Part 135 (1/2)
The _immortelle_ is one of the earliest plants to shoot forth its leaves. It grows by the edge of the forest, and will thrive even in poor soil.
(May 1st.)--We have had a cold, rainy day, with hail. Toward evening, when the rain had ceased and the drops on the trees and bushes sparkled in the golden sunlight, I heard the cuckoo, for the first time this year. He flew from forest to forest, from mountain to mountain, crying everywhere.
I now know why they say: ”Go to the cuckoo.”[4] The cuckoo has no nest, no home of its own and, according to popular tradition, is obliged to sleep on a different tree every night. ”Go to the cuckoo,” therefore means: ”be restless and fugitive; be at home nowhere.”
When I told the grandmother of my discovery, she said: ”You've hit it exactly. You manage to get some good out of everything. You've won it.”
She meant that I had won the game of life.
My kind little pitchman has given me an unexpected treat. He has arranged a seat for me, up by the maple tree on the projecting rock.
But he cut away the bushes, and thus destroyed the privacy of my favorite haunt. Nevertheless, I find it pleasant to sit there. No human being is perfectly satisfied with what another may do for him, but we may be grateful, for all; and grat.i.tude is the soil on which joy thrives.
(First Sunday in May.)--On Sunday afternoons, when I may not work, I long to drive through the park in a caleche which is easy on its springs; not to be always walking or obliged to be doing something. To move through the world in the springtime, seated on soft cus.h.i.+ons and drawn by fleet horses, or, what is still better, to ride along the turfy forest paths, while guiding and controlling a strong power--I can never forget that.
At night, when I look up into the vast, starry vault, with its myriad glittering orbs, I find it difficult to sit or to walk. I think of the nights when, lying back in my carriage, I drove out into the wide world and looked up at the stars. How free everything was then! I am still much affected by trifles.
There are days when I cannot endure the forest, when I do not wish for shade. I must then have the sun--nothing but light and suns.h.i.+ne. At such times, I walk along the hot and shadeless meadow paths.
I now have a window-shelf filled with flower-pots. How different when one has to wait for the flowers to come up, instead of receiving them in full bloom from the gardener.
The evenings are my enemy--always heavy and dull. Morn is my friend, for then everything is bright. How different it once was!
The mental state of those who are out in the world may be likened to the physical condition of Baroness Constance. There is a constant ringing in her ears, and she knows nothing of holy repose or perfect silence. It is not until one ceases to know anything of the world, or to care for it, that this mental ringing in the ears ceases, and holy repose and calm are vouchsafed us. Every sound which then enters is as a marvel.
The grandmother is quiet and alert, just as occasion may require. She is not one of the ever busy and excited ones, and yet she is never idle. With her great knowledge of human nature, she yet retains her kindly feelings toward all. She has thought much and yet is _nave_.
She treats me with affectionate frankness, and says that she has, all her life, wished to have a clever person about her--one who had learnt something and with whom she could talk about everything. And she does this to the letter. I am obliged to explain a thousand things to her, and she is sincerely grateful for any information I can give her.
”I like to get my kindling-wood ready in time,” said she to-day.
Translated into our language, this means that she likes to think over things beforehand.
But there are so many dark doors which we pa.s.s with closed eyes.