I leave my exacting work always more and more its slave. Walking,
because of its regularity, always refreshes me. Such a walk means
a great deal to me. It puts my nerves into a state of delightful
tranquillity.
The trees are still bare of leaves and have a wintry look. At their
base there are dainty sprouts, clouds of green. The lawns are ponds of
emerald green. The charm of this alley is partly due to the twigs and
shoots that sprout out of the ground and spring up like a cloud of lace.
There is a faint decline in this soft brightness, for now the sun is
setting. The sun-god is moderating his power for the benefit of the
little flowers which otherwise would dry up and fade. This is the hour
when the sun lends full value to the works of man, so that architecture
stands out in all its beauty, while at the same time the sun softly
colors the lovely clouds.
The pediment of the Palais Biron is brilliant in the sunlight. The
balcony casts shadows on the grimacing consoles, and the shell-work is
luminous in this glorious light. The window-panes glow in glory. The
great staircase seems arranged for ladies to descend on their way to
the garden, graciously trailing their long robes, which rustle over the
steps.
Like a pilgrim, full of hope, who rests a moment at the gates of a town,
and breathes the balmy evening air, so I seat myself in this garden.
The hour passes quickly, but it could not be better employed than in
absorbing these marvels.
When the sun drops behind the horizon, with its glowing colors like the
flaming fires of a forge, our hearts are filled with wonder and awe.
It gilds all in a last golden glory of triumph, the sky so brilliant
that one cannot define the line of the horizon. There, where the sun
disappeared, the sky is now orange. Everything is fading away; another
immensity spreads out before us. The glory of night is about to extend
over the firmament its melancholy charm.
[Illustration: THE POET AND THE MUSES.]
The corner of this garden is a corner of happiness, a corner of
eternity. Here thoughts can thrive and worship, for here they have
everything. For the great things in life are not the exceptional things,
but the beauties of every day, which we do not stop to notice. These
vast treasures, within our grasp, which we do not even touch, they are
the things that count.
The public believes that one is happy in the admiration of nature; but
there are various degrees of happiness. Doubtless a glorious feeling of
admiration may take hold of one; but if one does not constantly cling
to one's admiration as a matter of habit, one grows weary and becomes
superficial. Indeed, I do not know why we demand another life, since we
have not learned to enjoy and understand this one fully. In any case, if
we find this a bad world, it is our fault. We are childish about it. We
belittle one another wilfully. Fancy the trees doing that, if one could
suspect them of such a thing!
When I descend the steps, I am overwhelmed by that fluid which is life.
I am in touch with life. What more can I want? This tenderness which
surrounds me everywhere, this ever-varying nature which says so much to
me, the atmosphere which envelops me--am I already in heaven, or am I a
poet?
V