on a spring morning, croniamantal, following the instructions of the bird of benin, reached the meudon woods and stretched himself out in the shade of a tree whose branches hung very low.
croniamantal
god i am tired, not of walking but of being alone. i am thirsty—not for wine, hydromel or beer, but for water, fresh water from that lovely wood where the grass and the trees are rose at every dawn, but where no spring arrests the progress of the parched traveller. the walk has sharpened my appetite; i am hungry, though not for the flesh nor for fruit, but for bread, good solid bread, swollen like mammals, bread, round as the moon and gilded as she.
he arose then. he went deep into the woods and came to the clearing, where he was to meet tristouse ballerinette. the damsel had not yet arrived. croniamantal longed for a fountain and his imagination, or perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself which he had never suspected, caused a limpid water suddenly to flow among the grass.
croniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard the voice of a woman singing far off:
dondidondaine
'tis the shepherdess beloved of the king
who has gone to the fountain
dondidondaine
in the dewy fields, all blossoming
to the fountain
but here comes croquemitaine
to the fountain
and hickorydock! advance no further.
croniamantal
dost thou think already of her who sings? thou laughest dully in this clearing. dost thou believe that she has been rounded like a round table for the equality of men and weeks? thou knowest well, the days do not resemble each other.
about the round table, the good are no longer equal; one has the sun in his face, it dazzles him and soon quits him for his neighbor. another has his shadow before him. all are good, and good thou art thyself, but they are no more equal than the day and the night.
the voice
croquemitaine
wears the rose and the lilac
the king rides off—hello germaine
—croquemitaine
thou wilt come back again
croniamantal
the voices of women are always ironical. is the weather always fair? someone is already damned instead of me. it is nice in the deep woods. hearken no longer to the voice of woman! ask! ask!
the voice
—hello germaine
i come to love between thine arms
—ah! sire, our cow is full
—really germaine
—your servant also, i believe.
croniamantal
she who sings in order to lure me will be ignorant as i, and dancing with lassitudes.
the voice
the cow is full
when autumn comes she'll calve
farewell my king dondidondaine
the cow is full
and my heart empty without thee
croniamantal stands on the tip of his toes to see if he can perceive through the branches the so-beloved who comes.
the voice
dondidondaine
but when will come my croquemitaine
at the fountain it is very cold
dondidondaine
after the winter i shall be less cold.
in the clearing there appeared a young girl, svelte and brunette. her countenance was sombre and starred with roving eyes like birds of bright plumage. her sparse but short hair left her neck bare; her hair was tousled and dark, and by the skipping rope which she carried, croniamantal recognized her to be tristouse ballerinette.
croniamantal
no further, child with bare arms! i shall come to you myself. someone has just hushed under the pines and will be able to overhear us.
tristouse
this one is surely the issue of an egg, like castor and pollax. i recall how my mother, who was very foolish, used to talk to me about them of long evenings. the hunter of serpent's eggs, son of the serpent himself,—i am afraid of those old memories.
croniamantal
have no fear, woman of the naked arms. stay with me. my lips are filled with kisses. here, here. i lay them on thy brow, on thy hair. i caress thy hair with its ancient perfume. i caress thy hairs which intertwine like the worms on the bodies of the dead. o death, o death, hairy with worms. i have kisses on my lips. here, here they are, on thy hands, on thy neck, on thine eyes, thine eyes. i have lips full of kisses, here, here, burning like a fever, sustained to enchant thee, kisses, mad kisses, on the ear, the temple, the cheek. feel my embraces, bend under the effort of my arm, be languid, be languid. i have kisses upon my lips, here, here, mad ones, upon thine eyes, upon thy neck, upon thy brow, upon thy youth, i longed so to love thee, this spring day when there are no more blossoms on the branches which prepare themselves to bear fruit.
tristouse
leave me, go away. those who move each other are happy, but i do not love you. you frighten me. however, do not despair, o poet. listen, this is my best advice: go away!
croniamantal
alas! alas! to leave again, to wander unto the oceanic limits, through the brush, the evergreen, in the scum, in the mud, the dust, across the forests, the prairies, the plantations, and the very happy gardens.
tristouse
go away. go away, far from the antique perfume of my hair, o thou who belongest to me.
and croniamantal went off without turning his head once; he could be seen for a long time through the branches, and then his voice could be heard growing fainter and fainter as he disappeared from view.
croniamantal
traveller without a stick, pilgrim without staff and poet without a writing pad, i am more powerless than all other men, i own nothing more and i know nothing...
and his voice no longer reached tristouse ballerinette who was admiring her image in the pool.
in another age monks cultivated the forest of malverne.
monks
the sun declines slowly, and blessing thee, o lord; we are going to sleep in the monastery so that the dawn may find us in the forest.
the forest of malverne
every day, every day, flights of anguished birds see their nests crushed and their eggs broken when the trees sway with shaking branches.
the birds
it is the happy hour of twilight when the girls and boys come to roll on the grass. and all of them have kisses that want to fall like over-ripe fruit or like the egg when it is about to be laid. do you see them there, do you see them dance, muse, haunt, chant from dusk to the dawn, his pale sister?
a red-haired monk
(in the middle of the cortège)
i am afraid to live and i should like to die. convulsions of earth. labor! o lost time...
the birds
gay! gay! the broken eggs
the ready-made omelette cooked on a downy fire
here! here!
take to the right
turn to the left
straight ahead
behind the fallen oak
there and everywhere.
croniamantal
(in another age, near the forest of malverne and a little before the passage of the monks.)
the winds disperse before me, the forests fall away and become a wide track with corpses here and there. the travellers meet with too many corpses for some time, with garrulous corpses.
the red-haired monk
i don't want to work any more, i want to dream and pray.
he sleeps, his face turned to the sky, on the road bordered with willows of the color of mist.
the night had come with the moonlight. croniamantal saw the monks bent over the nonchalant bodies of their brothers. then he heard a little plaint, a feeble cry that died in a last sigh. and slowly they passed in indian file before croniamantal, who was hidden behind a clump of willows.
the gloride forest
i should love to send this man astray amid the spectres that float among the bubbles. but he flees toward the times that come, and whither he is already arrived.
the banging of distant doors changes into the sound of trains in motion. a large, grassy track, barred by trunks and fenced with enormous joined stones. life commits suicide. a path that people follow. they never tire. subways where the air is poisoned. corpses. voices call croniamantal. he runs, he runs, he descends.
* * *
in the lovely woods, tristouse promenaded meditating.
tristouse
my heart is sad without thee, croniamantal. i loved thee without knowing it. all is green. all is green above my head and beneath my feet. i have lost him whom i loved. i must search this way and that way, here and yonder. and among them all i shall surely find someone who will please me.
returned from other times, croniamantal cried out at sight of tristouse and the fountain again:
croniamantal
goddess! who art thou? where is thine eternal form?
tristouse
oh, there he is again, handsomer than ever... listen, o poet. i belong to thee, henceforth.
without looking at tristouse, croniamantal bent over the pool.
croniamantal
i love fountains, they are beautiful symbols of immortality when they never run dry. this one has never run dry. and i seek a divinity, but i desire her to appear eternal to me. and my fountain has never run dry.
he knelt and prayed to the fountain, while tristouse, all in tears, lamented.
o poet, adorest thou the fountain? o lord, return my lover to me! come to me! i know such lovely songs.
croniamantal
the fountain hath its murmur.
tristouse
very well, then! sleep with thy cold lover, let her drown thee! but if thou livest, thou belongest to me and thou shalt obey me.
she was gone, and throughout the forest of twittering birds, the fountain flowed and murmured, while there arose the voice of croniamantal who wept and whose tears mingled with the worshipped flood.
croniamantal
o fountain! thou who springest like a staunchless blood. thou who art cold as marble, but living, transparent and fluid. thou, ever renewed and ever the same. thou who makest living thy verdant banks, i love thee. thou art my unrivalled goddess. thou quenchest my thirst. thou purifiest me. thou murmurest to me thine eternal song which rocks me to sleep in the evenings.
the fountain
at the bottom of my little bed full of an orient of gems, i hear thee with contentment, o poet whom i have enchanted. i recall avallon where we might have lived, thou as the king fisher and i awaiting thee under the apple trees. o islands of apple trees. but i am happy in my precious little bed. these amethysts are sweet to my gaze. this lapis-lazuli is more blue than a fair sky. this malachite represents to me a prairie. sardonyx, onyx, agate, rock-crystal, you shall scintillate tonight, for i will give a feast in honor of my lover. i shall come alone as befits a virgin. the power of my lover has already been manifested and his gifts are sweet to my soul. he has given me his eyes all in tears, two adorable fountains, sweet tributaries of my stream.
croniamantal
o fecund fountain, thy waters resemble thy hair. thy flowers are born about thee and we shall love each other always.
nothing could be heard but the song of birds and the rustling of leaves, and at times the plashing of a bird playing in the water.
a dandy appeared in the little wood: it was paponat the algerian. he approached the fountain dancing.
croniamantal
i know you. you are paponat who studied in the orient.
paponat
himself. o poet of the occident, i come to visit you. i have learned of your enchantment, but i hear that it is not yet too late to converse with you. how humid it is here! it is not at all surprising that your voice is harsh, and you will certainly need a medicament to clear it. i approached you dancing. is there no way of saving you from the situation in which you have placed yourself.
croniamantal
bah! but tell me who taught you to dance.
paponat
the angels themselves were my dancing masters.
croniamantal
the good or the bad angels? but no matter. i have had enough of all the dances, save one which the greeks call kordax.
paponat
you are gay, croniamantal, we shall be able to amuse ourselves. i am glad i came here. i love gaiety. i am happy!
and paponat, his bright eyes profoundly whirling, rubbed his hands gleefully.
croniamantal
you look like me!
paponat
not much. i am happy to live, while you die beside the fountain.
croniamantal
but the happiness which you proclaim, do you not forget it? and forget mine? you resemble me! the happy man rubs his hands. smell them. what do they smell like?
paponat
the odour of death.
croniamantal
ha! ha! ha! the happy man has the same odour as death! rub your hands. what difference between the happy man and the corpse! i am also happy, although i don't want to rub my hands. be happy, rub your hands. be happy! again! now do you know it, the odour of happiness?
paponat
farewell. if you make no case for the living, there is no way of talking to you.
and as paponat disappeared into the night where glittered the innumerable eyes of the celestial animals of impalpable flesh, croniamantal rose suddenly thinking to himself: "well—enough of the beauties of nature and of the thoughts she evokes. i know enough about that for a long time; we had better return to paris and try to find that exquisite little tristouse who loves me madly."
