The Complete Short Stories of Émile Zola. Эмиль Золя
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according to the whim of the moment. Sometimes bending forward as if to nurse you, I addressed a naive little girl, who will not close her eyes, and whom one sends to sleep with pretty stories, lessons of charity and moderation; at other moments, my lips on your lips, I related to one whom I cherished, the loves of the fairies, or the charming affection of young sweethearts; still more frequently, on days when I was the victim of the silly unkindness of my companions, and those days together, have made up years of my youth, I took your hand, with irony on my lips, doubt and negation in my heart, complaining to a brother of the miseries of this world, in some afflicting tale, a satire dipped in tears. And you, bending to my whims, while still remaining a wife and woman, were in turn a naïve little girl, a well-beloved and a consoling brother. You heard each of my styles of language. Without ever answering, you listened to me, allowing me to read in your eyes the emotion, the gaiety, the sadness of my tales. I lay my conscience quite bare to you, being anxious to hide nothing. I did not treat you as those ordinary sweethearts to whom lovers measure out their thoughts. I gave myself away entirely without ever bridling my tongue. And what long gossips they were, what strange stories born of a dream! what disjointed tales, where invention was left to chance, and the only supportable episodes of which were the kisses we exchanged! If some passerby had spied us out at night at the foot of our rocks, I know not what singular look he would have had on hearing my free language, and seeing you understand it, my naïve little girl, my well-beloved, my consoling brother.
Alas I those delightful evenings are no more. A day came when I had to leave you, you and the fields of Provence. Do you remember, my darling, we said adieu to each other, one autumn evening, beside the little river. The naked trees rendered the horizon more vast and gloomy; the country at that advanced hour, covered with dry leaves, damped with the first rains, spread out black, with great yellow spots, like a huge coarse carpet. The last rays of light were leaving the sky, and night arose in the east with threatening fogs, a dark night to be followed by an unknown dawn; with my life it was as with that autumnal sky; the planet of my youth had just disappeared, the night of age was rising, reserving I knew not what future for me. I felt the burning necessity of experiencing reality; I was weary of the dream, weary of the spring, weary of you, my dear soul, who escaped from my embrace, and in presence of my tears could only smile at me sadly. Our divine love was quite at an end; it had had its season, like all things. It was then, perceiving you were dying within me, that I went to the bank of the little river in the expiring country, to give you my kisses of departure. Oh! that evening so full of love and sadness! I kissed you, my distressed pale one; I endeavoured, for the last time, to give you back the robust health of your happy days: I could not, for I was your executioner. You rose within me higher than the body, higher than the heart, and you were nothing more than a souvenir.
It is now nearly seven years since I left you. Since the day of our farewell, in enjoyment and in grief, I have often listened to your voice, the caressing voice of a souvenir asking me for the tales of our Provençal evenings.
I know not what echo of our sonorous rocks responds in my heart. You, whom I left far away, plead so touchingly from your exile, that I seem to hear you in my innermost being. That sweet throb which past delight leaves within one, urges me to give way to your desire. Poor shadow that has disappeared in the solitude where the dear phantoms of our vanished dreams reside, if I must console you with my old stories, I feel the comfort I shall experience in listening to myself talking to you, as in our young days.
I comply with your request. I am going to relate the tales of our love-making again, one by one, not all, for there are some that could not be told a second time, the sun having faded those delicate flowers, which were too divinely simple for broad daylight, at their birth, but those with a robust constitution, which that clumsy machine called human memory is able to keep in mind.
Alas! I fear I am preparing great grief for myself in acting thus. To confide our conversations to the passing wind is violating the secret of our tenderness, and indiscreet lovers are punished in this world by the cold indifference of their confidants. I have still one hope, namely, that not a single person in this country will be tempted to peruse our stories. Our century is really much too busy to be attracted by the remarks of two unknown lovers. My detached pages will pass unperceived in the crowd, and will still reach you in their virginity. Thus I can indulge in folly at my ease; I can be as adventuresome as formerly, and as careless of the paths. You alone will read me, and I know with what indulgence.
And now, Ninon, I have satisfied your wishes; here are my stories. Raise no more your voice within me, that voice of remembrance, which brings tears to my eyes. Leave my heart, which requires rest, in peace; come no more, amidst the struggle, to remind me of our idle nights. If you must have a promise, I undertake to love you again, later on, when I shall have sought in vain in this world for other darlings, and when I shall return to my first love. Then I will go back again to Provence, and meet you on the bank of the little river. Winter will have come, a winter both sad and sweet, with a clear sky and earth giving hope for a future harvest. Believe me, we shall adore each other for another whole season; we will resume our peaceful evenings out in the country we love; we will complete our dream.
Wait for me, dear soul, faithful vision, sweetheart of the child and of the old man.
ÉMILE ZOLA
SIMPLICE
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