After a year of perfect calm, but for interior tempests for which I must not blame the solitude that has unfolded me in such silent peace that any soul less unquiet than mine would have slumbered deliciously therein; after a year, I say, of absolute tranquillity, Fate, who had let me enter the holy house to rest awhile, smote on the door to call me forth again; for she had not gone on her way, but had sat waiting on the threshold till I should gather strength to resume the journey. "You have tarried long enough," she said; "Come." And she took me by the hand and tramped on like the poor women you meet in the road, leading a tired, lagging child. But what folly it is to complain; are there no troubles in the world but mine to weep for? I will say henceforth to the fountain of my tears, "Dry up," and to the Lord, "Lord, heed not my complaints," whenever I am tempted to invoke God and my tears in my own behalf; for suffering is good for me, who can merit nothing in heaven by my actions, and, like all weak souls, can earn nothing there except through the virtue of suffering. Such souls have no wings to raise them up to heaven, and the Lord, who would fain possess them, sends help. He lays them on a pile of thorns, and kindles the fire of grief; the consuming [{686}] wood mounts up to heaven like a white vapor, or like the doves that used to spring upward from the dying flames of a martyr's stake. This is the soul which has completed its sacrifice, and grown light enough in the fire of tribulation to rise to heaven like a smoke. The wood is heavy and immovable; set fire to it, and a part of itself will ascend to the clouds.
8th.—Yesterday the west wind blew furiously. I watched the shaken ocean, but to me its sublime disorder was far from equalling the spectacle of a calm blue sea, and yet why say that one is not equal to the other? Who can measure these two sublimities and say that the second surpasses the first? Let us only say: "My soul delights rather in serenity than in a storm."
Yesterday there was a great battle fought in the watery plains. On came the bounding waves, like innumerable hordes of Tartar cavalry galloping to and fro on the plains of Asia—on to the chain of granite islets that bar the entrance to the bay. There we saw billows upon billows rushing to the assault, flinging themselves wildly against the rocky masses with hideous clamor, tearing along to leap over the black heads of the rocks. The boldest or lightest sprang over with a great outcry; the others dashed themselves with sluggish awkwardness against the ledges, throwing up great showers of dazzling foam, and then drew off growling, like dogs beaten back by a traveller's staff.
We watched the great struggle from the top of a cliff, where we could hardly keep our feet against the whirling wind. The awful tumult of the sea, the rushing boisterous, waves, the swift but silent passing of the clouds, the sea-birds floating in the sky, balancing their slender bodies on wide-arched wings; all this accumulation of wild, resounding harmonies, converging in the souls of two beings five feet (French) high, planted on the crest of a cliff, shaken like two leaves by the energy of the wind, and not more apparent on this immensity than two birds perched on a clod of earth. Oh! it was something strange and wonderful, one of those moments of sublime agitation and deep revery combined, when the soul and nature rear themselves in majesty before each other.
From this height we clambered down into a gorge which opens a marine retreat, such as the ancients could have described to peaceful waves that rock themselves to sleep there murmuring, while their frantic brethren lash the rocks, and wrestle among themselves. Huge blocks of gray granite, embossed with white lichens, are thrown in disorder on the slant of the hill which has hollowed out an inlet for this cove. They look, so strangely are they tossed about, half tipping toward the slope, as if a giant had amused himself with hauling them from the height above, and they had been checked by some obstacle, some a few feet from the point of departure, and others half way down; and yet they seem to have paused, not stopped, in their course, or rather they appear to be still rolling. The sound of the winds and waves pouring into this echoing recess makes glorious harmony. We stood there a long time, leaning on our walking-sticks, looking and listening and wondering.
9th.—The moon was shining with a few stars when the bell called us to mass. I especially enjoy this mass, celebrated in the early morning between the last rays of starlight and the first beams of the rising sun.
In the evening Hippolyte and I wandered along the coast, for we wished to see what the ocean is like at the close of a calm, gray December day. Mist veiled the distance, but left space enough to suggest infinity. We stationed ourselves on a point where a tidesman's hut stands, and leaned against the wall. To the right a wood, spreading over the slope of the coast, stretched its thin, naked branches out into the pale light with a faint, sighing sound. Far away to our left the tower of Ebihens vanished into the [{687}] mist, and then appeared again with a faint gleam upon its brow, as some furtive ray of twilight succeeded in eluding the clouds. The sound of the sea was calm and dreamy, as on the fairest days, but with a more plaintive tone. We followed this sound as it swelled along the shore, and only taking breath when the waves that had poured it forth gave place to another. I believe it is from the deep, grave tone of the advancing wave as it unfurls itself, and from the shrill, pebbly sound of the retreating wave, gritting against the shells and sand, that the marvellous voice of the sea is created. But why dissect such music? I could say nothing worth hearing on the subject, for I am no adept at analysis, so we'll go back to sentiment.
The shadows thickened around us, but we never thought of going away, for as the earth grew still, and the night unveiled its mysteries, grander grew the harmony of the sea. Like those statues set on promontories by the ancients, we stood immovable, fascinated and spell bound by the beauty of the ocean and the night, giving no sign of life except to look up when we heard the whistling wings of the wild duck overhead.
The thread of my wandering fortunes led me to a solitary headland in Brittany to dream away an autumn evening, there for several hours those interior sounds were hushed that never have been still since the first tempest arose in my breast. There a sweet, heavenly melancholy stole into my heart with the ocean chords, and my soul wandered in a paradise of revery. Oh! when I shall have left Le Val and poured my parting tears into the bosom of your friendship; when I shall be in Paris where there is neither vale nor ocean, nor any soul like yours; when I shall wander alone with my sadness and with an almost despairing heart; what tears I shall shed over the memory of our evenings; for happiness is a fine, gentle rain that sinks into the soul, and then gushes forth in torrents of tears.
21st.—For several days the weather has done its worst. The rain falls and the wind blows in gusts till it seems as if everything would be torn to pieces by the storm. These three nights I have started up wide awake as the gale swept by at midnight, besieging the house so furiously that everything in-doors shook and trembled. I spring up in my bed white, and listen to the hurricane, while a thousand thoughts that swept, some on the surface, others deep down in my soul, start into shuddering wakefulness.