand out like a pantheon against the sky. The branches bear the
marks of lightning and grow in zigzag. The sap of the earth rises in the
arteries of the trees, ever ready to take part in the great festival of
spring.
Now the charm of the alley consists in the differences of light and
shade. As the one strives to advance, the other recedes toward the dale.
The shadows disperse for the morning, leaving behind their beneficent
moisture for their friends, the flowers of this dale.
Before me, on a knoll, stands a beautiful column, as if in prayer. It
seems to have sprung from the kingdom of Pluto, and now, like us, it
stands in the bright sunlight, a part of the out-of-doors.
Stone, pure and beautiful material, destined for the work of men, just
as flax is destined for the work of women. A gift scarcely hidden
under the earth, man has seized upon stones with rapture, carefully
drawing them from their dark hiding-place, to raise them on high as in
church towers, making them tractable, transforming the crude rocks,
and appropriating them for masterpieces. Under the protection of man's
sacrilegious hand, these stones lend beauty to our cities. They have a
tender sympathy with the trees, the roots of which join their own.
Both hard and soft stones have a place in man's esteem. Sculpture has
glorified them. The column is like a tree, but simpler than a tree, with
a silent life of its own. And like the plants which cling about it, it
also has its foliage and leaves. The artist who conceived the Sphinx
made her to be the guardian of temples and secrets.
That column there rises up like a druid-stone, as though to converse
with the moon at night. It awaits the appearance of man in the solemn
ritual of night, for in its immensity it bears witness that man has
created it. Man, too, has had his part, an ephemeral part, in the
creation; his idea strives with the works of God, as Israel strove with
the angel. His illuminating thought, expressed in stone, arouses those
who otherwise might be insensible to beauty. The hand of man, like the
hand of God, can transform a soul and make it new.
Mystery in which I have lived, but which I understand only now that I am
about to depart. The marvel of it all! And to think that one must leave
it! Well, that is the lot of all other living creatures.
And now the blue of the sky has grown darker, without a shadow, while
beauty itself has taken its abode in these avenues of trees. Now and
then passing clouds dim the glory of this splendid youth of nature, but
the green is brilliant even in the shadow. High up among the trees, I
see a blue river, the sky, while the great clouds, mountains of water,
are hanging above to quench the thirst of the flowers.
[Footnote 1: _Salle de pas perdus_ is the name given to the large hall
of the Gare St. Lazare, Paris.]