June 3.
I had escorted to the Cimetiere de Marnes that day a very aged colleagueof mine who, to use the words of Goethe, had consented to die. The greatGoethe, whose own vital force was something extraordinary, actuallybelieved that one never dies until one really wants to die--that is tosay, when all those energies which resist dissolution, and teh sum ofwhich make up life itself, have been totally destroyed. In other words,he believed that people only die when it is no longer possible for themto live. Good! it is merely a question of properly understanding oneanother; and when fully comprehended, the magnificent idea of Goetheonly brings us quietly back to the song of La Palisse.
Well, my excellent colleague had consented to die--thanks to severalsuccessive attacks of extremely persuasive apoplexy--the last of whichproved unanswerable. I had been very little acquainted with him duringhis lifetime; but it seems that I became his friend the moment he wasdead, for our colleagues assured me in a most serious manner, withdeeply sympathetic countenances, that I should act as one of thepall-bearers, and deliver an address over the tomb.
After having read very badly a short address I had written as well as Icould--which is not saying much for it--I started out for a walk in thewoods of Ville-d'Avray, and followed, without leaning too much onthe Captain's cane, a shaded path on which the sunlight fell, throughfoliage, in little discs of gold. Never had the scent of grass and freshleaves,--never had the beauty of the sky over the trees, and the serenemight of noble tree contours, so deeply affected my senses and all mybeing; and the pleasure I felt in that silence, broken only by faintesttinkling sounds, was at once of the senses and of the soul.
I sat down in the shade of the roadside under a clump of young oaks. Andthere I made a promise to myself not to die, or at least not to consentto die, before I should be again able to sit down under and oak,where--in the great peace of the open country--I could meditate on thenature of the soul and the ultimate destiny of man. A bee, whose brownbreast-plate gleamed in the sun like armour of old gold, came to lightupon a mallow-flower close by me--darkly rich in colour, and fullyopened upon its tufted stalk. It was certainly not the first time I hadwitnessed so common an incident; but it was the first time that I hadwatched it with such comprehensive and friendly curiosity. I coulddiscern that there were all sorts of sympathies between the insect andthe flower--a thousand singular little relationships which I had neverbefore even suspected.
Satiated with nectar, the insect rose and buzzed away in a straightline, while I lifted myself up as best I could, and readjusted myselfupon my legs.
"Adieu!" I said to the flower and to the bee. "Adieu! Heaven grant Imay live long enough to discover the secret of your harmonies. I am verytired. But man is so made that he can only find relaxation from one kindof labour by taking up another. The flowers and insects will give methat relaxation, with God's will, after my long researches in philologyand diplomatics. How full of meaning is that old myth of Antaeus! I havetouched the Earth and I am a new man; and now at seventy years of age,new feelings of curiosity take birth in my mind, even as young shootssometimes spring up from the hollow trunk of an aged oak!"