and one day, when september was more than half over, i realized, because of the particularly torturing anxiety i felt when i waked, that i must no longer defer the matter—the term which i had allotted to myself was over.
in my heart of hearts i had more than half determined what my decision was to be; but before it could be rendered effective it was necessary for me to avow it, and i promised myself that the day should not pass away without my having, as courageously as possible, accomplished that task. it was my intention to first confide in my brother; for although i feared that in the beginning he would oppose me with all his power, i hoped that he would finally take my part and help me carry the day.
therefore, after the mid-day dinner, when the sun was hottest, i carried my pen and paper into my uncle's garden, and i locked myself in there for the purpose of writing my letter. it was one of my boyhood habits to study or write in the open air, and often i chose the most singular places—tree-tops or the roof—for my work.
it was a hot and cloudless september afternoon. the old garden, silent and melancholy as ever, gave me, strangely enough, more than the customary feeling of regret that i was so far away from my mother, that all of summer would pass without my seeing my home and the flowers in the beloved little yard. and then, too, what i was upon the point of writing would result in separating me farther from all that i loved, and for that reason i felt extraordinarily sad. it seemed to me that there was something a little funereal in the air of the garden, as if the walls, the plum trees, the vine-covered bower, even the very alfalfa fields beyond the garden, were vitally interested in this, the first grave act of my life which was about to take place under their eyes.
for the purpose of writing i hesitated between two or three places, all blazing hot and almost shadeless. it was my way of gaining time, an attempt to delay writing that letter which, with the ideas i then had, would render my decision, once i had announced it, irrevocable. the sun-baked earth was already strewn with red vine branches and withered leaves; the holly-hocks and dahlias, grown tall as trees, had a few meagre blossoms at the tops of their long stalks; the blazing sun perfected and turned to gold the musk-scented grapes that always ripened a little late; but in spite of the excessive heat and the exquisite limpid blue of the sky one felt that summer was over.
i finally selected the arbor at the end of the garden for my purpose. its vines were stripped of their leaves, but the steel-blue butterflies and the wasps still came and posted themselves upon the tendrils of the grape-vines.
there in the calm and tranquil solitude, in the summer-like silence filled with the musical chirp of insects, i wrote and timidly signed my compact with the sea.
of the letter itself i remember very little; but i recall distinctly the emotion with which i enclosed it in its envelope—i felt as if i had forever sealed my destiny.
after a few moments of deep reverie i wrote the address—my brother's name and the name of a country in the far orient where he then was—on the envelope. there was now nothing more to do save to take it to the village post-office; but i remained seated there in the arbor for a long time in a dreamy mood. i leaned against the warm wall where the lizards ran back and forth, and held upon my knees, with a feeling of uncertainty and dismay, the little square of paper wherein i had settled my future. then i was seized with a longing to look towards the horizon, to have a glimpse of the great spaces beyond the garden; and i put my foot into the familiar breach in the wall by means of which i often mounted, in order to watch the flight of elusive butterflies, and, with the aid of my hands, i raised myself to the top of the wall and leaned there propped up by my elbows. the same well-known prospect greeted me: the hillsides covered with red vines, the wooded mountains whose trees were rapidly being stripped of their yellow leaves, and above, perched high, the noble reddish-brown ruin of castelnau. and in the nearer distance was bories with its old rounded porch white with lime-wash; and as i looked at it i seemed to hear the plaintive refrain: “ah! ah! the good, good story!” sung in a strange voice, and at the same time there appeared to me the vision of the pinkish-yellow butterfly which two years before i had pricked with a pin, and placed under glass in my little museum.
it drew near the hour for the ancient country diligence, that took the letters away from the village, to depart, and i scrambled down from the wall, and after locking the garden gate, i slowly directed my steps towards the post-office.
like one with eyes fixed upon a vision, i walked along without taking notice of anything or any one. my spirit was wandering far away, in the fern-carpeted forests of the delicious isle, along the sands of gloomy senegal where had lived the uncle who had interested himself in my museum, and across the south pacific ocean where the dolphins were passing.
the assured nearness and certainty of these things intoxicated me; for the first time in my existence the world and life seemed to open before me; my way was illuminated by a light altogether new to it: it is true the light was a little mournful, a little sad, but it was powerful nevertheless, and penetrated to the far distant horizon where lie old age and death.
many little childish images obtruded themselves from time to time into my lofty dream; i saw myself in a sailor's uniform walking upon the sun-blistered quays of tropical lands; and i prefigured my home-comings, after perilous voyages, bringing with me cases filled to the brim with wonderful things out of which cockroaches escaped as they had done formerly in jeanne's garden when her father's boxes were unpacked.
but suddenly a pang went through my heart: those returns from distant countries could not take place for many years—the faces welcoming me home would be changed by time! instantly i pictured those beloved faces to myself; in a wan vision i saw them all together. although its members received me with smiles of joyous welcome, it was a sad group to look upon, for wrinkles seamed every brow, and my mother had white curls such as she has to-day. and my great aunt bertha, already so old, would she, too, be there? with a sort of uneasiness, i was rapidly making a calculation of my aunt bertha's age when i arrived at the post-office.
i did not hesitate, however; with a hand that trembled only a little i slipped my letter into the box, and the die was cast.
