And thou, oh Master, oh author of the Man who Laughs, thy laugh is as the laugh of Gwynplaine, sombre but not cynical, permanent but full of pity, of compassion—a laughter broken with tears—above all, a laughter which endures!
II. The Solidarity of the Sportmans.
Yes; in England, everything is great. Even in her sports, she is the Titaness of the Ocean.
There is a solidarity of peoples; above all, there is a solidarity amongst the votaries of Diana, huntress pale, chaste, ferocious, formidable, but ravishing, but divine!
The sportmans of France, the sportmans of England, they are as the brothers of Corsica. What says your Williams? “As we were being washed by nurse, we got completely mixed!”
Touching and tender fantasy of this grand old Swan of Stratford-upon-Thames! Or, what say I—of Corsica? Of Siam—melancholy but affecting type of the rudimentary solidarity of the Orient!
I had long desired to watch you insularies in the sports of the hippodrome, in which I am myself not without skill; but the furious storms of the Sleeve twice detained me at Calais, and once at Boulogne. I consoled myself in the hope that everything comes to him who knows how to wait.
I knew how to wait. I waited.
After Chantilly, Epsom’s courses!
The sea appeared calm; not a wrinkle in the folds of the steel-blue Sleeve.