Читать книгу The Complete Short Stories (All Unabridged) - Emile Zola - Страница 4

Table of Contents

I

Once upon a time — listen attentively, Ninon, an old shepherd told me this story — once upon a time, on an island which the sea has long since engulfed, there were a king and queen who had a son. The king was a great monarch: his glass was the deepest in his kingdom; his sword the heaviest; he slaughtered and drank royally. The queen was a lovely queen: she painted herself so much that she did not appear more than forty. The son was a simpleton.

But a simpleton of the worst kind, said the witty people of the kingdom. When he was sixteen he was taken to battle by the king: it was a matter of exterminating a neighbouring nation which was guilty of the atrocious crime of possessing territory. Simplice behaved like a fool: he saved two dozen women and three-and-a-half dozen children from the slaughter; he almost wept at every sabre-cut he gave; in a word the sight of the battlefield, streaming in blood and encumbered with corpses, struck such pity into his heart that he did not eat anything for three days. He was a great fool, Ninon, as you see.

When he was seventeen, he had to be present at a banquet given by his father to all the great gluttons of the kingdom. There again he committed stupidity on stupidity. He was satisfied with a few mouthfuls, spoke little, and did not swear at all. As there was a risk that his glass would always remain full in front of him, the king, to save the family dignity, was compelled to empty it from time to time on the sly.

When he was eighteen and hair began to grow on his chin, one of the queen’s maids of honour noticed him. Maids of honour are dreadful, Ninon. This one wanted the young prince to kiss her. The poor child had never dreamt of such a thing; he shook with trembling when she spoke to him, and ran away as soon as he caught sight of the hem of her skirt in the palace grounds. His father, who was a good father, saw all, and laughed in his sleeve. But as the lady continued the pursuit more ardently than ever without obtaining the kiss, he was ashamed at having such a son, and himself gave the required kiss, always for the purpose of saving the dignity of his race.

“Ah! the little jackass!” exclaimed the great monarch, who was a man of parts.

II

It was at twenty that Simplice became a perfect idiot. He came across a forest and fell in love.

In those olden times people did not beautify trees by clipping them with shears, and it was not the fashion to raise grass by sowing it, or to sprinkle gravel on paths. The branches grew as they pleased; God alone undertook to moderate the brambles and preserve the footways. The forest Simplice came across was an immense nest of verdure, multitudes of leaves and impenetrable masses of yoke-elms intersected by majestic avenues. The moss, inebriated with dew, revelled in a debauchery of growth; the sweetbriers, extending their flexible arms, sought one another in the glades to perform frantic dances round the great trees; the great trees themselves, whilst remaining calm and serene, distorted their roots in the shade, and rose tumultuously to kiss the rays of summer. The green grass grew anywhere, on the branches as on the ground; the leaves embraced the wood, while the Easter daisies and myosotis, in their haste to bloom, sometimes made a mistake and blossomed on the old fallen trunks. And all these branches, all these herbs, all these flowers sang; all mingled, crowded together, to babble more at ease, to relate to one another, in whispers, the mysterious love-making of the corolla. A breath of life ran to the depths of the gloomy coppices, giving voice to each bit of moss in the matchless concerts at dawn and twilight. It was an immense festival of the foliage.

The lady-birds, beetles, dragon-flies, butterflies, all the beautiful sweethearts of the flowering hedges, met at the four corners of the wood. They had established their little republic there; the paths were their paths; the brooks their brooks; the forest their forest. They stretched themselves out commodiously at the foot of the trees; on the low branches, in the dry leaves, living there as at home, quietly and by right of conquest. They had, for that matter, like civil persons, left the lofty branches to nightingales and other songsters.

The forest which already sang by its branches, its leaves, and flowers, sang also by its insects and birds.

III

In a few days Simplice became an old friend of the forest. They gossiped so madly together that he lost the little reason that still remained to him. When he left the forest to shut himself up between four walls, to seat himself at a table, to lie in a bed, he was all in a dream. At length, one fine morning, he suddenly abandoned his apartments, and took up his quarters beneath the beloved foliage.

There, he chose himself an immense palace.

His drawingroom was a vast circular glade, about a thousand superficial toises in extent. It was decked with long green drapery all round; five hundred flexible columns supported a veil of emerald-coloured lace; the ceiling itself was a large dome of blue shot satin, studded with golden nails.

For bedroom he had a delicious boudoir, full of mystery and freshness. Its floor and walls were hidden beneath soft carpeting of inimitable workmanship. The alcove, hollowed out of the rock by some giant, was lined with pink marble, whilst the ground was strewn with ruby dust He also had his bathroom, with a spring of sparkling water and a crystal bath, buried in a cluster of flowers. I will not tell you, Ninon, of the thousand galleries that intersected the palace, nor of the ballroom, the theatre, and gardens. It was one of those royal residences such as God knows how to build.

Henceforth the prince could be a simpleton at his ease. His father thought he had been changed into a wolf, and sought an heir more worthy of the throne.

IV

Simplice was very busy on the days following his installation. He struck up an acquaintance with his neighbours, the beetle of the grass and the butterfly of the air. All were good creatures, and had almost as much wit as men.

At the commencement, he experienced some difficulty in learning their language, but he soon perceived that he had only his early education to thank for that. He soon conformed to the concise tongue of the insects. One sound ultimately sufficed for him, as for them, to designate a hundred different objects, according to the inflection of the voice and length of the note. So that he became unaccustomed to speak the language of men, so poor in spite of its wealth.

He was charmed with the manners of his new friends. He marvelled above all at their way of expressing their opinion anent kings, which is not to have any. In short, he felt ignorant among them, and decided to go and study at their schools.

He showed more discretion in his intercourse with the mosses and hawthorns. As he could not yet catch the words of the flowers and blades of grass, his acquaintance with them was of a somewhat reserved character.

Altogether the forest did not look at him askance. It understood that his was a small mind and that he would live in good understanding with the creatures. They no longer hid from him. It often happened that he surprised a butterfly at the bottom of a path ruffling the frill of a daisy.

The hawthorn soon conquered its timidity so far as to give the young prince lessons. It amorously taught him the language of the perfumes and colours. Henceforth the purple corollas greeted Simplice every morning when he rose; the green leaf related to him the tittle-tattle of the night, the cricket confided to him in a whisper that he was madly in love with the violet Simplice had chosen a golden dragon-fly, with a slender waist and fluttering wings, for sweetheart. The pretty beauty showed herself despairingly coquettish; she gambolled, seemed to call him, then cleverly fled just as his hand was on her. The great trees, who saw the sport, smartly rebuked her, and gravely said among themselves that she would end badly;

V

Simplice all at once became anxious.

The lady-bird, who was the first to notice their friend’s sadness, endeavoured to ascertain from him what it was all about. He replied amidst tears that he was as gay as at the commencement.

He now rose with the sun and wandered through the copses until night. He put the branches softly aside and examined each bush. He raised the leaves and gazed at its shadows.

“What can our pupil be looking for?” inquired the hawthorn of the moss.

The dragon-fly, astonished at being abandoned by her lover, fancied he had gone mad with love. She came teasing around him. But he did not look at her. The great trees had formed a correct opinion of her. She promptly consoled herself with the first butterfly she met at the crossroads.

The leaves were sad. They watched the young prince questioning every tuft of grass, searching the long avenues with his eyes; they listened to him complaining of the thickness of the brambles, and said:

“Simplice has seen Flower-of-the-Waters, the undine of the spring.”

VI

Flower-of-the-Waters was the daughter of a ray of light and a drop of dew. Her beauty was so limpid that a lover’s kiss would make her die; she exhaled such sweet perfume that a kiss from her lips would kill a lover.

The forest knew it, and the jealous forest hid its darling child. For sanctuary it had given her a spring shaded with its most bushy boughs. There Flower-of-the-Waters beamed, in silence and shade, amidst her sisters. Being idle she resigned herself to the stream, her little feet half veiled by the wavelets, her fair head crowned with limpid pearls. Her smile delighted the water-lilies and gladiolus. She was the soul of the forest.

She lived unattended with care, knowing nothing of the earth but her mother, the dew, and of heaven naught but the ray of light, her father. She felt herself loved by the wavelet that rocked her, by the branch that gave her shade. She had thousands of sweethearts and not one lover.

Flower-of-the-Waters was aware that she must die of love; that thought gave her pleasure, and she lived hoping for death. Smiling she awaited the well-beloved.

Simplice had seen her one night by starlight, at the bend of a path. He sought her for a long month, fancying to meet her behind the trunk of each tree. He was always thinking he saw her glide into the coppice; but on running there he only found the great shadows of the poplars waving in the breath of Heaven.

VII

The forest was now silent; it distrusted Simplice. It thickened its foliage, it cast all its gloom over the young prince’s footsteps. The peril threatening Flower-of-the-Waters grieved it; there were no more caresses, no more amorous chatter.

The undine returned to the glades, and Simplice saw her again. Mad with desire, he dashed off in pursuit of her. The child, seated on a ray of the moon, did not hear the sound of his footsteps. She flew along in this way, as light as a feather borne upon the wind.

Simplice ran, ran after her without being able to catch her. Tears streamed from his eyes, he was in despair.

He ran, and the forest anxiously watched his mad flight. Shrubs barred the road. Brambles encompassed him with their thorny arms, stopping him suddenly on his way. The whole wood protected the child.

He ran, and felt the moss become slippery beneath his feet. The branches of the coppice were interlaced more closely and presented themselves to him as rigid as brass rods. Dry leaves collected in the glens; trunks of fallen trees placed themselves across the paths; rocks rolled themselves before the prince. The insect stung him in the heel; the butterfly blinded him by beating its wings against his eyelids.

Flower-of-the-Waters, without seeing or hearing him, continued to fly on the ray of the moon. Simplice with agony felt the moment approaching when she would disappear.

And, breathless, in despair, he ran, ran.

VIII

He heard the old oaks shouting to him in anger:

“Why did you not say you were a man? We would have hidden from you, we would have refused you our lessons, so that your gloomy eye might not see Flower-of-the-Waters, the undine of the spring. You presented yourself to us with the innocence of animals, and now you display the mind of man. Look, you are crushing the beetles, tearing away our leaves, breaking our branches. The wind of egoism bears you along, you want to rob us of our soul.”

And the hawthorn added:

“Simplice, stop, for pity’s sake! When a capricious child wants to breathe the perfume of my starry nosegays, why does not he leave them to bloom in freedom on the branch! He plucks them and only enjoys them for an hour.”

And the moss said in its turn:

“Stop, Simplice; come and dream on my cool, velvety carpet Far away, between the trees, you will see Flower-of-the-Waters at play. You will see her bathing at the spring, casting collets of watery pearls about her neck. We will give you a half share in the joy of her look; you can live and gaze on her as we do.”

And all the forest resumed:

“Stop, Simplice, a kiss must kill her; give not that kiss. Are you not aware of it? Did not our messenger, the breeze of night, tell you? Flower-of-the-Waters is the celestial pearl whose perfume brings death. Alas! Pity for her, Simplice, drink not her soul on her lips.”

IX

Flower-of-the-Waters turned round and saw Simplice. She smiled, she made him a sign to approach, saying to the forest:

“Here comes the well-beloved.”

The prince had been pursuing the undine for three days, three hours, three minutes. The words of the oaks were thundering behind him; he was tempted to fly.

Flower-of-the-Waters was already pressing his hands. She raised herself tip-toe on her little feet, mirroring her smile in the young man’s eyes.

“You have delayed coming,” she said. “My heart knew you were in the forest. I mounted a ray of the moon and sought you for three days, three hours, three minutes.”

Simplice was silent, he withheld his breath. She made him sit down at the edge of the spring; she fondled him with her eyes; and he contemplated her for a long time.

“Do you not know me?” she continued. “I have often seen you in my dreams. I went to you, you took my hand, then we walked, silent and trembling. Did you not see me? Do you not remember your dreams?”

And as he at length opened his mouth:

“Do not say anything,” she resumed again. “I am Flower-of-the-Waters, and you are the well-beloved. We are going to die.”

X

The great trees bent forward to get a better view of the young couple. They shuddered with grief, they said to one another, from coppice to coppice, that their soul was about to fly away.

All the voices were silent. The blade of grass and the oak experienced immense pity. There was no longer any cry of anger among the foliage. Simplice, Flower-of-the-Water’s well-beloved, was the son of the old forest.

She had rested her head on his shoulder. Bending over the brook they smiled at one another. Sometimes, raising their foreheads, they followed with their eyes the gold dust fluttering in the last rays of the sun. They clasped each other slowly, slowly. They awaited the appearance of the first star to be blended together in one and fly off for ever.

Not a word troubled their ecstasy. Their spirits rising to their lips were exchanged in their breath.

Day was on the wane, the lips of the two lovers approached closer and closer. The silent, motionless forest experienced terrible agony. The huge rocks from which the springs burst forth, threw great shadows over the couple who shone in the coming night.

And the stars appeared, and the lips were united in the supreme kiss, and the oak trees gave a prolonged sob. The lips were united, the spirits flew away.

XI

A clever man was wandering in the forest. He was in the company of a learned man.

The clever man made profound remarks on the unhealthy dampness of woods, and spoke of the beautiful fields of lucerne that might be obtained by cutting down all the great ugly trees.

The learned man dreamed of making himself a name in the world of science by discovering some new plant. He searched about everywhere and came upon nettles and couch-grass.

On reaching the edge of the spring they found the corpse of Simplice. The prince was smiling in the slumber of death. His feet were in the water, his head resting on the grassy bank. He pressed to his lips, which were for ever closed, a small pink and white flower, exquisitely delicate in form, and with a strong perfume.

“The poor idiot!” said the clever man, “he must have been trying to pick a nosegay, and drowned himself.”

The learned man cared little about the corpse. He had taken the flower, and under pretence of examining it, tore away the corolla. Then, when he had pulled it to pieces, he exclaimed —

“Precious find! In memory of this simpleton, I will name this flower Anthapheleia limnaia.”

Ah, Ninette, Ninette, the barbarian named my ideal Flower-of-the-Waters Anthapheleia limnaia!