NOVEMBER
The sun sets on a day of peace and labor, yet men, women, and children, their disheveled hair full of dust and wisps of straw, their faces and legs stained with earth, work on. Here they cut rice, here they gather up the sheaves; and, as on wall-paper the same scene is repeated indefinitely, so on every side we see great wooden vats with men who, face to face, beat ears of corn against the sides; and already the plow commences to turn the clay again. All about is the odor of grain, the perfume of the harvest. At the end of the plain where the men are working is a wide river; and there, in the middle of the fields, an arch of triumph colored by the setting of the crimson sun completes the peaceable picture. A man who passes near me holds in his hand a flame-colored chicken, another carries at the ends of his bamboo a big tin teapot, hanging in front of him,—and behind him a package made of some green relishes, a bit of meat, a bundle of those slips of silver paper that are burned for the dead, and a fish hung beneath by a straw. His blue blouse, his violet trousers, gleam against the lacquered gold of the stubble.
—Let no one mock my idle hands! The hurricane itself, and the weight of the sea that it hurls, cannot shake the heavy stone; but wood will float on the water, leaves yield to the air; I, still more trifling, fix my feet nowhere upon the earth, and the departing light draws me with it. By the dark roads of the villages, among pines and tombs, and along the far-stretched fields, I am the setting sun. Neither the happy plain nor the harmony of these mountains, nor the alluring color of the verdure on the ruddy harvest, can satisfy the eye which demands light itself. Below in that square moat, enclosed by the mountain with a rude wall, the air and the water burn with a mysterious fire. I see a gold so beautiful that all nature seems to me a dead mass; in comparison with that light the clarity that she can diffuse is darkest night. Desirable elixir, by what mystic route will I be led to participate in thy avaricious waters?
This evening the sun leaves me near a great orange tree that the family which it nourishes have begun to strip. A ladder is leaning against the tree. I hear speech in the foliage. In the lingering neutral light of the hour I see the golden fruit gleam through the somber leaves. Coming nearer I see each twig etched clearly against the green of the evening. I regard the little red oranges, I breathe their bitter, strong aroma. Oh marvelous harvest, promised to One alone! Fruit shown to that immortal part of us which triumphs!
Before I reach the pines night falls and the cold moon lights me. This seems to me to be the difference: that the sun looks at us, but we look at the moon. Her face is turned away, and like a fire which lights up the bottom of the sea she makes every shadow become visible.... In the heart of this ancient tomb, in the thick grass of this ruined temple, under the form of fair ladies or wise old men, possibly I shall meet a company of foxes! They will offer me verses and riddles, they will make me drink their wine, and my way will be forgotten. These civil hosts wish to give me entertainment. They mount standing, one on top of another—and then, as the spell breaks, I find myself in the straight white footpath that leads me toward my home. But already in the depths of the valley I see a human fire burning.
PAINTING
Let some one fasten this piece of silk by the four corners for me, and I shall not put the sky upon it. The sea and its shores, the forest and the mountains, do not tempt my art. But from the top to the bottom and from one side to the other, as between new horizons, with an artless hand I shall paint the Earth. The limits of communities, the divisions of fields, will be exactly outlined,—those that are already plowed, those where the battalions of sheaves still stand. I shall not fail to count each tree. The smallest house will be represented with an ingenuous industry. Looking closely, you may distinguish the people; he who crosses an arched bridge of stone, parasol in hand; he who washes buckets at a pond; the litter traveling on the shoulders of two porters, and the patient laborer who plows a new furrow the length of the old. A long road bordered with a double row of skiffs crosses the picture from one corner to the other, and in one of the circular moats can be seen, in a scrap of azure for water, three quarters of a slightly yellow moon.
THE SOLITARY
Have I ever lived elsewhere than in this circular gorge hollowed in the heart of the rock? Doubtless at three o’clock a raven will not fail to bring me the bread I need, unless the perpetual sound of the falling water can keep me fat! A hundred feet above me, as if it gushed with violence out of the radiant heaven itself, between the bamboos that obstruct it, leaping the sudden verge, the torrent is engulfed and plunges in a vertical column, partly dark and partly luminous,—striking the floor of the cavern with re-echoing thunders.
No human eye could discover where I am. In shadows that only the noonday dissipates, the strand of this little lake, shaking with the unceasing plunge of the cascade, is my habitation. Above, where an inexhaustible torrent falls from the gorge, only this handful of sparkling milk-white water reaches me directly from the generous sky. The stream escapes by this turning; and sometimes, mingled with the cries of the birds in the forest and with this soft gushing near me, I hear the voluble noise of falling waters behind me descending toward the earth.