IMPRESSIONS 
 BYPIERRBLOTI 
 
 i 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 BYHENRY-JAMES
 
 CHARLOTTE S. M. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 .
 
 IMPRESSIONS BY PIERRE LOTI
 
 IMPRESSIONS 
 ^PIERRE LOTI 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HENRY JAMES 
 
 ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. 
 WESTMINSTER <*fe MDCCCXCVIII.
 
 BIRMINGHAM: 
 PRINTED AT THE GUILD PRESS 45 GREAT CHARLES STREEET.
 
 Pierre Loti. 
 
 MAY as well admit at the outset that 
 in speaking of Pierre Loti I give way 
 to an inclination of the irresistible sort, 
 express indeed a lively obligation. I am 
 conscious of owing him that amount 
 and that kind of pleasure as to which 
 hesitation resides only in the difficulty 
 of statement. He has been for me, 
 from the hour of my making his ac 
 quaintance, one of the joys of the time, and the fact 
 moreover of his being of the time has often, to my eyes, 
 made it seem to suffer less from the presence of writers 
 less delightful yet more acclaimed. It is a part of the joy 
 I speak of that, having once for all, at the beginning, 
 caused the critical sense thoroughly to vibrate, he has ever 
 since then let it alone, brought about in my mind a state 
 of acceptance, a state of gratitude, in which I have been 
 content not to discriminate. Critically, on first knowing 
 him, I surrendered for it has always seemed to me that 
 the inner chamber of taste opens only to that key ; but, 
 the surrender being complete the chamber never again
 
 2 PIERRE 
 
 closed I feel that, like King Amasis with the ring, I have 
 thrown the key into the deep. He is extremely unequal 
 and extremely imperfect. He is familiar with both ends 
 of the scale of taste. I am not sure even that on the 
 whole his talent has gained with experience as much as 
 was to have been expected, that his earlier years have not 
 been those in which he was most to endear himself. 
 But these things have made little difference to a reader so 
 committed to an affection. 
 
 It has been a very simple case. At night all cats are 
 grey, and I have liked him so much in general that there 
 has always been a perch, a margin left when the special 
 case has for the moment cut away a little of the ground. 
 The love of letters renders us no greater service certainly 
 opens to us no greater satisfaction than in putting us 
 from time to time under some such charm. There need 
 never be a fear, I think, of its doing so too often. When 
 the charm, in such a manner, fixes itself, what has hap 
 pened is that the effect, the operative gift, has become 
 to us simply a value, and that an experience more or less 
 bitter has taught us never, in literature, to sacrifice any 
 value we may have been fortunate enough to light upon. 
 Such discoveries are too happy, such values too great. 
 They do for us what nothing else does. There are other 
 charms and other surrenders, but those have their action 
 in another air. What the mind feels in any form of 
 magic is a particular extension of the contact with life, 
 and no two forms give us exactly the same. Every artist 
 who really touches us becomes in this way an individual 
 instrument, the fiddler, the improviser of an original 
 tune. The inspiration may sometimes fail, the notes
 
 PIERRE LOTI. 3 
 
 sound weak or false ; but to break, on that account, the 
 fiddle across one's knee is surely given, as we look about 
 the much-mixed field, the other " values " a strange 
 aesthetic economy. 
 
 I. 
 
 I read and relish him whenever he appears, but his 
 earlier things are those to which I most return. It took 
 some time, in those years, quite to make him out he 
 was so strange a mixture for readers of our tradition. He 
 was a " sailor-man " and yet a poet, a poet and yet a sailor- 
 man. To a marked division of these functions we had 
 always been accustomed, looking as little for sensibility in 
 the seaman as perhaps for seamanship in the man of emo 
 tion. So far as we were at all conscious of the uses of 
 sensibility it was not to the British or the American tar 
 that we were in the habit of applying for it. Tobias 
 Smollett, Captain Marryat, Tom Cringle, Fenimore 
 Cooper had taught us another way, and in general our 
 enjoyment of what we artlessly term adventure had not 
 been associated, either as a fact or as an idea, with the 
 privilege of a range of feeling. There was from the 
 first in Loti the experience of the navigator, and yet 
 there was the faculty, the necessity of expression. The 
 experience had doubtless not been prodigious, but it had 
 been at least of a sort that among writers of our race has 
 mostly, for some reason, seemed positively to preclude ex 
 pression. He introduced confusion, as I have elsewhere 
 had occasion to say, into our assumption, so consecrated 
 by time, that adventures are mainly for those who lack 
 the fiddle-bow and the fiddle-bow all for those condemned
 
 4 PIERRE LOTL 
 
 to chamber-music. This was his period of most beautiful 
 production the period of Mon Frere Tves, Pecheur 
 d'lslande, Fleurs d'Ennui, Aziyade, Le Roman d'un Spahi^ 
 Le Manage de Loti; which are not here enumerated in 
 their order of appearance. They presented themselves as 
 the literary recreations flowers of reminiscence and im 
 agination, not always flowers of lassitude of a young 
 officer in the navy, a native of Rochefort and of old 
 Huguenot race, whose private name has so completely 
 lost itself in his public that I shall mention him but this 
 once as M. Julien Viaud. They made their full mark 
 only on the publication of Mon Frere Tves, but from that 
 moment Loti was placed. 
 
 I hasten to add that from that moment also the sea- 
 rover has been less visible in him than the man of expres 
 sion ; without detriment, however, to the immense good 
 fortune of his having betimes, in irresponsible youth, 
 possessed himself of the mystery of the sea. The sense of 
 it and the love of it, with the admirable passion they 
 make, are the background of most of his work, and of all 
 French writers of the day he is the one from whom Paris, 
 with its screen of many folds, least shuts off the rest of the 
 globe. He mentions Paris not even to curse it, and the 
 rest of the globe but mainly the watery wastes has 
 been his hunting-ground. It is largely in fact as if he 
 had been kept afloat by the very reasons that conduce to 
 the frequent disembarkment of the Englishman in quest 
 of impressions. He had in these years, as a Frenchman, 
 fewer places to land. When he did land, however, the 
 impressions came thick and are mainly presented in the 
 intensely personal form. They are autobiographic with-
 
 PIERRE LOT/. 5 
 
 out reserve, for reserve, in spite of his extraordinary 
 faculty of selection and compression, his special genius for 
 summarising, is not his strong point. Whenever Loti 
 landed, in short, he made love, and whenever he made 
 love he appears to have told of it. That would be our 
 main stick to beat him with if his principal use for us had 
 been to inspire us as I believe it has inspired some 
 readers with the desire to beat. The limits of that 
 desire on my own part I have sufficiently hinted at, and 
 I feel that I should have had no use of him at all had I 
 not at an early stage arrived at some sort of adequate view 
 of his necessity for " telling." It is the telling, above all, 
 I judge, that is the lion in the path of those whom he 
 displeases. I have never supposed, at any rate, that we 
 can enjoy the special gift of others altogether on terms 
 made by ourselves ; it seems to me that when such a gift 
 is real we should take it in any way we can get it take 
 it and be thankful. Of course by the most blessed of all 
 laws we are always free not to take, not even to read, 
 and I dare say that for many persons the non-perusal of 
 reminiscences such as these constitutes a positive pleasure. 
 There are writers, there are voyagers who tell nothing, 
 and for the best of reasons. Loti's singular power to tell 
 is exactly his value, and to attempt to make a law for it 
 might easily be, for readers and critics, a rash adventure. 
 His striking of the notes we delight in may be, for all we 
 know, conditioned on his striking of others we don't. 
 And then and then : what can one say after all but 
 that we leave him his liberty ? Not that we would leave 
 it to everyone. There iare sympathies, in short, and im 
 punities; so that I have been careful to make with the
 
 6 PIERRE LOTI. 
 
 erotics both of Le Manage de Loti and of Madame Chry- 
 santheme such terms as would not spoil for me the rest of 
 the message. This rest, in Loti, has always one mean 
 ing. It is the part not about his love-making. 
 
 We are most of all free from care, accordingly, in those 
 of his volumes in which the story he has to tell is the story 
 of someone else the delightful brother Yves, the magni 
 ficent Yann of Brittany, Ramuntcho the bold young 
 Basque, or even the doleful little hero of Matelot. It is 
 difficult not to regret that these stories of someone else, 
 all with so special a beauty, are not the most numerous in 
 the list ; I would gladly have given for another Pecheur 
 d'Islande, indeed for another Ramuntcho or another Matelot, 
 a dozen things of the complexion of LExilee, of fantome 
 d 'Orient, of Le Roman d"un Enfant. In L'Exilee he " tells" 
 with a vengeance and quite too much ; too much, I mean, 
 of what he feels for the troubled, misplaced, accomplished 
 Queen of whose splendid hospitality and confidence the 
 volume is a record : too much also, doubtless, of what he 
 knows of the personal appearance and habits and private 
 affairs oh, of a delicacy ! of her principal lady-in-wait 
 ing. These are Loti's mystifying moments, other speci 
 mens of which confront us in the singular publicity given 
 by Le Livre de la Pitie et de la Mort to the last illness, the 
 last hours, the laying out and interment of one of the 
 nearest and most loved of his female relatives. Stranger 
 than strange as well, in the pages in question, are the 
 simplicity and solemnity of his expatiation on the favourite 
 cats and other inmates, the domestic arrangements and in 
 timate trifles of the home of his youth. It is odd that a 
 mere matter of shading for in such things it is only that
 
 PIERRE LOTI. 7 
 
 should make so much difference ; but these are the 
 errors as to which it may be said not so much that the 
 hand would be stayed in the commission of them by the 
 presence of a sense of humour as that this presence would 
 in general have rendered them insupposable. They pro 
 ceed after all largely, from one of the most marked fea 
 tures of the French literary mind of the day that intense 
 professionalism which is in its turn the result of conscious 
 and cultivated art. To work as hard as the countrymen 
 of Loti for the most part work their language work their 
 perceptions, their emotions and sensibilities, their sense of 
 form, of style, of the shade, the effect, their analysis alike 
 of subject and of tone to do all this is to thrust the torch 
 assuredly into every corner of experience and to drop 
 every grain of observation into the literary mill. 
 
 Nothing, in consequence, is more striking than the 
 failure of any sense as we ourselves understand it of a 
 division between the public and the private : the writer 
 becomes primarily a writer and ceases in the same propor 
 tion to be anything else. His soul, his life and its pulsa 
 tions are mere wheels and springs in the machinery of 
 expression, and the man, as a man, can treat himself to no 
 distinctive experience, reserve no garden-plot for wasteful 
 human use. There are precious kinds of silence that he 
 ceases to be able to afford, luxuries of simple choice, happy 
 failures of logic, for ever banished from his budget. Full 
 of suggestion on this head, for instance, is the manner in 
 which the brothers Goncourt live, in their extraordinary 
 Journal, up to the last penny of that part of their income 
 which might have been supposed to be most peculiarly 
 personal ; paying it out, on the spot, without, as one may
 
 8 PIERRE LOTL 
 
 say, so much as passing it through their moral bank. The 
 French writer, on the other hand I speak most, of 
 course, of the creators, as we perhaps a trifle fatuously call 
 them can afford an expenditure of expression, particu 
 larly in prose, that causes his English-speaking brother to 
 appear by contrast to carry on a very small business. The 
 literary establishment of the latter is indeed in compari 
 son but meagrely mounted. Such is far from the case 
 with Loti's, which offers perhaps, through the peculiar 
 profusion of the personal note, as striking an example as 
 can be named of the rattling spiritual train de maison to 
 which I allude. I am lost in admiration of such an eco 
 nomy ; wonderstruck, as I reflect, as I measure it, at his 
 employment of his means. Three fourths of his work are 
 the most charming egotism ; the portion that is finest, the 
 four or five more or less constructed and conducted tales, 
 is the minor portion. And yet the egotism lives and 
 blooms too, scatters the rarest fragrance and throws out 
 pages like great strange flowers. It all comes from the 
 fact that he uses all his impressions. There are many 
 impressions he never has, but he gives us for all they are 
 worth those with which he is favoured never misses 
 them on the wing nor shirks the catching; and of the 
 lightest, loosest yet cunningest interweaving of these his 
 curious prose mainly consists. It consists of the happiest 
 conceivable utterance of feelings about aspects. What he 
 may well have assured himself at the start was of his pro 
 bably being one of the persons in the world to whom 
 aspects had most to say. Wonderful and beautiful is the 
 language in which they speak to him, and that language, 
 as he has reported it, has made his literary fortune. Know-
 
 PIERRE LOTL 9 
 
 ledge of the finer, or at any rate the unpersonal sort, re 
 flection of the deeper, the power to compose, in the larger 
 sense, or truly to invent, have had the smallest hand in the 
 business. At the same time he has been subject to the law 
 that nothing in art, however capricious, can be done with 
 out love, and he has continually loved two things one 
 of them the great watery globe and the other the nature 
 of man. 
 
 These two things are what, in an exquisite way, both 
 Pecheur (Tlslande and Mon Frere Tves consist of; the first 
 the simplest, deepest little story of love and death, the 
 other the largest, tenderest, brightest picture of friendship 
 and life. The persons concerned are all sailor-folk, and 
 the setting of the drama so far as not the great void of 
 the sea-spaces, against which his figures magnificently 
 stand up is the landscape and colouring, the village 
 scenery of Brittany, for which no one has had so fine and 
 sincere a touch. With however much appreciation any 
 lover of Loti may once have spoken of these books, there 
 can never fail to be a freshness in coming back to them ; 
 they belong so to the class of the happiest literary things. 
 And yet, essentially, one must speak of them mainly for 
 old acquaintance without the power of really naming 
 their charm. The beauty of the author at his best is 
 something too unnameable, something that seems a kind 
 of secret between himself and his reader. That indeed 
 perhaps is what we feel for all the authors who give us 
 the finer joy : we feel it to be quite enough if they know 
 what we like them for. When others don't know, that, 
 somehow, at moments, practically adds to the reason. 
 None of the famous " love-stories " of the world are, at
 
 io PIERRE LOTL 
 
 any rate, more charged than this history of Yann and 
 Gaud with the particular exquisite, the mixture of beauty 
 and misery, that we require of the type which, to com 
 mend itself to the right corner of our memory, must 
 always have its final terror and tragedy. Made up of two 
 main forces, human passion, human hope and effort, pain 
 and defeat, and the wonderfully vivified presence of nature 
 in ambush and waiting only to devour, the whole thing 
 hangs together and drives home its effect with an admir 
 able artistic economy. Loti's manner is so all his own 
 the manner of intimate confidence in his reader, of talk, 
 of anecdote, of sequences neglected and lost, a part of the 
 work obligingly done for him that quite equally at his 
 best and at his middling he offers the constant interest of 
 a thorough concealment of his means. I can imagine at 
 once no more unqualified success and no model more to 
 be deprecated. The only thing possible was to be Loti ; 
 let us pray to be protected from any attempt to emulate 
 him by any shorter cut. He offers himself expressly 
 enough as the least literary of writers, and one grants him 
 that without a protest so long as he remains one of the 
 most literary of pleasures. He is of course only what is 
 vulgarly called " deep," and at the very bottom of his 
 depth like the purse in the consciousness of the pick 
 pocket looking innocently the other way lies the finest 
 little knowledge of exactly how to do it. A small gold 
 thread, perfectly palpable to himself, guides him through 
 his gaps and breaks, the sweet wild garden of his conspi 
 cuous want of plan. This serves him extraordinarily in 
 Mon Frere Tves, in which there is so much delightful 
 clearness and so little concatenation. There are times
 
 PIERRE LOTL n 
 
 indeed when we feel him to hold his happy instinct on 
 terms scarcely fair ; it does so for him whatever he wants 
 and yet gives, on our part, a positive air of pedantry to all 
 technical inquiries. 
 
 What touches deepest in his tales and indeed in his 
 every page is, as should be mentioned without delay, 
 the general pity of almost everything. It need hardly be 
 said that he is not of the complexion of the moralist, and 
 the light leading him through the tribulations of his 
 people is as little as possible any reference to what they 
 " had better " have done. We can never at all imagine 
 them to have done anything different, so little can it 
 come up for them to follow anything but their immediate 
 social instincts. When they pay for that only in sorrow 
 or shame, this becomes precisely for ourselves the spring 
 of an added interest. Loti's philosophy is the philosophy 
 of imagination of likes and dislikes, of indulgence for 
 weakness and compassion for accident, of kindly tolerance 
 for unguarded or unbalanced good faith. His people have 
 come into the world mainly to feel, and he, upon their 
 heels, mainly to feel /or them. So, with all this, he feels 
 even more than they. That is his most individual note 
 that he has carried his sensibility, so unquenched and 
 on the whole so little vulgarised, so much about the great 
 globe. The subjects of it in his two earlier novels and 
 in Matelot and Ramuntcho are the simplest of simple folk, 
 the poorest of the poor. They are all young and fresh 
 and strong, all beautiful and natural, kind and stricken ; 
 they earn their living in labour and sorrow, and their joys 
 are the scant breathing-times in the hard battle of life. 
 The humility of their condition is perhaps what most of
 
 12 PIERRE LOTI. 
 
 all given the admirable tenderness of his treatment of 
 them makes us think of Loti as the last of the raffines. 
 It gives the measure of his admirable sense of sociability, 
 gives the natural note to the delicacy of his human tone, 
 to all his heart-softenings and his cultivation of pathos. 
 The strange little tale of Mate/of is nothing in the world 
 but heart-softening ; I call it strange for the simple reason 
 of its being a priori so unexpected a stroke on the part of 
 a member of his profession. It depicts the career of a 
 small sensitive sailor-boy who feels everything really too 
 much and in regard to whom we are ourselves, doubtless, 
 in this way though it is almost brutal to say so drawn 
 on to participations that are excessive. He dies, of course, 
 in sight of home, of a fever contracted in torrid eastern 
 seas, and the whole affair is but a merciless performance 
 on the finest fiddlestring. Yet the good Lotist, as I may 
 say, can only swallow Matelot whole : I should even guage 
 his goodness by his capacity to do so. But if the thing is 
 irresistible it is also calculated, transparent ; it unscrews 
 the stopper of tears with a positively audible creak. 
 What then is the reason that its tone is exquisite and its 
 pathos practically profound ? I am glad to suppose the 
 answer to such a question to lie beyond my analysis. The 
 reason is where the best reason always is, in the very air 
 of the picture of which a particular breath, for instance, 
 is in the eloquence, the rare delicacy of presentation, of 
 the episode of the young man's innocent friendship, 
 blighted by fate, with the mild Madeleine of Quebec, the 
 charm of such a passage Loti at his melancholy happiest 
 as that in which the author strikes the last note of this 
 adventure. " So it had come to their loving each other
 
 PIERRE LOTI. 13 
 
 with a tenderness that was equally pure for each. She, 
 ignorant of the things of love and reading her Bible every 
 night ; she, destined to keep her useless freshness and 
 youth for a few more springtimes not less pale and then 
 to grow old and fade in the narrowing round of these 
 same streets and these same walls. He, already spoiled 
 with kisses and with other arms, having the world for his 
 changing abode and called to start off perhaps to-morrow, 
 never again to come back only to leave his body in dis 
 tant seas." 
 
 Fully characteristic of Loti is this mention of his sailor- 
 boy as " spoiled " spoiled by contacts after all supposedly 
 familiar to sailor-boys. That is but a touch of his usual 
 pessimism, and practically our comment on it as we 
 read consists in not believing it : being spoiled is a process 
 his delightful people are in general so little the worse 
 for. The reason of which, I take it, just brings us close 
 to the general explanation of the author's largest magic, 
 the beauty of his dealings with sun and wind and space. 
 These are the elements with which, whether spoiled or 
 not, his characters mainly live and which he renders for 
 them with a breadth that never fails. They remain some 
 how, throughout, globe-creatures, with the great arch of 
 the sky for two-thirds of their consciousness, becoming no 
 uglier by anything that may happen to them than birds 
 become by the traps and missies of man. If they were 
 mewed and stewed in close rooms, in dark towns, it might 
 be a different matter. None of them circulate with more 
 ease and grace than Ramuntcho, the hero of his latest tale, 
 expert, in his character of bright young Basque, at Pyre- 
 neean tennis, Pyreneean smuggling and climbing, Pyre-
 
 I 4 PIERRE LOTL 
 
 neean love-making, too, not least. If here and there, from 
 book to book, the charm had suffered a chill, in Ramuntcho 
 it all comes back the thing is wholly admirable. And 
 yet what is it ? what that would commend it to readers 
 who like their mouthful of " story " big ? Perfect is the 
 bravery of the author's indifference to these and possibly 
 the thing that I most like him for. It is impossible not 
 to admire a man whose general assurance and his faith in 
 his particular star permit him to set sail with so small a 
 provision of plot. The beauty of such an outfit as Loti's 
 is in its positively never leaving him without a subject. 
 Cast ashore on strands the most desert, he is sufficiently 
 nourished by the delicacy of his senses. They play in and 
 out of Ramuntcho with the effect of the chequering of the 
 sun in a wood, and our enjoyment of the tale one can 
 speak at least of one's own is simply our recognition of 
 the intensity of all the presences. We look into the eyes 
 of the people, we sit with them in the boat, and spring 
 with them on the turf, and racket with them at the game, 
 and sweat with them in the great hot sun, smelling the 
 woods and tasting the wine and hearing the cries enjoy 
 ing at every turn the colour and the rustle and the light. 
 We live with their simplicity and we generally love their 
 ways. Above all we love their loves, and there is no one 
 like Loti for making us fond of his lovers. So moments 
 and pictures stand out for us, all with the freshness of odours, 
 contacts, the tone of white walls and brown interiors 
 caught, in glimpses, as we take our ascent through chest 
 nut-woods. It is all experience and memory, and yet all 
 glamour and grace.
 
 PIERRE LOTI. 15 
 
 III. 
 
 In the volumes, the most numerous, that are simply the 
 record of impressions, of change of place, we come back 
 perpetually to that tremor of the fiddlestring. No other 
 word renders so well the fine vibration in Loti of what he 
 sees and what he makes us see. This fineness is his charm 
 ing quality and arrived at without affectation or contortion. 
 The spasm of the descriptive alternates in the case of too 
 many other travellers with mere visual apathy, and our 
 choice is on the whole mainly between those who are 
 without observation and those who are without expression. 
 But to Loti things come with the sun and the wind and 
 the chance of the spot and the moment ; his perception is 
 a sensitive plate on which aspects are forever at play. He 
 is the companion, beyond all others, of my own selection, 
 for the simple reason that none other shows me so easily 
 such far and strange things. He has readers, of a cer 
 tainty, whom he more than consoles for the humdrum 
 nature of their fate ; as positively, with this affection for 
 him, it is better to have had no adventures of one's own. 
 It is simpler and I say so quite without irony not to 
 have travelled, not to have trodden with heavier feet the 
 ground over which we follow him. It is of the scenes I 
 shall never visit that I like to read descriptions, and no 
 thing, for that matter, would induce me to interfere with 
 any impression happily received from him. The descrip 
 tion in fact for the most part only mystifies and irritates 
 when memory is really in possession. I prefer his memory 
 to my own, and am ready to think it no hard rule of life 
 to have had, in my chair, to take so much of the more
 
 1 6 PIERRE LOTL 
 
 wonderful world from a little lemon-covered book. We 
 can only, at the best, be transported, and the author of 
 Propos d'Exil, of Au Maroc, of Japoneries d 1 Automne deli 
 vers us infallibly, by a process of his own, at the right 
 door in the wall. He has not been an explorer and is not 
 of that race, but his perception so penetrates that he has 
 only to tae me round the corner to give me the sense of 
 exploring^. I have been assured that Madame Chrysantheme 
 is as preposterous, as benighted a picture of Japan as if a 
 stranger, disembarking at Liverpool, had confined his 
 acquaintance with England to a few weeks spent in dis^ 
 reputable female society in a vulgar suburb of that cityJ 
 But the moral of this truth, if a truth it be, would really 
 seem all to the writer's advantage : I should delight in any 
 observer in whom the gift of observation, the sense of 
 appearances, might be such as to make Birkenhead, say, 
 give him, and by his delightful intervention give me^ a 
 picture so charming and so living. Whether Loti tells 
 us or no what we want is a question that we certainly 
 never put ; what we want becomes for the time just what 
 ever he has to tell us. To turn him over again as I write 
 these lines is, none the less, scarcely to know where, for 
 examples, to pick and choose. We always meet side by 
 side, to begin with, specimens of his innocence and speci 
 mens of his craft. This collection of Figures et Choses qui 
 Passaient, opens with a succession of pages embodying, 
 on the occasion of the death of the baby of his servant, 
 the sort of emotion that we others flatter ourselves we 
 keep when we have it to keep veiled and hushed ; but 
 it goes on to the admirable Trois yournees de Guerre^ an 
 impression of the French attack on the Anam forts in the
 
 PIERRE LOT!. 17 
 
 summer of 1883, which gives the reader exactly the sense 
 of blinking, wondering, perspiring participation in the 
 presence of endless queerness the sense of seeing, hearing, 
 touching, smelling the whole hot, grotesque little horror. 
 No one approaches Loti for reconstituting such an episode 
 as this and in the most off-hand, jotted, anecdotic way 
 as a presented personal impression. Such notes are doubt 
 less journalism, but journalism exquisite. " In the midst 
 of the morning light, which was fresh and blue, these 
 flames " (a village was on fire) " were of an extraordinary 
 red ; they cast no light, but were as dark as blood. You 
 saw them twisted and mixing, saw everything instantly 
 consumed ; the smoke-clouds, intensely black, diffused a 
 sharp musty stench. On the roofs of the pagodas, in the 
 midst of their devilries, among the darts of all the forked 
 tails and outspread claws, the rush of the fire-tongues 
 seemed at first natural enough. But all the little plaster 
 monsters had begun to crackle and burst, scattering to 
 right and left the blue porcelain of their scales and the 
 crystal balls of their wicked eyes, then had crumbled, with 
 the beams, into the gaping holes of the temples." 
 
 Loti's East is, throughout, of all Easts the most beguil 
 ing, though, for the most part unless perhaps in the case 
 of Au Maroc, where he appears to have been peculiarly 
 initiated it seldom ceases to be the usual, accessible East, 
 the East of Cook, of tickets and time-tables, of the English 
 and American swarm. The swarm, at any rate, never 
 taints Loti's air, and we remain, in his caravan, as discon 
 nected from everything else as it need occur to us to 
 desire. If he has been only where they all have been, he 
 has at least brought back what they all have not, what
 
 1 8 PIERRE LOT/. 
 
 indeed, for my imagination, n otheodhsa ronnee the fine, 
 strange flower of the thing, the element that continues to 
 haunt us, the sweetest, saddest secret it whispers to the 
 mind. When the innumerable others further pushers, 
 doubtless, and sharper penetrators shall offer us notes of 
 this quality, then, only then, shall we grant that they have 
 been as far. It would of course never be easy to find in 
 any caravan a pilgrim with so absolute an esteem for his 
 own emotions. Loti belongs to the precious few who are 
 not afraid of being ridiculous; a condition not in itself 
 perhaps constituting positive wealth, but speedily raised to 
 that value when the naught in question is on the right 
 side of certain other figures. His attitude is that whatever, 
 on the spot and in the connection, he may happen to feel 
 is suggestive, interesting and human, so that his duty 
 with regard to it can only be essentially to utter it. The 
 duty of not being ridiculous is one to which too many 
 travellers of our own race assign the high position that he 
 attributes to right expression, to right expression alone. 
 It has led him, this gallant point of honour, to say, at 
 Jerusalem in the volume with that title too many 
 things about himself, even to appear indeed to have made 
 the wondrous pilgrimage too much in search of a present 
 able figure which is not quite the one we might have 
 guessed. Yet here too his sympathetic "self" still in 
 cludes a more sensible vision of a hundred other and very 
 different things than many a record of the type that 
 leaxes us unstirred accompanied with more precautions. 
 Jerusalem, on the other hand, I admit, is a trifle spoiled 
 for the rigid Lotist by being, in all the list, the book that 
 gives out most wandering airs, most echoes already heard,
 
 PIERRE LOT: i. 19 
 
 of " literature." That the author has not been from be 
 ginning to end intensely literary let me not for a moment 
 do his prodigious legerdemain the wrong to suggest, for 
 his particular shade of the natural was surely never arrived 
 at without much choosing and comparing. His lightness 
 is the lightness of knowledge and his ease the ease of 
 practice. But he covers his tracks, as I have hinted, con 
 summately ; it is the perfect pointing of the watch with 
 out, discoverably, the mechanism. In 'Jerusalem we seem 
 a little to hear the tick. 
 
 But I have been reading again Au Maroc^ in which, 
 figuratively as well as literally, there is not the least 
 rumble of wheels. The author here wanders over his 
 subject with a step as independent of the usual literary 
 macadam as the march of his caravan, in the roadless land, 
 found itself perforce of any other ; and nothing is more 
 delightful than to keep him company through such a 
 mixture of wondrous matter and incalculable talk. Such 
 a volume as this expresses him at his best, for the special 
 adventure gives most chance to his admirable curiosity, 
 his undiscourageable passion for putting on as many as 
 possible of the queer forms of consciousness encountered 
 in other races and under other skies, of living though 
 not perhaps for so very long into conditions exotic and 
 uncomfortable, the inner sense of the strangeness of which 
 he more beguilingly than ever communicates. The inner 
 sense seems to me always to begin where the finest fair of 
 most travellers stops, and this exquisite Au Maroc is all 
 made up of it. His evocation of the almost unutterable 
 Fez, his description of the days spent there apart from the 
 other members of the mission in which he was included,
 
 20 PIERRE LOTL 
 
 his picture, perhaps even more, of his further push to the 
 gruesome, melancholy Mekinez the warm vividness of 
 these things takes on for the fond reader the intensity of 
 some private romance. Loti, in short, becomes thus to 
 put it only at that, and where his wandering sensibility is 
 concerned the rarest of tale-tellers. He drinks, in this 
 character, so deep of impressions that places where he has 
 passed are left dry : there are none, I repeat, we pay him 
 the questionable compliment of wishing to visit after him. 
 We; are content to go nowhere which is a much greater 
 tribute. When I say we are content I mean perhaps we 
 are determined, for he leaves us, in a way all his own, 
 with a fear of finding strange things themselves not so 
 true as he is true to their surprising essence. Droll, in a 
 manner, yet without injury to their charm, are the pages 
 of his attempt condemned, one must recognise, to a suc 
 cess mainly superficial to live a little the life of any 
 corner that happens to strike him as extraordinary and in 
 particular to dress in its draperies ; droll perhaps above 
 all his frank delight in these last aids to illusion and very 
 expressive, at all events, of the joy of masquerading as an 
 Oriental that appears to have been from the first his 
 harmless revenge on his having been born a mere Hugue 
 not. This he was not the man to think sufficient. We 
 forgive any millinery that still leaves the standpoint of 
 the painter as free as, for instance, in such a passage as 
 this : " Toward two in the afternoon a halt in some place 
 or other, from which this image remains with me: the 
 perpetual boundless plain, flowered over as never a garden, 
 and alone there, a little way off, our old exhausted Caid 
 down on his knees at prayer. We are in a zone of white
 
 PIERRE LO7L zi 
 
 daisies mixed with pink poppies. The old man, close to 
 his end, has an earthen face, a beard as blanched as lichen, 
 a dress of the same freshness of colour as the poppies and 
 daisies around, the kaftan of pink cloth showing through 
 the long white mufflers. His white horse, with its high 
 red saddle, browses beside him and plunges its head into 
 the grass. He himself, half sunk among the flowers, the 
 white and pink flowers that are circled, beneath the deep 
 blue of the summer sky, by the infinite desert of the 
 immense flowery level he himself, prostrate on the earth 
 in which he will soon be laid, begs for the mercy of Allah 
 with the fervour of prayer given by the feeling of annihi 
 lation at hand." That is pure, essential Loti poetry in 
 observation, felicity in sadness. 
 
 Henry James.
 
 The Passing of a Child. 
 
 [HAT I am going to write is only for 
 those who have actually stood by some 
 newly-made little grave, covered still 
 perhaps with fresh flowers, and found 
 themselves overwhelmed by the remem 
 brance of a child's eyes that were closed 
 there for ever under the awful earth. 
 
 This death of little children this 
 baffling enigma how it cheats our under 
 standing ! Why are they taken, instead of us, who have 
 done our day's work, and who would willingly accept to go ? 
 Or rather why did they come, since they were to depart 
 so soon, only to have undergone the iniquitous agony of 
 death ? Before their white tombs our reason and our 
 hearts struggle in conflict, rebellious and distressed in 
 darkness and doubt. 
 
 n The delightful little being whose memory I would en 
 deavour to prolong by speaking of him, was the only son 
 of Sylvestre, an old servant of ours, who had become after 
 ten years of service, almost one of the family. ]
 
 THE PASSING OF A CHILD. 23 
 
 He had only seen two summers of our earth. His silky 
 hair, yellow as that of a doll, parted in funny little curls, 
 difficult enough to dress. His complexion was like Ben 
 gal roses, his features like a child angel's ; whilst a little 
 mouth that was always open above a chin slightly reced 
 ing, gave him an adorable air of naivete. Moreover he 
 was the happiest of babies, absorbed in the new joy of ex 
 istence, of breathing, of moving, full of life and healthful- 
 ness, and round and muscular as a cupid. 
 
 But his peculiar charm was in his eyes, great blue eyes, 
 frank and truthful and ever wide with astonishment before 
 all the things of this world. 
 
 In Paris, at the hotel, on this grey December morning 
 after my long journey from the north, where I had been 
 without news for several days, I casually open one of the 
 letters in a pile brought me from the poste-restante and 
 read : " Yesterday evening at eight o'clock little Roger 
 died in dreadful agony. We are all deeply distressed. 
 Poor Sylvestre is pitiful to see." 
 
 At first I turn and walk up and down as one agitated 
 by physical suffering. Then I continue reading, to learn 
 more : croup, it seems, caused his death, taking him in a 
 few hours from amidst the distraught watchers. 
 
 I walk up and down again, observing unconsciously the 
 details of every object about me, the hideousness of the 
 room, and kick aside everything in my way, until I can 
 grasp the inexorable reality of what I have just read; and 
 then suddenly a mist rises, I can see nothing, and the tears 
 come. 
 
 The idea that little Roger might die had never entered 
 my thoughts. Nor did I realize that he had taken so
 
 24 ?HE PASSING 
 
 large a place in my heart that little child ! I could not 
 believe that I cared so much for him. Besides, can we 
 tell why we are drawn towards some special little being 
 who is nothing to us, rather than to one who may be more 
 closely tied : it is something, perhaps, that steals from 
 their child eyes, something that rises from the little soul, 
 so new and pure, to penetrate ours that is oppressed and 
 gloomy. 
 
 In this same pile of letters is a telegram which has been 
 with the others for the last few days, at the poste restante: 
 " I am in dreadful trouble. Our little Roger is dead 
 Sylvestre." 
 
 I look at the dates. All this happened two days ago ! 
 They will bury him, then, to-night and it is too late. I 
 cannot possibly arrive in time. There is no human way 
 to see his dear little face again, even pale and rigid. 
 
 " Roger Couec," that was the title he gave himself 
 when he was asked " What is your name " (his own 
 abbreviation of his father's name, a Breton one of rough 
 consonants). When he pronounced this Couec, he was 
 so delightfully comical that we invariably made him repeat 
 it to think to-day of this little word, to hear it echoing 
 in my mind, sickens me. 
 
 Here, in Paris, I ought to stay some time, I had 
 a thousand things to do, so many appointments, friends 
 counting on me for dinner, pressing questions to be settled, 
 none of which seems of any importance now ; but I am 
 determined to go. I shall not even trouble to warn them. 
 I shall go home, home. All the same he won't be there, 
 poor little fellow ! He will never be there again, our 
 Roger Couec.
 
 OF A CHILD. 25 
 
 But there is no train I can possibly take till this even 
 ing. During the whole desolate day I shall have to wait 
 wait in this room, or wander about the streets, alone, 
 and miserable, among those who are necessarily indifferent 
 my being in revolt, exasperated and helpless against the 
 stupid cruelty of Death, who closes the eyes of the young, 
 and mows down children to lay them in his charnel house. 
 
 " I am in dreadful trouble. Our little Roger is dead." 
 As the weary hours go by, I keep thinking of his little 
 life, a little life of only two summers, and as each moment 
 passes, there deepens in me the sense that it is over for 
 ever. 
 
 Oh ! his little voice I can hear it now, as it would 
 echo through the courtyard of our house when I passed 
 his parents' rooms. He always followed me : " Messieu, 
 Messieu !" (to him Monsieur was my name) and then his 
 little footsteps would patter merrily behind. All that is 
 at an end shut up in the past ! 
 
 As I look back, I see him in a certain pink merino 
 frock his every-day costume at this time of the year 
 and a white tie, " the Valliere? embroidered at each end 
 with a Chinese flower. He generally wore it the wrong 
 way round, the bow at the back, underneath his little 
 yellow curls. Good God, it breaks my heart, and the 
 tears blind me again when I think of that crooked little 
 tie, all in a muddle at the back of his pink frock. 
 
 He had an indomitable spirit, this little Roger, and yet 
 he never flew into violent passions, as most children do. 
 If we annoyed him by stopping him from splashing in 
 water, or by taking away from him anything he might 
 break, he would cry desperately, but only from unhappi-
 
 26 'THE PASSING 
 
 ness : " Is it possible people can be so unjust," he would 
 seem to say, " Is it possible that such awful things can 
 happen to me !" Then we had to give in to him at once, 
 for in these moods he was irresistible. And now one 
 would give days of one's life never to have caused him 
 any little annoyance. 
 
 Sometimes, when he thought he had anything very 
 important to do, and was stopped on the way, he would 
 look up with extraordinary seriousness, and silently push 
 aside one's hand to proceed to his business, frowning 
 severely. Cats sometimes affect this droll gravity when 
 they are anxious to be about their affairs, too occupied to 
 take any heed of the most persistent calling. 
 
 He had such eyes, this little Roger, eyes hardly of the 
 earth, that habitually laughed with a little confident joy, 
 yet, at furtive moments, would suddenly look over serious. 
 And although everything in him suggested life the in 
 consequent happiness of being, of laughter, he had, when 
 one thinks of it, eyes that seemed to question, to implore, 
 to trouble about some unknown to-morrow. 
 
 And it is these he chooses, the inexorable, imbecile 
 mower, to throw into his cemetery holes ! 
 
 On the morrow, the 6th of December, after travelling 
 all night, I arrive at my home in the early morning of a 
 dismal winter day. 
 
 I find poor Sylvestre in my room lighting the fire. He 
 says childishly, with a great sob from his breast, " I have 
 lost my little Roger." And here, in the cold room, day 
 light just creeping through the windows, and a forgotten 
 lamp still alight on the table, he tells me about the end 
 of this little child for whom I weep even as much as he.
 
 OF A CHILD. 27 
 
 So violent, so unexpected is this aggressiveness of death! 
 He was stifled in full life, struggling, wringing his little 
 hands in his suffering. . . " Until the last moment," 
 says Sylvestre, " he held out his arms for me to take him, 
 he clung to me, and tried to raise himself up ; he did not 
 want to die." 
 
 Whilst listening to these awful details I suddenly think 
 of a scene that took place last summer. One evening they 
 came and told me that little Roger was ill. I went at 
 once to his parents' house, and there I found him on his 
 mother's knees, trembling, his cheeks wet with tears. He 
 closed his little hand over my ringer and looked up im 
 ploringly. " Would you believe," he seemed to say, 
 " what has happened to me the fear I had of stifling if 
 you knew !" There was nothing seriously the matter, a 
 little choking that often happens to babies. But already 
 in his look stirred the consciousness of his own weakness 
 and the anxiety, the agony of feeling so little, so powerless 
 before the menacing darkness he dared not face alone. 
 Remembering that terrible expression I can only imagine 
 too well the look he must have given of supplication and 
 growing terror when he threw out his arms to his father 
 " not wanting to die." 
 
 He had such absolute confidence in our protection that 
 it seemed as if we had betrayed the little fellow in allow 
 ing this cursed Mower to carry him away. His expression 
 at certain moments, recurring now to my mind so livingly, 
 causes me more emotion than human words can say. And 
 I think that the humbleness of his birth adds I know not 
 what of greater misery to the pain I feel at having lost him. 
 I should certainly have wept less had he been a little prince
 
 28 THE PASSING 
 
 " Oh ! he was not forgotten," continues Sylvestre. 
 " Every one in the neighbourhood came, and he had so 
 many flowers, so many wreaths ! Besides the whole house 
 is in deep mourning for him ; we shall never hear his 
 laughter there again, nor the sound of his baby footsteps, 
 nor the dear shrill little voice." 
 
 We are silent at breakfast this morning, and Sylvestre, 
 who has resumed his duties for the first time since the 
 child's death, waits on us, his eyes smarting with tears. 
 
 All this last summer Roger used to come and assist at 
 our meals when we had them here in the breakfast room. 
 We would hear him trotting along the court-yard between 
 the flower-stands, anxious to be in time, and then he would 
 appear at the door smiling and radiant, hesitating for a 
 moment to ask permission with his eyes before coming in, 
 as if already in his little mind he understood that he had 
 not quite the right. " Yes, come in ; come in Roger 
 Couec." Then he would march in, pretending he was a 
 soldier. Left, right, left, right ; and during the whole 
 breakfast he would tumble in and out between his father's 
 legs, considerably upsetting the service. 
 
 At dessert he would push himself closer to my little 
 boy (three years his senior, and devoted to him as to his 
 best doll) and become suddenly bold, pouting his lips for 
 the cherry or strawberry he knew he would get. 
 
 After breakfast I went to the back of the house, to the 
 yard leading to the servants' premises. Into this sunny 
 quarter, one reached by a few steps, I used to go often on 
 the pretext of visiting the greenhouse, but really to see 
 something of Roger Couec, who was generally roaming 
 about there in a little pink frock and a Chinese silk tie.
 
 OF A CHILD. 29 
 
 As soon as he saw me he would hasten up that I might 
 take him with me ; and even on those days when I did 
 not want him, he was irresistible, his little voice calling, 
 his determination to follow me, stumbling as he did on the 
 steps, too high for his little legs, that separated the two 
 courts, and going on all fours at last in a most business 
 like way in order to get along more quickly. Little being 
 come to life under my roof, just as the swallows do in the 
 spring, and as the roses bud on the old walls ; for him 
 these courts overshadowed by green branches represented 
 the world ! How inscrutable to us his little notions of 
 life, his little thoughts buried now in the great abyss ! 
 
 It is the first evening since my return. 
 
 I have just placed the portrait of little Roger above my 
 writing table in a pink and gold frame pink like his 
 little frock. It is one he gave me himself. Somebody 
 had put it in his hands and told him to take it to " Mes- 
 sieu," and he came with a timid air, and something of a 
 twinkle, to make me a present of his portrait ; he knew 
 well enough it was his own portrait. How he clutched 
 it with his tiny hands ! 
 
 Now Sylvestre brings me his little tie, all washed and 
 ironed, la Valliere^ that I asked him to give me." I bought 
 it in China when I was a sailor," he explained. I hang 
 the little cravat on the frame of the picture knotted with 
 a sprig of white flowers. The portrait will preserve for 
 some years yet the little angel-face that proved so ephe 
 meral, and that was taken from us so soon. We shall still 
 have something to remind us of that inexpressible child 
 look. 
 
 Another day gone.
 
 3 o THE PASSING 
 
 One dull morning in crossing the back yard, I saw the 
 little pink dress that they had washed, and that was hang 
 ing on a cord to dry, the little sleeves dangling : it will 
 become a thing put away, carefully folded, and in future 
 years no one will remember what child used to wear it. 
 Then I went into Sylvestre's, and I saw, arranged on some 
 shelves, those little toys I knew so well : his wooden horse, 
 the big goat he was so fond of, and his gun for playing at 
 soldiers. 
 
 There, too, was the album of coloured prints, pictures of 
 birds he was never tired of looking at. Whilst he turned 
 the leaves he would point them out one after another and 
 pronounce their names with a shout. An ostrich seemed 
 to amuse him the most, one can hardly tell why ; he 
 would stamp with joy the moment the picture came, and 
 announce " strich " with an air of triumph. 
 
 Every little insignificant thing that recalls him now 
 only brings pain. 
 
 Towards noon of this same day a brilliant sun breaks 
 through the morning's mist and the heavens are clear. I 
 walk with Sylvestre, who is in deep mourning, across the 
 cemetery. It seems here like April weather. 
 
 We find the place where he is laid, our little Roger, no 
 tomb made yet, only the signs of a recent burial. But the 
 newly-turned-up earth, the greasy earth, the awful earth 
 is hidden under a bed of flowers : all the wreaths that fol 
 lowed the light bier, hardly faded yet. 
 
 So, it is under there that the little face is hidden for 
 ever. 
 
 Another day, and it is the first Sunday since he is no 
 longer here : one of those beautiful winter days, perhaps
 
 OF A CHILD. 31 
 
 the most melancholy of the year, bright with deceptive 
 sunshine, almost like April, but that draw in early to chill 
 dark evenings. 
 
 On such afternoons they would dress Roger Couec in 
 his best frock, his white fur tippet and large hat. His 
 parents would take him out for a walk among the other 
 little children all dressed in their Sunday clothes, proudly 
 conscious that he was invariably the rosiest and prettiest 
 child among the little Sunday decked crowd. 
 
 To-day Sylvestre and his wife have gone alone to the 
 cemetery : there, in the wan sunshine, they are busying 
 themselves in arranging the white wreaths that are still 
 fresh on the little grave, on the horrible mould. And 
 now the day draws in miserably cold. It is time to go in, 
 the time they would bring the little fellow home, his 
 cheeks crimson from the wind. This evening they return 
 alone, the first Sunday the father and mother are without 
 their little Roger. They have left him over there, frigid 
 and discoloured under the earth. When they return to 
 the empty room they will no longer hear the shrill little 
 voice and the echoing laugh. The little Sunday frock 
 and hat, put away in the cupboard, will become only 
 relics that time will soon render old-fashioned. 
 
 And at last they will accustom themselves to not seeing 
 their little Roger, just as I shall get out of the habit of 
 listening for his footsteps in the yard, or looking up for 
 his sudden appearance at the breakfast-room door. 
 
 The day when he fell back in his cradle, inert after 
 having suffered so much, after having desperately implored 
 our help with outstretched arms, he was surely enough on 
 that day mown down for ever, and cast back into the
 
 32 THE PASSING OF A CHILD. 
 
 abyss. . . . The strange union of atoms that formed for a 
 brief moment his little smile and the expression of his eyes, 
 disintegrated and at an end. In our memory, which after 
 all will disintegrate too, his image will soon fade ; even 
 in this minute corner of the world where his life of two 
 short years was spent, one will soon forget that he passed; 
 things will go on the same, existence here as elsewhere 
 will continue its way. And in the course of innumerable 
 destinies, in the infinite circles of the ages, his disappear 
 ance will be as neglected and forgotten as the death of a 
 swallow, or the fading of a white rose on our walls. And 
 yet how can I express my sense of bitter revolt, my infi 
 nite pity, at the thought of the vain supplication of that 
 last look so full of terror at the approach of his end. How 
 can I speak of the pain I feel, with the added agony of 
 thinking that the dead child will not even know of it ! . . .
 
 Easter Holidays. 
 
 N those days every month seemed end 
 less, and the years an eternity. Summer 
 time and holidays would last delightfully 
 enough, but the late autumn and winter, 
 poisoned by tasks and punishments, by 
 the cold and rain, dragged along with 
 lamentable slowness. 
 
 The year of which I am going to 
 speak, here was, I think, the twelfth I 
 had seen on this earth of ours. I spent it, alas ! under the 
 rod of " the Great Black Ape," professor of literature at the 
 college I had entered with no particular distinction ; and 
 it has left an impression on me that, even to this day, remains 
 painful, however lightly I turn my thoughts to it. 
 
 I can remember, as though it were yesterday, the profound 
 melancholy of that October day, the last of the holidays, 
 and the eve of the dreaded return to school. I had come 
 back that very morning from spending a free delightful 
 summer in the South and the sunshine with some cousins, 
 and my head was still full of all that I had seen and done 
 there : the gathering of the grapes among the reddening 
 vines, the climbing up through the oak woods to the
 
 34 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 
 
 quaint old manors perched aloft on the heights, the un 
 premeditated rambles with a troop of little followers of 
 whom I was the undisputed leader. . . What a change 
 to come home only to see the summer die, and to take up 
 on the morrow the miserable routine of things. 
 
 Surely enough, on that day, a chill swept through the 
 air under a suddenly clouded heaven, bringing with it all 
 the sadness of autumn which I resented in my childhood 
 with inexplicable intensity. Moreover there was " the 
 Great Black Ape " (Monsieur Cracheux) whom I must 
 face in a few hours. I knew him by sight, having often 
 seen him as I passed the dreary college gates with my 
 nurse. For a year now I had scented him out and dreaded 
 him, and my peculiar disgust for his person aggravated 
 my sense of terror at the inevitable " going in." This 
 last day I spent first in filling my little museum with the 
 different precious specimens that I had brought back from 
 my walks in the South : wondrous butterflies caught in 
 the hay, and astonishing fossils discovered in the natural 
 grottoes and valleys. And then alone in my room I sat 
 down at my desk where on the morrow alas ! I should 
 have to begin to work and undertook a task which kept 
 me busy till dusk : the making of a calendar after my own 
 fashion, from which I could tear off a page every evening. 
 Ten little packets to be prepared of thirty leaflets each, 
 for ten school months, the dates and the days marked, 
 Thursdays and Sundays written with special elaboration 
 on pink paper. 
 
 Whilst I was arranging this, out from the foggy street 
 rose the plaintive cries of the wandering chimney sweeps, 
 who came always in Autumn time, like the knell of the
 
 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 35 
 
 summer days : " Chimneys to sweep !" The lugubrious chant 
 filled my heart with untold agonies. Still my task went 
 on ; I had come to the month of April and to Easter. On 
 pink paper of course that great day, and beautifully writ 
 ten with a garland of flowers encircling it. On pink 
 paper, too, the following days, ten days of vacation a 
 delightful truce to the hostilities of " the Great Ape." 
 
 When it was finished, I opened my cupboard of toys to 
 nail up my ten months in a row on the edge of the shelf, 
 beginning with this dire October. 
 
 In nailing the month of April I looked at the pink 
 bundle that marked the Easter holidays, and thought with 
 despair, will it ever come ? And in an imaginary future 
 I saw myself tearing down those leaves at the end of each 
 day that would grow milder and longer till the Spring 
 would be in the air. 
 
 Then came the month of May. When I get there, I 
 said to myself, at the hour to tear, it will be quite light 
 and the sky golden from a setting sun, and I shall hear 
 in the street the young women and sailors dancing, and 
 singing roundels of May, under the garlands hung above 
 them on the windows. 
 
 Then June and the flowers, and the fruit, and the sun 
 shine then July the coming at last of the long holidays 
 and the intoxicating departure for a visit to our cousins 
 in the South. 
 
 How immeasurably distant those future times appeared 
 to be! 
 
 II. 
 
 The yoke of the Great Black Ape was truly terrible
 
 36 EASTER HOLIDATS. 
 
 beyond my worst forebodings. What a sad and weary 
 winter it was, my hands always stained with ink, my task 
 never finished, and naturally a conscience that was never 
 at rest. Even on Thursdays and Sundays this old man, 
 who had no bowels of compassion, overwhelmed us. To 
 amuse my little fellow-sufferers I painted on my copy 
 books, which we secretly passed round, huge black apes 
 in various attitudes poring over classic works, or scratch 
 ing themselves. 
 
 In these days the race of the Great Black Ape is dying 
 out, though a few still remain in the heart of the prov 
 inces, and I should like to rouse those unhappy little fel 
 lows, who are slow at their work, and at the bottom of 
 the class, to revolt against the trash that is forced upon 
 them to the ruin of their bodies and minds alike. 
 
 For all this, Easter did approach, and soon the last leaf 
 lets that covered the longed-for little batch of pink would 
 be thrown to the winds. 
 
 But Easter was very early that year and Spring a sorry 
 laggard. 
 
 A terrible fear that the days on the pink paper would 
 be days of rain and wintry weather took hold of me. 
 
 Palm Sunday went by with hardly a gleam of sunshine. 
 Then Good Friday, a sad grey day, the guns at the naval 
 station booming every half-hour to remind the world of 
 the death of Christ. 
 
 And Saturday came, gloomy too, but bringing with it 
 the end of the Great Ape's rule and liberty ! 
 
 The last class was just at an end only one more quarter 
 of an hour ! I could hardly keep my seat ! 
 
 Careful to the last, I wrote a hasty good-bye to Andre
 
 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 37 
 
 between the leaves of my blotter. He was the eldest and 
 most grown-up of us all, and that year had shown some 
 liking for me, perhaps because I was the youngest, and 
 something still of a baby. (We only saw one another in 
 class as he was a boarder and I a day-scholar, and then 
 the Great Ape had had the meanness to put us at oppo 
 site ends of the room, under the pretext that we talked 
 too much, which obliged us to write to one another the 
 whole time in an Egyptian code on paper stamped with a 
 monkey in Chinese ink, the seal of our slavery.) 
 
 There was only a quarter of an hour before the general 
 sigh of relief; my feet tingled to be up, and my legs itched 
 to make for the window. 
 
 " Now boys," suddenly said the Great Ape, " take down 
 the holiday task that you must bring me on Wednesday 
 week when the class will re-assemble." 
 
 A holiday task ! We were betrayed ! What a pitiless 
 brute he was ! 
 
 We all looked at one another, some in consternation, 
 others furious and indignant. 
 
 It was a Latin composition ! And I who could not even 
 write French, and fell short in all the Great Ape's subjects! 
 
 I wrote it down, brimming over with rage the while, 
 badly and untidily on purpose. 
 
 Moreover his subject was absurd. " In a great scented 
 garden through which the Spring breeze softly blew, a 
 rash child, heedless of his tutor's warning, amused himself 
 by teazing the bees who were sucking honey from the 
 freshly-opened flowers." (From time to time there were 
 dots to mark the places we were to fill in at our own dis 
 cretion.) " At last this disobedient child succeeded in
 
 38 EASTER HOLIDATS. 
 
 trapping one of these interesting workers in the cup of a 
 campanula with his finger and thumb. And the infuriated 
 insect," dictated the old man, " and the infuriated insect, 
 began to struggle (notice the infinitive of movement), and 
 to sting the fingers of his cowardly persecutor. This, 
 boys, is the moral. A full stop, that's all." 
 
 On my way home I kept repeating to myself the phrase 
 " the infuriated insect," which, I don't know why, parti 
 cularly exasperated me. And to the title of the Black 
 Ape I added, as I ground my teeth with rage, " Dirty old 
 sparrow !" 
 
 Everything in this world of ours is a matter of custom 
 and convention, and this " dirty sparrow " in our school 
 slang expressed a completely overwhelming insult. 
 
 On Easter Sunday the church bells pealed out. From 
 early morning the streets were filled with moving crowds 
 of people in their best clothes. Following the old custom, 
 the good folk had decked themselves out in light clothes 
 and straw hats. But the heavens were still clouded and 
 the sun sulking. 
 
 It was sad to see them all in their Spring garments 
 hurrying along with frozen looks, and their heads bent 
 against the bitter north wind. 
 
 Surely Spring should not disappoint children who 
 have awaited it with such confidence and fervour during 
 the three interminable months of winter. 
 
 From the morrow it was arranged that I should work 
 at my holiday task for an hour a day, with the idea that 
 in two or three days it would be finished, my hands 
 washed of it and my heart free. 
 
 Patiently enough I kept to my room the whole ap-
 
 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 39 
 
 pointed time, my elbows on the desk and my fingers 
 covered with ink, but nothing would come : " And the 
 infuriated insect began to struggle." Inspiration failed me, 
 my thoughts would wonder ; I was dreaming of the Spring 
 that would not appear, and longing to run outside, for all 
 the rain and wind. 
 
 And my heart sickened as I realized that the days, 
 those precious days written on the pink paper, were slip 
 ping inevitably by cheerlessly, miserably. 
 
 III. 
 
 The holidays were flying each day the same cold rain, 
 each day the same dark skies. There were only four 
 more. On Friday my little friend, Jeanne, came with her 
 mother to invite me to spend the day with her in a garden 
 which belonged to them outside the town. What an un 
 expected joy ! And the weather was actually clearing 
 after the torrent of rain, clouded at moments only, then 
 bright with sunshine. 
 
 After the week's confinement to the house, because of 
 the wet, it seemed wonderful to find the Spring at last. I 
 had even doubted its existence, but it was there all the 
 same, blooming in profusion; the pink hyacinths, anemones 
 so red, anemones so purple, and tufts of the common 
 gilly-flower, glorious golden yellow, striped with brown. 
 How brilliant they were, nodding their heads under the 
 uncertain skys, where great clouds swept past still laden 
 with winter greyness. And a sense of mysterious delight 
 stole over me in the presence of all these flowers, in spite 
 of the gusts of wind and the threatening rain. 
 
 On my homeward way I grew sad the day was over
 
 40 EASTER HOLIDATS. 
 
 and the unfinished Latin task hung over my head for the 
 morrow the abominable infuriated insect. I whispered 
 a suggestion to my little friend that she should come and 
 fetch me again before the term began, which she promised 
 to do. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, miserable me ! This evening the last of the pink 
 papers must be torn off. 
 
 There I was, after breakfast, pouring over the Latin com 
 position, hardly further advanced than on the Easter 
 Monday, when I heard that little Jeanne was waiting for 
 me downstairs to take me to her garden in the suburbs. 
 But my father came up, looked with consternation at my 
 copy-book and refused to let me go. "He must finish 
 his composition first," said he, " and then he can join her." 
 Heavens ! and it was the last day. 
 
 The thought of missing this one chance of spending 
 the afternoon with Jeanne in the great garden, filled me 
 with absolute despair. 
 
 I set to my subject with rage. I introduced breezes 
 and butterflies, crimson roses and flowers of punic red ; 
 then I came to the phrase which was almost at the end, 
 "And the infuriated insect. . ." Began to struggle ', in my 
 big Latin dictionary was translated : Jactare corpus (to 
 throw the body from side to side). As the expression 
 seemed to me rather strong for a bee I added to corpus the 
 ingenious epithet tenue, (tiny,) and to keep the insidious 
 infinitive of movement I wrote : tenue corpus jactare fur ens. 
 
 There ! it was finished ! Now quick for my nurse to 
 take me to the garden, for to my great humiliation I was
 
 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 41 
 
 not considered old enough to go out alone. In great 
 haste I washed my hands, inky up to the elbow, and 
 dressed ready to start for the garden where Jeanne would 
 be waiting for me among the golden gilly-flowers and the 
 red anemones. Quick, quick, quick, for it was late and 
 the sun was setting the sun of my last day ! 
 
 Alas ! as we went through the town gates, there in the 
 avenue of young elms that led to the suburbs I saw Jeanne 
 Jeanne coming back with her mother. 
 
 " So this is the time you come," she said with a little 
 tone of irony. " We are just going home." 
 
 Then in the chill of the day that was drawing to its 
 close, I knew that for a whole year I could not be with 
 the Spring in this great garden with its grey walls, and its 
 tender early flowers, so vivid and brilliant under the chang 
 ing sky. A devastating sense of regret took possession of 
 me, one of those strange and inexplicable fits of melan 
 choly with which my whole childhood was tinged, 
 especially at those hours of the evening when the shadows 
 were lengthening. 
 
 V. 
 
 Next morning we sat with mournful faces on rows of 
 benches, whilst the Great Ape read aloud our Easter pro 
 ductions. 
 
 My turn came to be read aloud by him. And who 
 would have thought it ; I had evidently succeeded in 
 doing well. Even when he came to the phrase, Tenue 
 corpus jactare furens, he exclaimed in a shrill grotesque 
 little voice, " Oh, that's excellent !" 
 
 Well that was too much ! To have done something 
 that pleased the Old Ape !
 
 42 EASTER HOLIDAYS. 
 
 Covered with confusion, I sought the eyes of my friend 
 Andre, full of anxiety to learn what he would think of 
 me. He made a grimace from the distance, lowering his 
 head and protruding his lips to make me feel ashamed. 
 
 He seemed to mock me, but his smile was kind and 
 affectionate withal ; I saw he did not think too badly of 
 me for having done anything so good, and I felt a little 
 consoled.
 
 A Reflective Moment. 
 
 HERE are moments, rare as they are 
 peculiar, when the true character of a 
 country suddenly frees itself from the 
 uniform commonplace of an every- 
 fday world, and a soul seems to rise 
 from the very soil, to steal from the 
 'trees, and from out a thousand things : 
 the bygone spirit of the race that 
 slept numbed by the great universal 
 medley, for a moment waking. 
 
 To-day, the 22nd of November, at the extreme point 
 where France ends, as I sit alone on my terrace that 
 actually overlooks Spain, the spirit of the Basque Country 
 appears to me for the first time. Our European countries, 
 alas ! grow more and more like one another. Thus I had 
 lived for a year in this Euscalerria without having dis 
 covered anything very peculiar, and without having be 
 come in any way aware that I was growing attached to it. 
 But doubtless a gradual working within me has taken 
 place, a slow penetrating of the Basque effluvium that 
 has insensibly prepared me to understand her and to love 
 her. 
 
 To-day is the feast of the Perpetual Adoration, and the
 
 44 A REFLECTIVE MOMENT. 
 
 churches, Spanish as well as French, are fuller than ever 
 of burning tapers and simple souls that pray. It is glori 
 ously fine ; on the Bidassoa, on the Pyrenees, over the sea, 
 reigns the same infinite calm. The still air is warm as in 
 May, yet with the indefinable melancholy of late Autumn 
 sign in itself of the waning year. The sea in the dis 
 tance glitters as a band of blue mother-of-pearl. There 
 are southern, almost African tints on the mountains 
 which are clearly outlined against the sky, though vapor 
 ous, and bathed in all that is diaphanous and golden. 
 The Bidassoa, at my feet, sluggish and smooth, reflects, 
 with the accuracy of a mirror, Fontarabia opposite its 
 church, its strong castle scorched by a hundred summers, 
 the arid mountains beyond with their smallest ruts and 
 faintest shadows, even their tiniest cottages scattered 
 about white on the great red foundations, all delightfully 
 inverted. High up in the air or down in the depths of 
 the deceptive mirror the most distant summits are equally 
 pure. The immobility of everything, the luminous bril 
 liancy of the tints give these Spanish hills something of 
 the sadness of Morocco ; to-day, especially, one feels that 
 Africa is quite close as though the clearness of the 
 atmosphere, that lessened visible distance, had also had the 
 power to bring it nearer us. 
 
 And this great calm silence over everything this un 
 changing stillness of the air, these motionless lights and 
 great shadows, give me at first the impression of a pause 
 in the dizzy movement of centuries, of a reflectiveness, an 
 immense waiting, or rather a look of melancholy thrown 
 back on a past anterior to suns and human beings, races 
 and religions
 
 A REFLECTIVE MOMENT. 45 
 
 And, in the great spaces for sound ring the old bells of 
 the churches, calling men the better, in the strange 
 hushes, to their dead worships, Fontarabia, Hendaye, the 
 convents of Monks ring, ring, send out their summons 
 with the same note of age, the same old voices as in cen 
 turies gone. 
 
 On the Bidassoa, boats pass slowly from shore to shore, 
 forming long lines of sleepy ripples that blur the inverted 
 picture of Fontarabia and the brown mountains. The 
 sailors on board, rugged-faced, wearing the traditional 
 black cap, and beardless according to the Basque custom, 
 talk together in a tongue that is thousands of years old, or 
 sing, in a nasal falsetto, their old ancestral airs. 
 
 And on the surrounding paths, all flowering again in 
 this marvellous Autumn time, between the hedges, hedges 
 covered as in Spring with wild roses, privet and honey 
 suckle, are women and young girls on their way from 
 onechurch to another, dressed mostly in black, a thick 
 black mantilla falling over their foreheads, the costume 
 habitually worn by those who go to pray, either for them 
 selves or for the dead laid under the earth in the cemetries. 
 
 Then suddenly as I stand before this scene listening 
 still to the clanking of the old bells, or the snatches of 
 song that resound from the distance, I become aware of 
 all that this country has preserved of peculiar and dis 
 tinctive, down to its very depths. I feel for the first time 
 stealing up everywhere an atmosphere of separateness, as 
 it were, from the rest of the world, of mystery a living 
 essence of what the place is destructible alas ! but still 
 impregnating all things, exhaling from all things surely 
 the dying soul of the Basque country.
 
 46 A REFLECTIVE MOMENT. 
 
 And yet in the distance comes a hideous thing, noisy, 
 black, tearing past with idiotic speed, shaking the 
 ground, and disturbing the delightful calm by whistles 
 and rattling iron : the train the railway, a mightier 
 leveller than time, distributing the base fabrics of industry, 
 propagating modern ideas, disgorging daily here as else 
 where the common-place, and stupid.
 
 At Loyola. 
 
 O WARDS evening, as the sun is 
 setting, the express from Saint Sebas 
 tian to Madrid puts us down at a 
 town called Zumarraga, where my 
 Basque companion and myself are 
 obliged to wait an hour for the 
 carriage that is to take us on to 
 Ignace. 
 
 The mildness of a Southern Aut 
 umn is in the air, but everywhere dead leaves are falling. 
 This waiting on an October evening about an isolated 
 little town surrounded by high mountains, and where the 
 people only speak an incomprehensible language is inevi 
 tably depressing. We stroll about aimlessly. In a win 
 dow in one of the dark narrow streets a solitary parrot 
 talks to itself. 
 
 " I am sure he speaks Basque too," I say to my com 
 panion. 
 
 " Most likely," he answers, and listens. " Yes, he actu 
 ally does, he continues with a laugh. " I can hear him 
 saying Jacquo ederra (Pretty Jacquo)." 
 
 For the tenth time we find ourselves in front of the 
 Church which stands in a great square surrounded by old
 
 48 AT LOTOLA. 
 
 ruined houses with projecting roofs, and carved balconies, 
 and emblazoned walls. It forms one side of the Square, 
 and is built of a reddish brown stone, weather-worn and 
 cracked in places ; and beyond (of the same red stone) rise 
 the mountains into evening light. In the centre of the 
 Square is a fountain to which young peasants come for 
 water. There is also a new monument of white marble 
 gleaming in relief against the shadowy surroundings : a 
 statue of an old man with the brow of a visionary, holding 
 in his hands a guitar, yarraguire, a wandering musician, 
 composer of patriotic hymns, seditious enough, and love 
 songs. An inscription in that ancient language that can 
 never really be understood by strangers, informs the world 
 that the Basques have honoured the last of their bards. 
 These Euscarrien people, still distinctive, still entirely 
 themselves, have in truth neither been successfully assimi 
 lated on the one side by France nor on the other by Spain. 
 
 In the distance the shrill notes of a flute break on the 
 air, accompanied by a tambourine at intervals, peculiarly 
 Arabian in its abrupt time. They draw near, and a wed 
 ding party appears a very humble little wedding party, 
 moving along quickly, all but running to the sound of the 
 music. 
 
 Once within the Square, the little procession stops to 
 dance, all among the fallen leaves that scurry about their 
 feet, blown by the wind. They number but fifteen, and 
 just now we are their sole spectators. The bride, who is 
 young and pretty, alone is fashionably dressed, with leg of 
 mutton sleeves and a skirt of 1 830, the last caprice of 1 892. 
 The tambourine and the flute play a rapid wild air, one of 
 those Basque tunes in five time that upset all our notions
 
 AT LOYOLA. 49 
 
 of rhythm ; and they start together a most complicated 
 dance interrupted by leaps and cries an ancient dance, the 
 tradition of which will soon be lost. 
 
 Some girls come along with pitchers on their heads to 
 draw water from the fountain ; and then the bridegroom, 
 who looks about eighteen, goes towards them and asks 
 them to dance. Children run up, and a few idlers stroll 
 into the Square, so that quite a little assembly is formed 
 to make the wedding of the poor folk less cheerless in this 
 great forlorn place at the approach of night. In the 
 streets, too, the peasants stop their cumbrous waggons 
 drawn by oxen, that roll noisily along on round discs of 
 wood like the wheels of an ancient chariot. 
 
 At five o'clock our carriage is brought to us there, ready 
 at last : a kind of cabriolet with a hood of oil-cloth, and 
 drawn by two horses harnessed in tandem, with a consi 
 derable number of bells on their necks. 
 
 We are almost at once in the country ; it grows quite 
 dark, the air as warm as that of a summer night. An 
 hour and a half on the road, at a great pace, across valleys 
 and through gorges, skirting torrents we cannot see, but 
 hear roaring at our feet in spite of bells that jingle all the 
 time, whilst a soft wind from the south scatters dead leaves 
 up to our faces. 
 
 We stop at last before the porch of an enormous fonda. 
 We have reached our destination. On the other side of 
 the road is the Convent of Saint Ignatius, a black mass 
 rising from out of the darkness, quite solitary ; the Fonda 
 and the Convent, there is nothing else at Loyola ! 
 
 The Fonda is an old building with staircases one might 
 find in a palace, their balustrades of wrought iron. As
 
 50 AT LOTOLA. 
 
 soon as you enter you scent the acid odour of the food, 
 common to all Spanish inns. The good folk within nei 
 ther understand French nor Spanish, simply the language 
 of the country Basque. At table there is only an old 
 priest and ourselves ; but a short time ago, it seems, when 
 the new General of the Jesuits was called, the great rooms 
 were full of travellers from all parts, even from the furthest 
 end of Poland and Russia. 
 
 The Fonda is almost a holy place ; the walls are hung 
 with sacred pictures, and along the staircases are writings 
 forbidding those who go up and down to swear or to 
 blaspheme. 
 
 II. 
 
 As I wake at Loyola, long rays of light filtering through 
 the shutters meet my eyes. The large room in which I 
 have slept is white-washed and bare almost empty, with 
 pictures of saints and holy water vases hung on the walls. 
 All through the night I heard the convent bells tolling, 
 and the roar of a torrent not far distant. This morning it 
 is the voice of one of the Fonda servants that wakes me, 
 singing a Basque air in five time on the staircase, an air 
 by that Yparraguire whose statue I saw yesterday in the 
 great forlorn Square at Zumarraga. 
 
 I open my windows to let in the streaming sun. It is 
 the glorious morning of a Southern October. If it were 
 not for the red and gold of the trees, for the dead leaves 
 scattered on the grass, one would say this was an August 
 day. The site is unique and admirably chosen : a small 
 unbroken plain, the only one to be found for miles round 
 in this wild corner of the Basque country, a plain as fertile
 
 AT LOYOLA. 51 
 
 as a garden, watered by a fresh torrent, and mysteriously 
 shut in, almost roofed in by high rugged mountains that 
 separate it from the rest of the world. The running water 
 makes a murmuring noise in the silence around, and a 
 pastoral calm hovers over the whole of the exquisite 
 region. 
 
 Yet in front of me rises the Convent of Saint Ignatius, 
 nest of the Jesuits, throned as sovereign master, immense 
 and superb in this isolated spot : a dark mass of grey 
 masonry, imposing and magnificent, in the midst of this 
 deserted country that has remained so rustic and primitive. 
 The chapel is in the centre of the great fa9ade which 
 forms, as it were, two strange wings : its dome rises in 
 the grand proportions of a basilica ; its peristyle stands out 
 in a sumptuous semicircle of marble, the portico and pil 
 lars of black marble emblazoned with white ; the steps 
 that lead up to it are immense, adorned with lions and 
 statues. And in front nothing but beds of chrysanthe 
 mums, peaceful alleys between old-fashioned trellised 
 borders, and oddly enough no enclosing walls or rails 
 open to the wide country, to the fields and paths where 
 the peasants may go to and fro. 
 
 ( Gloomy thoughts associate themselves with this nest of 
 Jesuitism and of the Inquisition : looking at this convent 
 of Loyola, whose very name savours of oppression, one 
 cannot help thinking of the cruel and implacable things 
 that were formerly decreed in lowered voices behind these 
 walls, and then executed close by or far away, always 
 pitilessly and in the dark) This huge and opulent edifice, 
 with its heavy architecture, its dominating air, hidden in 
 these mountains, has all the physiognomy that expresses
 
 52 AT LOTOLA. 
 
 the great Jesuitical idea. Yet the confidence implied in 
 the surroundings, these gardens open to everyone, these 
 flowers unprotected even by a hedge, give an unexpected 
 air of hospitality. The rule of this order is certainly the 
 most astonishing deformation of Christianity that has ever 
 issued from the human brain, and just as there is a persis 
 tent gentleness, in spite of all things, a sweetness surround 
 ing the name of Jesus, so this word Jesuit, which is derived 
 from it, remains always disturbing and cold and hard. 
 
 In the midst actually of the trellised pathways labourers 
 go to and fro. Waggons, on wheels of massive wood, in 
 the Roman fashion, that make a peculiar groaning sound 
 as they roll a sound one hears on every road in the Basque 
 country are filled to overflowing with red and golden 
 cider apples that leave a train of scent on the mild air, 
 and are led by peasants who sing old world songs as they 
 pass the high windows, with no attempt at constraint. 
 In fact a profound security surrounds the great Jesuifiere, 
 an air impregnated with only peace and abundance. 
 
 We leave the Fonda to go out into the sunshine and 
 walk in the grounds of the gloomy convent. One of the 
 doors before us suddenly opens, evidently the door of the 
 school, for about thirty little boys scamper out, jumping 
 and shouting, whilst an old fellow, in the black gown of 
 the order, hastens to close the shutters on the first floor 
 above their heads, that they may safely play the traditional 
 Basque game of ball against the walls, without risk of 
 breaking the windows. They play for a little while, their 
 childish merriment echoing delightfully among the sombre 
 walls. Then they gradually disperse about the country, 
 and all is silence again the great silence of the fields no
 
 AT LOYOLA. 53 
 
 one passes now. As the approach of noon, the sun pours 
 down with greater and greater force upon the beds of 
 chrysanthemums and the stately staircase of marble. 
 
 As I go up to the Chapel by these steps, admiring the 
 sumptuous porticoes, the incomparable site, and the won 
 derful blue sky, I experience a strange sense of instinctive 
 repulsion something of an old Hugenot rancour against this 
 Society of Jesus. Not that I give credence to all the accusa 
 tions of wrong doing and evil certain hot-heads have hurled 
 against it and, besides, what do its crimes signify ? A 
 human institution should only be judged by the amount 
 of enthusiasm it has aroused in the hearts of men, by the 
 amount of consolation or soothing illusion it has been able 
 to give to the world. But this Society of Jesus, which only 
 knows how to annihilate all whom it allures to its em 
 brace, that is based on a savage impersonality, awful, too, 
 in its almost boundless power and mysterious proceedings, 
 disquiets and confuses me. 
 
 The great doors of the Chapel, profusely sculptured from 
 top to bottom, and decorated with brass ornaments, are so 
 well polished and varnished, that, in spite of their age, they 
 are as bright as though they were new. In no other 
 church are doors kept with such care. They at once give 
 an impression of wealth, of persistence and durability. No 
 one is there. We try gently to push one of the sculptured 
 doors, which gives and opens, there seems to be nothing 
 to keep them closed. And then the splendour breaks upon 
 us. 
 
 An immense round church. In the centre a circular 
 colonnade, massive and strong, of marble that is almost 
 black, relieved by very fine threads of gold, supports
 
 54 AT LOYOLA. 
 
 a dome of a lighter colour, all of grey and pink marble. 
 This dome is decorated with a series of gigantic slabs 
 of marble, grey and gold, ranged in a circle. Each 
 of these slabs rests on a regal drapery, also of marble, 
 that appears to fall in folds, their outside edges of the 
 palest rose coloured marble, the inside, the lining as it 
 were, of a brighter shade, the whole having the lustre of 
 porcelain. And over each of the black columns that 
 support the pink roof, a white statue stands in relief 
 against the folds of the beautiful drapery ; quite a company 
 of these personages up there, all of a snowy whiteness 
 arranged circular-wise in attitudes of thought and prayer. 
 At the further end of the church, facing the entrance, is 
 the marvellous sanctuary, the high Altar made entirely of 
 brown agate inlaid with rare stones of different colours, 
 among which white predominates. About these great 
 columns of twisted agate, prodigious mosaics entwine like 
 spirals of riband, the whole so exquisitely polished that it 
 gleams like the inside of a sea shell. In the centre stands 
 a life-sized statue of St. Ignatius in chiselled and embossed 
 silver. About the central rotunda, in the aisles of brown 
 and grey marble, the different secondary altars are orna 
 mented with statues, nearly all of which are remarkable, 
 and whose gilded draperies have that peculiar sheen that 
 gold takes on marble. Nowhere is there any excess of 
 decoration, actually a severe soberness in all the magnifi 
 cence ; everywhere the natural tints and gleam of marble ; 
 gold used only on the robes of the saints with extreme 
 discretion, in fine threads and light embroideries, bright 
 rich glittering gold. 
 
 The whole place is maintained with a freshness that is
 
 AT: LOYOLA. 55 
 
 almost new, nevertheless one divines the age of things 
 beneath. Every detail here is bright, and without trace 
 of dust, even to the resounding flag-stones under our feet. 
 There is not another church in the world that is so per 
 fectly kept, and this excessive care is in itself a measure of 
 the Society's wealth. 
 
 Still nobody about. We entered without anyone notic 
 ing us, by a door that is always open. The sudden appa 
 rition of such a place on emerging from the surrounding 
 hills, the quiet of the morning, this silence amidst a splen 
 dour that seems hardly religious, makes one dream of 
 enchanted palaces that, at the touch of a magic wand, 
 might vanish. 
 
 Altogether, from a human point of view, I find this 
 magnificence of convents and churches that have swallowed 
 the fortunes of thousands of different people, and which 
 are so impersonal, affording to their creators even, no 
 more joy than to the casual traveller who hundreds of 
 years afterwards happens to pass by, strange and inexpli 
 cable. 
 
 After the Chapel, we desire to see the interior of the 
 convent, and return therefore to the walks of chrysanthe 
 mums. We ask some peasants what we should do, where 
 to knock, which door to go in by. 
 
 " Oh !" they say, " by which ever you like ; all the 
 doors are right, for one is allowed to go everywhere." 
 
 And they push the first door we come upon which opens 
 wide before us. Rather hesitatingly, and again without 
 meeting anyone, we go up to the second floor, and sud 
 denly find ourselves in a room like a small Asiatic pagoda, 
 or a fairy's chamber. Extraordinarily low in the ceiling,
 
 56 AT LOYOLA. 
 
 it has enormous beams that one can touch with one's hand, 
 each one of which is a garland of acanthus leaves pro 
 fusely gilded. These beams, that are repeated throughout 
 the whole length of the room, all equally magnificent in 
 their extravagant excess of decoration, form together a 
 kind of tunnel of golden foliage. The room is divided 
 by a gilded grill beyond which two sacred lamps, with 
 globes like pink flowers, burn before the golden reliquaries. 
 All is bright with that inimitable soft tone of the heavy 
 gilding habitually used in former times, and a delicious odour 
 of incense fills the air. However, a tiny grill opens in a 
 door, and a pair of eyes look at us ; then the door opens, 
 and a young man between eighteen and twenty years of 
 age, with a cheery face, wearing the black gown of the 
 Jesuit and carrying a feather brush under his arm, and a 
 broom in his hand, smilingly beckons us to go in. He is 
 in a sumptuous old room hung with red brocade, and scat 
 tered with gilded furniture and tables of marble marque- 
 trie, busy dusting some reliquaries. He asks us if we 
 are French. My companion, who thinks he recognises 
 in him a man of his own race, answers in the Basque 
 language. 
 
 " Why, yes," responds the brother, " you are French, 
 but French Euscualdunac !" (French Basques). 
 
 His words seem to suggest : "therefore you are scarcely 
 French ! Say rather that we are compatriots !" and he becomes 
 more genial than ever. He explains to us that this is the 
 room of Ignatius Loyola, and that it is confided to his 
 care. These bones now encrusted with precious stones, 
 and these stuffs that fill the reliquaries, are the remains of 
 the person and the garments of the great saint.
 
 AT LOYOLA. 57 
 
 If we wish to visit the Convent, he tells us, with the 
 same expressive confidence that seems here to be in the 
 very air, we have only to go down to the ground floor, 
 turn to the right then to the left and knock at the second 
 door, there we shall find some fathers who will be de 
 lighted to show us round. So we go and knock at the 
 prescribed door. A brother porter, after looking at us, 
 smiling, too, like the Basque brother upstairs, shows us into 
 a large airy parlour. Of course, he says, we shall be shown 
 round wherever we wish to go. A French father shall 
 even be chosen for our guide, if we will have the goodness 
 to sit down and wait a moment. It would be impossible 
 to wish for a more hospitable house, or for more agreeable 
 hosts. 
 
 Soon the father, who is to take us round, arrives with 
 outstretched hand. His expression is kind and frank; he 
 looks me straight in the face ; nothing of what is called 
 the Jesuitical air in his manner. He is cordial, affable 
 and gay. The Convent, we wander through, is immense, 
 a very labryinth in which, he tells us, young novices often 
 lose their way. With its white walls and in its bareness, 
 it resembles any other convent. The interminable corri 
 dors have little cells on each side that look out into the 
 quiet country ; over the door of each of these is written 
 the name of the father who inhabits it. There are many 
 French names, some English and some Russian : the 
 Society of Jesus extends its unseen hand everywhere. 
 
 But the wonder of the place is the old feudal castle of 
 St. Ignatius, which chance led us to enter first. It is one 
 of those little vulture's nests of the Spanish Middle Ages, 
 with archaic walls made of stone and of red brick curi-
 
 58 AT LOYOLA, 
 
 ously intermingled. It is enclosed, set as a precious stone 
 in the great formidable convent sprung from it. So reli 
 giously is it respected, that in the rooms adjoining it, 
 whatever their decoration may be, the wall that forms 
 part of the castle is left bare in the rough stone. Its 
 extreme age makes the buildings that surround it, in 
 themselves old enough, appear almost new, and its small- 
 ness seems the more astonishing in the midst of the gigan 
 tic proportions of the monastery, resembling indeed a toy 
 castle built in former days for children. Sacred lamps 
 and perfumes burn throughout, day and night. The 
 Jesuits, who have succeeded each other these four centuries, 
 have made it a sacred duty to decorate it from top to 
 bottom. There are altars and gildings even in its little 
 stables. The room with the roof of golden foliage like a 
 pagoda, which we saw on arriving, is the ancient recep 
 tion room of the castle, no doubt quite modest in former 
 days, now, out of respect, the old beams are covered in all 
 this wealth, as a relic might be put in a golden shrine. 
 
 Loyola is situated between two little old Basque towns 
 near one another, Aspei'tia and Ascoi'tia, typical old places, 
 doubtless unchanged since their construction sombre 
 houses with diminutive shops and small industries. Both 
 have churches, blest, like that of Loyola, by the terrestial 
 visits of St. Ignatius, and rich in decoration to an extent 
 unusual even in Spain. At Aspei'tia, behind the high 
 altar, from the pavement to the roof, there is a mass of 
 golden foliage deeply carved in wood that must have cost 
 infinite patience to accomplish. 
 
 The chief industry of both these towns, bathed now in 
 a fierce Autumn sun, appears to be the manufacture of
 
 LOYOLA. 59 
 
 alpargates (boots with cloth tops) and of avarcac (Basque 
 boots made of sheepskin that fasten in the old-fashioned 
 way with a lacing up the calf of the leg) . 
 
 At Ascoi'tia especially, the streets are lined with boot 
 makers, working in feverish haste, as if an unshod world 
 were anxiously waiting for the completion of their alpar 
 gates. These good people sew and tap in a kind of frenzy, 
 and the string soles pile up about them in little mountains. 
 
 The same carriage, that brought us here in the dark 
 yesterday, takes us back to Zumarraga to-day in the hot 
 sunshine. We pass a great many heavy waggons drawn 
 by oxen, and full of scented apples, lumbering slowly along 
 on their massive wheels. Our horses, covered with bells, 
 galop over beds of dead leaves, through wondrous little 
 valleys, by the side of cool torrents we only heard on our 
 nocturnal journey.
 
 The Mayor of the Sea. 
 
 I HE great solemn room in the Town 
 Hall of Fontarabia, dilapidated and 
 empty, bears witness, as does the 
 whole town here, to a bygone magni 
 ficence. At the further end of the 
 hall, under a sort of dai's of old bro 
 cade, there is a portrait of the Queen 
 Regent, and along the walls, benches 
 and arm-chairs are ranged. 
 
 We are three or four waiting. The shutters are closed 
 because of the fiies, leaving us almost in darkness. " In a 
 minute," says the Alcalde (the mayor of the town) "when 
 the vespers are over, they will come." 
 
 We hear the sound of a Basque flute, plaintive and 
 strange as Arab music, rising from the silence without. 
 It is stiflingly hot, and, in spite of the darkness in the 
 room, one is conscious that the great July sun is flaming in 
 the heavens, burning down on this mass of old wood and 
 stones which make up Fontarabia. 
 
 We go out on to the old balcony of forged iron to see 
 if they are coming. Below us is the " Calle Major," a
 
 THE MAYOR OF THE SEA. 61 
 
 narrow street impenetrable by the sun, enclosed between 
 houses dating back to the middle ages. It is on a steep 
 incline ending down below in a ruined gate, and appar 
 ently closed at the top walled in by the dark mass of the 
 church. A veritable scene from old Spain a little bit 
 that has remained extraordinarily intact roofs with sculp 
 tured beams projecting to afford shade, magnificent em 
 blazonries in relief on the walls of reddish stone ; balconies 
 of forged iron, one above the other, decorated with pots of 
 flowers, and brightened everywhere by geraniums and 
 carnations. Spanish heads appear at the windows, and 
 look towards the church, waiting for the procession that 
 is coming. Curiosity begins to animate the dead street. 
 The bells suddenly ring, the very vibrations reach us, and 
 fill the calm hot air : vespers are over. 
 
 The people come out of the dark old houses, they lean 
 over the balconies and fill up the door-ways. Service 
 being over, five or six priests, suave and kind in appear 
 ance, join us in the hall and greet us. 
 
 At last the drum is heard in the distance. They are 
 coming. 
 
 At the top of the street, from the turning which seems 
 to end it, a procession emerges. One by one the men 
 appear in front of the old church wall that forms the 
 great background of this picture. First the musicians, in 
 red caps, playing a quick lively march. Behind them a 
 woman who seems to be the principal person in the pro 
 cession, a woman draped in pure white, tall and perfectly 
 proportioned, with the movements of a goddess. She 
 advances rapidly, almost dancing in time to the music, 
 a large coffer on her head, which she holds with upraised
 
 62 THE MAYOR 
 
 arms, like the rounded handles of a Greek vase. After 
 her comes a boy carrying a great red banner embroidered 
 with a blue escutcheon. Then a group of bronzed faces 
 wearing the traditional Basque cap : the fishermen all 
 the brotherhood of Fontarabia come from the seamen's 
 quarter for the annual solemnity of the election of their 
 new Alcalde. 
 
 The Mayor of the Sea, chief of the brotherhood, is 
 elected every year by a limited suffrage, and ever since 
 the middle ages, this duty has been performed under the 
 hot July sun, with an unaltered ceremonial. 
 
 They have marched down the " Calle Mayor " to music, 
 and now have come up into the Town Hall where every 
 one solemnly takes his place : the Alcalde of the town in 
 the centre, under the dais ; on each side of him the two 
 marine officers, the one French, the other Spanish, who 
 are in command on the Bidassoa ; then the two Alcaldes 
 of the sea, the old and the new, and lastly the peasants 
 and fishermen. The red banner, at least four hundred 
 years old, has been raised ; its archaic embroideries repre 
 sent a scene of whale fishing and aureoled saints walking 
 on troubled waters. They have attached it to the iron 
 balcony, that it may float above the street during the 
 ceremony. 
 
 The coffer brought by the beautiful dark girl is opened 
 before the Alcaldes. It contains the treasure of the 
 brotherhood which has to be verified : a large parchment 
 covered with Gothic writing conferring special blessings 
 from Pope Clement VIII ; a silver crucifix, a silver reli 
 quary, a silver chalice, a silver pit and rods for the masters 
 in whalebone with silver knobs (for the brotherhood, who
 
 OF THE SEA. 63 
 
 only fish now for tunny and sardines, was founded long 
 ago when whales were still taken in the Bay of Biscay). 
 
 These venerable objects that have been passed down 
 from hand to hand for so many centuries, are still intact. 
 
 They read aloud the accounts of the community in that 
 ancient tongue of unknown origin which strangers never 
 succeed in wholly comprehending : So much for the 
 general working, so much for relief, so much for the 
 masses for the dead, and for safe voyages. Every fisher 
 man round the room listens attentively : sailors descended 
 from countless generations of sea adventurers who lived 
 on the dangerous waters of the Bay of Biscay. Hardened 
 faces, sunburnt and tanned carefully shaved as monks. 
 Rapacious in their way, given to poaching and defying 
 the laws by throwing nets in French waters, even on our 
 very shores, yet brave folk withal and bold seamen ! 
 
 The verification over, there is evidently to be sport 
 without. Already shouts arise from the crowded street : 
 they are bringing the bull ! 
 
 He arrives, a reluctant enough creature, fastened to a 
 piece of wood that is drawn by a pair of oxen yoked to 
 gether, the rope long enough to allow the unhappy animal 
 to belabour the beasts before him with his horns. This 
 unwieldly equipage is difficult to drive, and advances 
 amidst many jerks and stops and kickings. 
 
 From under the porch of the Town Hall comes the 
 sound of brass instruments, alternating with the Basque 
 orchestra : little flutes and tambourines play the old airs 
 in five time, an odd rhythm of unknown antiquity, so 
 strange to our ears. 
 
 Meanwhile the bull, with its swathed horns, has been
 
 64 THE MATOR 
 
 detached from the team and tied to a stone pillar by a 
 long cord that allows him to sweep the whole street. 
 Maddened and stupified, it rushes headlong at the passers- 
 by who call it, and dodge dexteriously aside. Then 
 come mad stampedes, banging of doors, galloping on the 
 slippery pavement, cries of fright, stumbles, dangerous 
 escapes and shouts of laughter. 
 
 When the sport is over the fishermen form into proces 
 sion again to return to their quarter by the sea, where a 
 gala is prepared in the house of the new Mayor. 
 
 At the head, the band, tambourines and flute. Then 
 the tall beautiful girl who carries the sacred coffer, and 
 who falls at once into the rhythmic walk, swaying with 
 the music. Next the great banner, the mayors, the 
 officers and the priests. Lastly the fishermen and the 
 crowd that accompany them in ever increasing numbers. 
 
 They file along the gloomy narrow street of high 
 houses in joyous haste, descending, after the turning by 
 the church, towards the sea away suddenly from the 
 stuffiness of Fontarabia, along the side of a fence that slopes 
 precipitously down to the depths of the Bay of Biscay; 
 the Pyrenees, the coast of France and the infinite blue 
 ocean, lying in a glory of light at their feet. 
 
 Down there, on the shore, rests the modest little house 
 of the new mayor of the sea, surrounded, in the Basque 
 way, by plane trees pruned to form a roof. The doors are 
 open. On the arrival of the little train the sacred banner 
 is planted by the entrance, and the precious coffer put 
 away in the recess of an alcove behind the bed. 
 
 A table, simply arranged for the feast, and decorated 
 with large bouquets, stands in a small low room, the
 
 OF THE SEA. 65 
 
 rafters low and as oppressive as those on a ship. The 
 whitewashed walls are hung with pictures of Christ, of 
 the Virgin, and the saints who protect seamen. 
 
 They crowd in and sit down, mayors, officers, priests 
 and the more notable fishermen, as many as it will hold. 
 The place is hot as an oven, in spite of occasional wafts of 
 sea-air. Fish and shell-fish, with every kind of sauce, are 
 served by smiling girls and women. Between each course 
 cigarettes are exchanged and lighted and fishing matters 
 and smuggling are talked over in Spanish, and more 
 especially in Basque. 
 
 The room is on the ground floor, close to the people walk 
 ing about outside. Through the open window, in the fore 
 ground, the red banner is visible, now waving high, now 
 almost sweeping the sand. Then the beach where a fan 
 dango is being danced to music, and between the dancers, 
 who turn and sway, their arms raised high, is a glimpse 
 of the deep blue sea covered to-day with hundreds of black 
 sleeping atoms the boats of the fishermen keeping holi 
 day. The people outside come in turn, and look and smile 
 through the window. Even passing strangers from Biarritz 
 and Saint Sebastian, cyclists in knickerbockers, and elegant 
 women in large feathered hats. These latter examine the 
 banner the beautiful work, and the strange personages 
 embroidered on it. 
 
 And as far from them as these embroideries they find 
 so amusing as far, thank Heaven, from their notions 
 and their modern emptinesses, are the crude bronzed fish 
 ermen, who eat at this table between pictures of Christ, 
 in the whole simpleness of bygone times, with the same 
 hopes, the same dreams, the same joys.
 
 The Grotto of Isturitz. 
 
 LL grottoes are more or less alike, 
 their galleries, their stalactites 
 and their domes are of one archi 
 tecture. The same mysterious 
 Genii, who invent the forms of the 
 slow crystalizations, who preside at 
 the metamorphoses of inorganic 
 matter, have superintended with 
 an eternal patience the moulding 
 
 of their white arabesques. However, this grotto at Isturitz 
 deserves to be seen, though doubtless there are others in 
 existence more wonderful. 
 
 It is situated in the heart of the old Basque country, 
 which we approach by shady roads through ravines and 
 woods, half way up a wild mountain side. 
 
 At first we have to climb up tiny tracks, between rocks 
 and streamlets, on a carpeted way of sweet-smelling mint 
 and wild flowers. As we get higher and higher we see 
 that the country all round us is of the same character :
 
 THE GROTTO OF ISTURITZ. 67 
 
 pastural, shady and peaceful, with great woods, and here 
 and there little churches nestling among the trees. 
 
 The entrance to the grotto is a hole closed by a wall of 
 masonry and a door of some kind. 
 
 Our guide, an Isturitz peasant, thrusts in a large key 
 and opens it up for us, and we enter at once into the dark 
 ness and damp and cold, into the silence so full of fright- 
 ning echoes; and the strange mystery of subterranean 
 regions steals on us. 
 
 We go down into the depths by a steep slope. The 
 roof rises higher and higher over our heads, till the flames 
 of our candles are entirely lost, as in the deep shadows of 
 a cathedral. 
 
 We come into the great nave. In the centre, in spite 
 of the appalling darkness in which our lights flicker, 
 something gigantic can be vaguely distinguished, rising 
 up in an almost human attitude, white as milk, suggesting 
 an alabaster colossus that would endeavour to touch the 
 vaulted roof with its head. 
 
 Our guide throws down, at the feet of this creature, a 
 handful of straw which he had brought with him to set 
 ablaze for the final spectacle later on. 
 
 He wishes first to lead us into the several side galleries 
 where all those things and beings that haunt bad dreams 
 are petrified. Stalactites in infinite variety are grouped 
 together in families, the forms in each more or less resem 
 bling one another, as if the Genii of the Grotto had taken 
 to classifying them. 
 
 One gallery is consecrated more especially to light 
 fringes, so delicate sometimes that a touch would break 
 them ; they hang down everywhere like frozen rain, fall-
 
 68 THE GROTTO 
 
 ing from the roof in innumerable garlands : fringes of all 
 widths, very long, or quite short, that separate or inter 
 mingle with a surprising variety of caprice. 
 
 Elsewhere they are like the long white fingers of a 
 corpse, sometimes open, sometimes bent like a claw ; they 
 might be a collection of arms and hands, gigantic, some 
 of them, that have been arranged, hung up, stuck in pro 
 fusion on the cold partitions ; but never a sharp point, 
 never an angle anywhere ; all of the same cream-like ap 
 pearance that excludes any idea of hardness : one expects 
 it to give to the slightest pressure, and is surprised, on 
 touching it, to find it as rigid as marble. 
 
 Here and there a monster equally white, of alarming 
 outline, rises or crouches unexpectedly in the middle of 
 the path, or tapers in a shadowy corner. And when one 
 realizes that the smallest of these motionless creatures has 
 required at least two thousand years of work at the hands 
 of the genii decorateurs we gain a conception of patience, 
 of possible duration rather crushing to our human transi- 
 toriness. 
 
 Elsewhere is the region of great animal forms, soft and 
 rounded, a confusion of elephants' trunks and ears, piles of 
 larvae, of human embryos, with huge eyeless heads, all 
 the waste of still-born creatures. And everywhere those 
 isolated beings, separated from the confused mass of germs, 
 seated about anywhere with swinging limbs, and hanging 
 ears. 
 
 When we come back to the first nave our guide lights 
 his straw fire, and the oppressive darkness vanishes, recedes
 
 OF ISTURITZ. 69 
 
 with the aisles into the long corridors which we have just 
 left. In the glow of this red flame, the high vault of the 
 cathedral is revealed, exquisitely festooned and fringed ; 
 pillars stand out curiously worked from top to bottom. 
 
 The colossal white spectre, dimly seen on our arrival, 
 looks exactly like a woman draped in veils. The shadow 
 of it rises and falls and dances on the partitions of this 
 weird place. 
 
 One stands confounded before the meaning of these 
 things, before the enigma of these forms, before the reason 
 of such strange magnificence built up in the silence and 
 darkness, without object, by chance, in the course of 
 hundreds and thousands of years through the imperceptible 
 dripping of the stones. 
 
 On coming out of the grotto, one experiences a sense of 
 delight at being once again in the pure warm air, amongst 
 the verdure of the oaks, with the wide wooded horizon, in 
 the light and the open ; instead of the sepulchral atmos 
 phere of the underground, the sweet healthy scent of the 
 mint and wild carnations ; instead of the continuous drip 
 ping of dead waters in the silence below, the gay sound 
 of the torrents living waters, and in the distance, the 
 tinkling bells of cattle returning to the fields. 
 
 For a moment, even to breathe in the fresh air is intoxi 
 cating, and the spreading country on all sides, so quiet 
 and green, seems an Eden.
 
 Midnight Mass. 
 
 T is Christmas night, but the air at 
 this extreme point of Southern France 
 is as soft as it might be in April. A 
 crescent moon, that must soon sink be 
 hind the dark mass of mountains in the 
 west, is still in the sky among tiny 
 clouds that resemble flakes of white 
 eiderdown. 
 
 From the French shore, where I live, 
 I have just heard n o'clock struck by the old bell of 
 Fontarabia on the Spanish shore. And here comes the 
 boat I ordered to take me at this nocturnal hour to the 
 other side of the Bidassoa, the divisional line of the fron 
 tier ; it glides along by the light of a lantern to the foot 
 of my garden that is laid out in terraces above the dark 
 water. 
 
 Therefore let us away to Spain. The wide sluggish 
 river is luminous in the moonlight; this Christmas even 
 ing, as mild as a night in April.
 
 MIDNIGHT MASS. 71 
 
 For several years past, I have crossed these waters on 
 the same night and at the same hour ; sometimes in the 
 mild weather, sometimes in frosty weather, or in storms; 
 sometimes alone, sometimes with friends of whom I have 
 since lost sight, or who are dead. And it was always to 
 go to the same midnight mass, in the same convent of the 
 Capuchin monks, which is situated in a rather lonely spot 
 by the banks of the Bidassoa, on the road that leads from 
 Fontarabia to Irun. There is a certain melancholy in 
 revisiting every year the same things, in the same places, 
 on the same dates and at the same hour. 
 
 After a short crossing, of perhaps a quarter of an hour, 
 smooth as the gliding of shadows, we land on the Spanish 
 shore, and being recognised by the carabineers on guard, 
 I can walk freely towards the monks' chapel by a road 
 that follows the bank of the river at the foot of the moun 
 tains. 
 
 The bright crescent moon is actually deserting me, 
 leaving me to the care of the stars in a more shadowy 
 world. All along the road there are high Basque houses, 
 old and dilapidated, their white-washed walls perceptibly 
 white even in the dark ; and here and there phantom 
 trees with great leafless branches. Parts of the road more 
 closed in than the rest, are overshadowed by rocks, and 
 enveloped in deeper gloom. Everything slumbers in 
 peace and silence. 
 
 Twenty minutes' walk, or half-an-hour perhaps, going 
 leisurely along in the quiet night that surely borrows a 
 soothing atmosphere from the sweet mystery of Christ-
 
 72 MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 mastide. Two or three bands of singers pass me, whose 
 approach can be heard from some distance in the midst of 
 such silence ; boys from Fontarabia, who walk about with 
 lanterns, singing ancient songs in which the Magi of Beth 
 lehem figure ; some accompanying themselves on a guitar, 
 others on a tambourine, all a little tipsy. They say a 
 cheerful good-night to me as they pass, and the sound of 
 their voices, and of the jerky ancient music is lost in the 
 distance. 
 
 Here at last are the great walls of the convent, pale 
 grey and unreal in appearance under the midnight stars ; 
 I go up a high flight of steps, and already there filters 
 to me, from within, the odour of incense, out into the 
 pure air. 
 
 The door of the chapel is open, throwing a ray of yel 
 low light into the blue of the night. It seems that this 
 evening anyone may enter without interference. And yet 
 formerly, on Christmas Days, this door was barred ; it was 
 necessary to pass through the sacristy after having shown 
 a patte blanche to a suspicious monk, and only little groups 
 of the brazen-faced, or of the elect, succeeded in gaining 
 admittance. But in our time everything is simplified, 
 everything is made commonplace ; sanctuaries have no 
 more barriers, and are open to all comers. 
 
 The chapel is full already, and on entering, dense clouds 
 of incense make it almost impossible to see, an unexpected 
 darkness, different enough to that outside. The Capucins, 
 motionless before the altar, and the women uniformly 
 veiled in black, motionless in the nave, are vaguely dis-
 
 MIDNIGHT MASS. 73 
 
 cernible. Through the murmurings of the litanies 
 chanted in low voices from the choir, a strange impression 
 arrests one at the sight of this mass of women, whose 
 heads, draped in black, are bent towards the ground. They 
 have all put on the mantilla of mourning generally worn 
 in the Basque country during religious services in sign of 
 human frailty. Everything here is meant to remind one of 
 death. It seems to hover gloomily over these several hun 
 dred bowed heads. Each pavement stone in the church is 
 a funeral slab, and one is conscious that the ground one 
 walks on is full of bones. A cadaverous odour, that the 
 incense cannot dissimilate, rises from this crowd of peasants 
 and poor folk, among whom the old are in the majority, 
 and here and there a hollow cough resounds loudly under 
 the vaulted roofx As a fact it is only the terrifying 
 thought of death that has brought all these beings here 
 to-night to pray in common ; against death that all 
 these bells are ringing, the noise of them breaking sud 
 denly on the silence. And against death too, that this 
 great white Virgin has been erected, it alone lit up by the 
 flickering tapers in the sombre chapel Oh ! so smiling 
 and white this great Virgin wreathed in pale roses : surely 
 a deceiving visictfi of infinite sweetness, radiant among the 
 clouds of incensej, 
 
 The incense grows thicker and thicker in the nave, and 
 the statues of the saints become confused with the motion 
 less monks, whose beards and locks are as archaic as those 
 of the images of wood and of stone. 
 
 However, the muttered litanies are only a sort of pre 
 liminary incantation ; a preparation for something else 
 that is to happen, and for which the crowd is waiting.
 
 74 MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Above the faithful, who are kneeling or sitting, a vast 
 mysterious gallery barred like a harem, projects from the 
 front wall over a third of the church ; one feels that it 
 is full of invisible assistants. At times the sound of a 
 drum escapes, or the clashing noise of brass, as if they 
 were preparing for some wonderful music. 
 
 The moment has come, Mass is about to begin. Many 
 more tapers are lighted. A dozen monks, whose gowns 
 and cowls are of white silk, enter the cloudy choir in ritu 
 alistic order, preceded by deacons who carry lanterns on 
 ipng shafts, ancient and half barbaric. 
 (^ And then suddenly from the secret gallery high up, 
 there bursts forth a strange, strident music, that almost 
 makes one shudder after the soothing monotony of the 
 litanies : Christ is born, the supposed conqueror of death, 
 has appeared on earth, and his advent is hailed with a 
 sudden and mad joy ! j Two or three hautboy 'j, which have 
 the biting tones of Bedouin bagpipes, lead a choir of reck 
 lessly joyous men's voices, accompanied by thirty Basque 
 drums, and by a legion of castenets. The whole thing, 
 though discordant and unexpected in a church, succeeded 
 nevertheless in producing by its very strangeness a sort of 
 religious fervour. They are old Christmas hymns belong 
 ing to Guipuzcoa, as quick and lively as habaneras, or as 
 seguidllles. And the monks in the gallery, who are making 
 all this noise of savage revelry, accompany their music with 
 a sort of ritual step. One hears the movements of beating 
 time, and sees their dancing shadows on the walls. 
 
 The long and complicated Mass continues with a be 
 wildering noise of hautboy 'jy and of human notes in a nasal 
 falsetto. Above the black veiled heads, above the poor
 
 MIDNIGHT MASS. 75 
 
 and aged, into the smoke of the incense that grows still 
 thicker, the old world hymns succeed one another in a 
 growing exaltation, accompanied all the while by the 
 little thunder of the rattling tambourines, and by the dry 
 light noise of the castenets sounding between deft fingers. 
 Then, when all is over, there is a hurried movement among 
 the peasants and the poor towards the choir, where a doll 
 has just arrived in the arms of a monk, who offers it to the 
 faithful to kiss, a poor lifeless doll that has been carefully 
 wrapped in a child's swaddling clothes, and that repre 
 sents the new-born Saviour. 
 
 And now they all disperse into the night that has grown 
 colder and of a deeper blue. 
 
 I return alone to the boat that is to take me to the 
 French shore,, as one just awakend from a dream of the 
 olden times.\ I come away rather saddened : another 
 Christmas has passed over my head, another year has 
 stretched into the abyss without having brought me the 
 solution of anything, nor the hope of anything] 
 
 And, as I go back alone, I feel that I am a thousand 
 times more disinherited than the least of those humble 
 people, those old men or those poor folk, who, praying as 
 their ancestors prayed, have just kissed the simple, ridi 
 culous, and adorably ineffable doll in its linen.
 
 The Passing of the Procession. 
 
 [VERY year, for centuries past, on the 
 Wednesday morning preceding Pente 
 cost, some twenty or thirty Basque 
 villages on the Spanish slope of the 
 Pyrenees have been emptied of their 
 parishoners. The good folk, laden 
 with crosses like that borne by Christ, 
 make a pilgrimage up to the Convent 
 of Roncevalles ; and, in order to see 
 the procession, it is necessary to sleep the night before at 
 Burguette, the last village it passes through before arriving 
 at the venerable monastry. 
 
 Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, a peaceful and charming town 
 that the railway, alas ! will soon spoil, is the place I start 
 from on this Tuesday, the ist of June, under a very cloudy 
 sky, to drive to Burguette by shady roads through an 
 immense forest of beeches. 
 
 About an hour after leaving Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port we 
 get into Spain, and stop at Val-Carlos, the village where 
 we have to alight for the frontier formalities.
 
 THE PASSING OF THE PROCESSION. 77 
 
 And then, as Burguette is on the other side of the 
 Pyrenees (not far from the top, and at a very high altitude) 
 we ascend again for another four hours, penetrating into 
 the heart of the forest which grows more and more wild 
 and green. A coming storm growls ominously around us 
 among the clouds, and the bell of Val-Carlos begins to 
 ring out in a cracked, mournful tone. Its vibrations follow 
 us for a long time, and then are lost below in the infinite 
 silence of the trees. 
 
 On the banks of the road-side there is a monotonous 
 wealth of pink flowers: pink silenes, pink amourettes, pink 
 foxgloves; besides columbines, great campanulas and won 
 derful saxifrages. And everywhere falling waters, in tiny 
 streams, or noisy cascades, among the ferns. 
 
 The hail- storm bursts suddenly upon us, sharp and cut- 
 ing like the lash of a whip. We stop by an almost ver 
 tical side of the mountain carpeted with these same flowers 
 in magnificent profusion. The hail pelts us with myriads 
 of glass pearls. The long stalks of the foxgloves, cut and 
 broken, scatter their flowers on the moss, so many of them, 
 fluttering like pink ribands amongst the green leaves and 
 grass. 
 
 It is over quickly enough the shower passes, and the 
 horses move on again, dragging us up the never-ending 
 zig-zags in the forest of beeches. And all the trees of this 
 forest are alike, apparently of the same shape and age, 
 having reached complete development without hindrance, 
 as a primaeval forest grows. 
 
 The storm continues to grumble in the distance, and 
 above our heads stretches a dark and unbroken cloud 
 which we gradually approach. The forest rises on all
 
 78 THE PASSING OF 
 
 sides to vanish in this cloud ; high up, the trees and the 
 rocks that touch this filmy veil seem confused in a motion 
 less smoke, their heads entirely drowned in the grey mass. 
 We seem to be climbing the sides of a great closed gulf; 
 heavy rocks overhang us on all sides ; it is so dark that it 
 might be a premature twilight, and would be gloomy in 
 deed were it not for the glory of the verdure and the 
 wondrous pink flowers. 
 
 Soon we get quite close to the misty roof which looks 
 as if it could actually be touched. At a turning of the 
 deserted road we meet a procession, a humble village pro 
 cession wet through by the shower of hail a hundred 
 mountaineers following a silver cross and three priests in 
 muslin surplices. They are returning towards Val-Carlos, 
 singing litanies, infinitely melancholy heard here amidst 
 the impassive sovereignity of the trees and dark sky. 
 
 Then again no one, nothing but the great stillness, and 
 the silence of those gigantic walls of verdure, the mystery 
 of the forest that stretches up to join the nebulous vault 
 that ever nears our heads like a sort of Dantesque roof. 
 We are passing through a gloomy obscurity all green and 
 grey. 
 
 And, after about four hours of this monotonous climb 
 ing, we get at last into the cloud which proves a freezing 
 mist ; we can distinguish nothing but the nearest branches 
 the great, white branches of the beech trees. The 
 evening is approaching, and everything around us grows 
 more shadowy. 
 
 When we are at the highest point of this zig-zag road, 
 which now begins to descend before us, the rain comes 
 down in torrents, whilst daylight fades ; still, through the
 
 THE PROCESSION. 79 
 
 downfall, we can see the high convent walls of Roncevalles 
 where we shall return to-morrow morning with the pro 
 cession. Half a mile further on, as the twilight deepens, 
 we reach Burguette. In the pelting rain and the splashing 
 mud I alight at the only inn in the village, which appears 
 to be two or three centuries old. 
 
 There I expected to spend a solitary and quiet night. 
 But no, on the eve of the pilgrimage it is the custom 
 apparently to make merry. After supper a guitar appears, 
 the handle decorated with tufts of wool, like the head of 
 a mule, then a second, then a third, a whole orchestra in 
 fact, including a tambourine spangled over with brass. 
 
 And the warm Spanish music begins, first lightly and 
 hesitatingly, as the cider and wine goes the round to raise 
 the good folks' spirits. Gradually fandangoes^ jotas, haba 
 neras are re-enforced and accelerated, always with more 
 noise and at a greater pace. Carabineers arrive, smugglers 
 and shepherds. There are no women, excepting the two 
 servants of the house, who hardly know which way to 
 turn. But the men dance among themselves with shouts 
 of childish delight. 
 
 Now the guitarists sing, as their hands move wildly over 
 the strings ; with head thrown back, eyes closed as if with 
 intoxication, and mouth wide open displaying wolf-like 
 teeth, they repeat the airs indefinitely, with a kind of fury, 
 on notes almost too high. From midnight until two 
 o'clock, whilst the storm is raging outside, everybody 
 dances, even the innkeeper, even his wife, and the old 
 men and women whom the noise has awakened in the cor 
 ners. The ancient inn vibrates from top to bottom: one 
 feels the old wood-work and the blackened ceiling shake,
 
 8o THE PASSING OF 
 
 whilst the walls seem to be animated, impregnated with 
 the dancing vibrations of the guitars. 
 
 Wednesday, June 2nd. 
 
 Far and near, the clattering of footsteps and the tinkling 
 of numberless little bells that hang on the necks of the 
 sheep and goats, is the music that breaks on the morning 
 in this out of the way village, as day dawns among the 
 cloudy peaks. 
 
 The old inn awakes, silent now, after having vibrated all 
 night to the exaltation of song and the frenzy of guitars. 
 
 It is seven o'clock when I come down from my room 
 and stand on the threshold of the door to wait for the pro 
 cession to pass. It is no longer raining. A little sun 
 pierces the wandering clouds in which the village has 
 been wrapt. The street through which the procession of 
 crosses will defile, is fairly regular and long, and runs be 
 tween small old houses that are all alike, with high dark 
 roofs made of planks of beech, the wood of the neighbour 
 ing forests. The mud in the road is indented with end 
 less little marks made by the cloven feet of flocks which 
 have been driven out on to the high pasture lands, or into 
 the fields. From time to time peasants and peasant 
 women pass by, on mules also with bells, their harness 
 gleaming with brass, and saddles finished with red pen 
 dants. All are going in the direction of Roncevalles for 
 the pilgrimage of the day. 
 
 The open space near the Church would be an excellent 
 place to see the procession come up from the village 
 below, to see it appearing from out of that white mist 
 resting like a cloud in the hollow of the Pyrenees.
 
 THE PROCESSION. 81 
 
 The Church is heavy and defaced ; centuries of storms 
 have beaten upon its rustic granite front, and the open 
 space before it is riddled like that of the streets by the 
 footprints of sheep and goats. 
 
 Suddenly, high up in the belfry windows where two 
 bells of equal size are visible, some men appear, who set 
 to ringing hastily, using the tongues of the bells as mallets. 
 Ding, ding, ding, they strike the bronze with frantic 
 rapidity, just as they played the guitar last night. The 
 air is filled at once with a wild crashing noise, the signal 
 for the procession they have already perceived and that 
 will soon be visible to us. 
 
 Then it comes, emerging from the mist. At first it 
 looks like a procession of wooden beams painfully carried 
 by men in mourning. Then, as it draws nearer and the 
 great blocks of wood become more distinctly outlined, they 
 are seen to have the shape of instruments of torture : 
 crosses, like that of Calvary, which penitents are bearing 
 on their backs, supporting the cross bars with outstretched 
 arms as though they were suffering crucifixion. One 
 begins to hear an intermittent moaning that rises in 
 rhythmic lamentation from this moving mass of men. 
 There are five hundred perhaps, all in black, with black 
 cowls drawn over the face, and walking bare-footed in the 
 mud, two abreast, with hurried steps, unlike the slow pace 
 usually adopted in processions. Ora pro nobis ! Ora pro 
 nobis ! they cry in a lugubrious tone, as they pass with 
 strange haste, their head bowed under the cross. At cer 
 tain intervals are the mayors of the villages, hat in hand 
 and draped in ceremonial capes. Next comes a group of 
 deacons in muslin surplices, carrying on long poles the gilt
 
 82 THE PASSING OF 
 
 crosses belonging to the twenty or thirty neighbouring 
 parishes, mostly of ancient workmanship, some almost 
 barbarous. Then, bringing up the rear, troops of women 
 in black mantillas advance, singing litanies to the Virgin 
 in mournful voices. They have no cowls on their faces ; 
 their mantillas veil but withered ugliness, looks of sordid 
 suffering : a population sapped of youth by the bleak 
 climate of such regions pale girls of the heights where 
 the conditions of life become overwhelming. On the 
 Church square, and scattered about the street of Burguette, 
 are the inevitable tourists, attracted as though by some 
 frontier feast, to this remote village, alas ! no longer suffi 
 ciently protected by the mountains, no longer far enough 
 away from Biarritz or from Bayonne. It is needless to say 
 that these intruders are armed with opera-glasses, various 
 appurtenances, kodacs, bicycles, even flutes. And in 
 front of all these humble inhabitants of the mountains, 
 passing on their way in childlike faith to kneel before Our 
 Lady of Roncevalles, in gruesome rags pitiful to see in 
 front of them, these people find matter for laughter, for 
 remarks that are the quintessence of inanity. 
 
 Still, on towards Roncevalles the procession continues 
 to ascend, uttering their lugubrious groans; and in its wake 
 I find myself once again in the country. 
 
 The country here is extraordinarily green, being con 
 stantly in a state of moisture from its proximity to or 
 contact with the clouds ; rather melancholy, at the same 
 time suggesting a little paradise that the hand of man has 
 scarcely touched ; and something indescribable in the air 
 makes one conscious of the height one has attained. 
 
 The road passes through clumps of great beeches, their
 
 THE PROCESSION. 83 
 
 branches covered with white lichen, through fields of 
 daisies where white goats feed in flocks. But further on 
 all around is the forest of endless beeches, peaceful and 
 monotonous, silent, fresh and green. The peaks in the 
 neighbourhood of this plateau of Burguette, that appeared 
 to tower so high when seen from the plains below, look 
 like little hills quite close at hand, wooded always by the 
 same strong species. And the clouds that are at home 
 here, wander round us like smoke, like fleecy eiderdown, 
 floating or resting over the green splendour of the trees. 
 
 The procession which I continue to follow, moves on 
 still at the same quick pace, noiselessly because the feet of 
 these mountaineers are bare or else shod in espadrilles. 
 Nothing is heard but lamentations persistently repeated in 
 a measured rhythm. Before me is the black mass of 
 women ; then the group with the silver crosses on which 
 a ray of sunlight falls at this moment, lighting up the 
 the nebulous green of the background ; lastly in the van 
 guard beyond, the crowd of crucified penitents with out 
 stretched arms, who will be hidden soon in the thick 
 grey mist before them with its mother-of-pearl reflections. 
 The ancient Roncevalles, towards which they are all 
 wending, is invisible in the clouds, a great pale mist that 
 was passing had stopped to envelope it. 
 
 We are in truth quite close to this Roncevalles we can 
 not see, for there is a sudden clash of bells which signal our 
 approach in rapid strokes, as the bells of Burguette did this 
 morning. The Convent looms out in a moment, magnified 
 by the indistinctness of its outlines blurred by the en 
 shrouding clouds. It appears colossal and fierce with its 
 fortress dungeon and its confusion of heavy walls.
 
 84 THE PASSING OF THE PROCESSION. 
 
 The procession plunges into the shade of an old granite 
 porch to cross a deserted cloister with ruined arches, whose 
 crevices are filled with ferns and moss. The mist still en 
 velopes the human silhouettes, and produces a chill sepul 
 chral dampness, giving everything a look of unreality, 
 that takes the imagination back into the twilight of the 
 past. 
 
 At last we penetrate, like a flood, into the obscurity of 
 the Church clouded in incense. At the further end, tapers 
 burn before the old tabernacles of burnished gold. The 
 wan lights make the gilded columns, the gilded altar piece 
 the remains of ancient splendour gleam in the midst of 
 the dilapidation and gloom. But in the nave there is not 
 light enough to see one's way, and at first there is some 
 confusion as the procession crowds in : sweating bodies 
 push and elbow one another ; the crosses come into colli 
 sion, one hears the clashing of wood and the heavy bangs 
 on the flag-stones. 
 
 By degrees, however, the crowd gropes its way, and 
 one's eyes get accustomed to the darkness. The whole of 
 the centre aisle is occupied by a dense mass of women 
 veiled in black, and on either side, symmetrically arranged, 
 are the five hundred crucified, with arms extended, tired 
 and out of breath. This is the end of their painful march 
 under the weight of their heavy burdens. Now the monks 
 are going to say mass for them. 
 
 Mon Dieu ! without those drifting clouds it might all 
 have seemed vulgar and trivial.
 
 The Sword Dance. 
 
 NDER the glare of a midday sun the 
 tennis was drawing to an end. The 
 six champions were sweating from the 
 heat in the centre of a huge grey 
 court, cemented and levelled so that 
 the balls should bound true ; in the 
 restrained movement of their arms, in 
 the still vigorous play of their mus 
 cles, and in their agile leaps one de- 
 vined a fatigue, and some haste to get the game over. 
 
 Moreover, I had lost all interest in the match, the sides 
 were quite unequal, and there could be no doubt as to the 
 ultimate result. I ceased to watch the players, and my 
 eyes fell on an inscription in white chalk, written on the 
 dazzling wall that was rounded at its base where the balls 
 struck with a hard sound. I read it mechanically, Viva 
 Euskual Herria said the inscription in large awkwardly 
 traced letters (Long live the Basque country !) Doubtless 
 the work of some passing enthusiast, or of a child. It took 
 hold of me, assuming a sudden importance in my mind :
 
 86 THE SWORD DANCE. 
 
 these unfamiliar words so strangely sonorous, this cry of 
 revolt against the general process of levelling summed up 
 for me all that yet remained of what was Basque in this 
 Saint-Jean-de-Luz, which day by day was fading from her. 
 
 When one has lived some time in this dying Euskual- 
 Herria one sees so many games of tennis, and plays so 
 many oneself, that they lose their power of producing an 
 impression of local colour on the imagination. More 
 over to-day a great gala day, in a town that is fast 
 becoming a kind of watering place the tiers that surround 
 the court were filled by a cosmopolitan crowd of most 
 distressingly commonplace appearance. 
 
 Then there arrived a troup of odd-looking peasants, all 
 dressed alike. The Basques who were present received 
 them with murmurs of welcome: "You ! you ! you !" The 
 visitors smiled and answered according to the custom : 
 "You! you! you!" in high bird-like voices, such as certain 
 tribes of Red Indians assume when they dance. 
 
 They wore black trousers, black caps, black blouses 
 kilted in a thousand pleats and worn short, ending indeed 
 above the loins ; their faces were clean shaven, and had 
 that simple expression peculiar to old world people. They 
 were " Souletins," delegated dancers, who had come to 
 take part in the festivities from the ancient district of 
 Soule, whose traditions are still immutable. Their music 
 accompanied them : a tambourine, and a kind of great 
 flute shaped like a quiver, a veritable pipe of Pan. 
 
 In their presence the game was finished. And as soon 
 as the drawling voice of the crier had proclaimed the last 
 point in Basque, before the crowd had time to rise, the 
 organisers of the festivities invited the Souletins to dance.
 
 THE SWORD DANCE. 87 
 
 Then the old man, who had been playing the pastoral 
 flute, advanced into the middle of the court, whilst the 
 dancers, who numbered about thirty, formed a large circle 
 around him holding hands. At the sound of a tiny trill, 
 strangely mysterious, and as if coming from far off, that 
 proceeded from the huge archaic flute, the men began to 
 move slowly in measured time. Here and there stupid 
 laughter was heard to escape from under elegant hats ; 
 but the greater number of the people, even of the more 
 common tourists were impressed and interested. A hush 
 fell upon the crowd present at this almost silent dance, 
 in which the light slippers of the Souletins glided noise 
 lessly over the surface of the court. 
 
 The spirit of past ages had surely come to life once 
 again at the sound of the flute, communicating to the sen 
 sitive, unexpected thrills, and to coarser natures a feeling 
 of respect in spite of themselves. 
 
 With the regularity of automatons, the Souletins 
 executed to a mournful measure the quickest and most 
 complicated steps. Occasionally a nervous leap would 
 raise them from the ground altogether, their pleated 
 blouses, so quaintly short, spreading wide under their arms 
 like the skirts of a ballet girl so light were they, one 
 could not hear them fall to the ground again, and not 
 withstanding the great speed with which their feet moved, 
 their faces remained impassive and solemn. Still the old 
 flutist stood in the centre of the circle, playing his shrill 
 music as though he led them by some sorcery. The mid 
 day sun stunted the shadows of these dancers in black 
 garments, almost to nothing, as they whirled in a circle 
 on the grey asphalt.
 
 88 THE SWORD DANCE. 
 
 The Angelus began to ring for thank^God the Angelas 
 still rings out from the venerable belfries in this country 
 as the crowd dispersed after the performance, pouring 
 into the streets of Saint-Jean-de-Luz. 
 
 A dance was announced to take place at four o'clock 
 (the ancient sword dance to be performed by young 
 mountaineers of Guipuzcoa) ; meanwhile the time had to 
 be passed by lunching at some hotel, among tourists of all 
 classes, and then by wandering about the gay streets of the 
 town, where here and there the Basque music of tam 
 bourines and fifes could be heard. 
 
 In Saint-Jean-de-Luz there are still some delightful 
 corners, some quite secluded streets where the original 
 character of the place is yet preserved : jutting out roofs ; 
 whitewashed fa9ades intersected by green or red beams ; 
 great trees overhanging garden walls; glimpses of the blue 
 sea, or of the purple Pyrenees ; peace and silence between 
 white walk on a pavement of pebbles gathered from the 
 sea shored Nevertheless, dreadful modern buildings are 
 rising up daily not a corner of the shore, not a lovely 
 hill-side that is not dishonoured now by some great costly 
 erection conceived by bloated barbarians, by snobs gone 
 mad. It would be so simple not to disfigure the country, 
 to build Basque houses, as a few artists have had the good 
 taste to do ! Alas, alas, who will save us from this moder\a 
 trumpery, from over luxury, from uniformity and idiotsj! 
 
 ....... 
 
 I sat down to wait under some trees of a square in front 
 of a cafe that had been established in a house of the seven 
 teenth century, the ex-abode of royalty, and watched
 
 THE SWORD DANCE. 89 
 
 bicyclist after bicyclist pass by ; women with befeathered 
 hats, women of all nationalities, of all ranks, but who 
 copied one another in their dress, devoid of style or 
 meaning, with a complete disdain of any difference of 
 type. It is one of the achievements of this century that, 
 at any watering place, it is quite impossible to tell at first 
 sight whether you are at Ostend, at Trouville, or at Saint 
 Sebastian. 
 
 I entirely lost that note of strangeness the dancers had 
 given me in the morning. An effort was even necessary 
 to remind myself that, in those distant mountains, there 
 still exists the remnants of a people who guards, with the 
 secret of its origin, the faith and traditions and language 
 of its ancestors. However, two guitarists approached me, 
 a blind old man and a young girl, who had come from 
 Spain to beg for pence during the festivities. And the 
 moment I heard their music, a soft music almost drowned 
 by the noise of the wind from the sea, and the confused 
 murmur from the town, a veil began to fall to fall on all 
 the modern trivialities. They struck up an old " Mal- 
 guenia." One of the guitars played the air; it was like 
 a song of Arabia, a moan spreading over desert plains. 
 The other accompanied in little short and trembling notes 
 that imitated the croaking of grasshoppers in deserts of 
 scorching sand. It seemed to speak of sorrows born by 
 souls in other ages, in Andalusia, at the heavy hour of 
 noon, when the Moors were in possession. . . In the 
 indefinable nature of this music, in the mystery of its 
 rhythm, the peculiar genius of the race will be preserved 
 for centuries still to come, in spite of the universal fusion 
 of men and things.
 
 90 <THE SWORD DANCE. 
 
 At last, on the stroke of four, the young mountaineers 
 of Guipuzcoa, who had come to dance, appeared in the 
 court of the convent where the crowd had been assembled 
 for some time on several hundred chairs. 
 
 One held an immense silk standard, the others naked 
 swords. Unconcerned, and solemn in appearance as their 
 brothers of Soule this morning, they mounted the plat 
 form that had been prepared for them. 
 
 They wore red caps, were all in their shirt sleeves, and 
 tieless, in the Basque fashion ; their trousers were white 
 under an open waistcoat, with the traditional leather orna 
 ments on their calves: straps of leather studded with small 
 bells that would jingle in a moment with a barbaric sound 
 as they danced. 
 
 The decorated platform certainly looked rather like a 
 theatre at a fair, in spite of a simplicity almost naif in its 
 directness. To appreciate them fully it was necessary to 
 put aside any such comparison, and to forget equally the 
 modern crowd and a thousand ridiculous little details in 
 fact the general surroundings. 
 
 Moreover, they themselves appeared quite unconscious 
 of their audience. It seems that on the previous day they 
 had replied to the director of a neighbouring Casino, who 
 wished to engage them for the evening, " No, we are 
 Basques who dance in the open air before Basques, the 
 dances of our country, that the traditions of them may be 
 prolonged. We are not folk who take money to show 
 ourselves off." 
 
 They were tall, supple, strong men, quite as much at 
 their ease before this crowd of bathers as in their own vil 
 lage, when it is a question of dancing among themselves,
 
 THE SWORD DANCE. 91 
 
 on Sundays, in the open places before the churches. At 
 first they knelt down together with heads bent low towards 
 the earth in a magnificent salute to their standard ; the 
 bearer himself, kneeling in the centre of the motionless 
 group, began slowly to brandish the pole, with supple 
 movements in such a way as to cause the folds of silk to 
 fly like great agitated wings above their heads. Then 
 they all rose, grandly tall, and the dance commenced to 
 the sound of a warlike march played on fife and tam 
 bourine. The step was singularly complicated, varied 
 from time to time by tremendous bounds that shook the 
 little bells about them, and rattled the leather straps 
 against their calves. There was a brandishing of rapiers 
 in time to music, quick thrusts and parrying a simulta 
 neous meeting of all the swords with the clash of steel. It 
 recalled some scene in antiquity one of those warlike 
 dances in which the young men of Greece delighted. 
 
 Many other dances followed on this same platform, all 
 very ancient, some dating back incalculable ages, so remote 
 is the origin of these people. They performed the ancient 
 pastoral of Abraham, played by " young boys from the 
 community of Barcus in which angels and demons figure 
 by the side of the patriarch, nay even Chodorlahomor, 
 King of Sodom." 
 
 Later, when it had grown dark, they began again in 
 the public Square, this time without a platform, in the 
 very midst of the crowd. The sword dance appeared 
 peculiarly noble and barbaric in the glimmer of lanterns 
 under a moonlit sky. And then at the end a general fan-
 
 92 THE SWORD DANCE. 
 
 dango took place everyone, girls and boys in a mad whirl 
 of intoxicating pleasure. 
 
 For a whole week the traditional Basque festivities suc 
 ceeded one another at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, all the old dances, 
 the diverse games of tennis ; improvisations by inspired 
 shepherds, competitions in those strange cries of hilarity 
 called Irrintzina which make one shudder; songs and 
 sacred hymns in churches. And the performers of these 
 bear names whose consonants echo down to us from 
 primitive times, names such as Agestaran, Lizarraga, 
 Imbil, Olai'z, and Heguiaphal. . . 
 
 It all takes place amidst surroundings that become more 
 and more incongruous, before assemblies in which Beotiens 
 predominate, and is so out of vogue, so little characteristic 
 of the country now, alas ! that at moments it seems almost 
 lamentable in the midst of the foolishly smiling crowd. 
 
 Yet how touching, how worthy of sympathy and res 
 pect are these efforts at preservation, these religious revi 
 vals of past customs which those festivities represent !
 
 Cathedral Impressions. 
 
 .URGOS, when the light wanes, at the 
 close of an April Sunday, in the splen 
 dour of Southern Spring, and in all the 
 golden red of the sunset. 
 
 The air is still and very soft, and as 
 the daylight fades, a joyless evening spreads 
 gradually over the old world city, isola 
 ted here in the country, decrepid and 
 dying on the banks of a meagre river 
 that has no communication with the life-bringing sea. 
 In the waning light it seems as if the oppression of this 
 superb name Burgos, evoking splendours of greater days, 
 weighs upon her Sunday streets, where the Spain of to 
 day, so insignificant beside the Spain of former times, 
 perambulates in its fine modern clothes. 
 
 The Cathedral, the very celebrated cathedral, at once 
 comes into sight : above the houses appear points that rise 
 high into the golden air, points and arrows miraculously 
 carved, so frail in their exquisite tracery, like paper lace- 
 work, almost, that the wind must blow away and for
 
 94 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 centuries they have been there, immovable. At this hour 
 they flame red, caught by the sinking sun that in a moment 
 will colour them alone, leaving the little street in dark 
 ness, whence gradually the Sunday crowd will disappear 
 into the obscure dwellings. 
 
 The very heart of the town is the cathedral's throne. I 
 am conducted there through a labyrinth of old houses as 
 quickly as possible, as I am leaving at nightfall. Here it is. 
 Great walls pierced by Gothic ogives, flights of steps, 
 sumptuous porticoes where a world of statues, sculptured 
 in red stone, are ranged in rows, placed one above the 
 other. Then, majestic gates and suddenly a twilight, a 
 sepulchral chill on one's shoulders, a sweet smell of incense 
 in a subteranean darkness : I have gained the inside, pene 
 trating a world of incredible magnificence, of solitude 
 gloomily enchanted. In front of me are dark receding 
 distances, traversed here and there by rainbow beams that 
 fall from some great window, whilst flagstones resound 
 under my feet in the silence, echoing as in a cave. 
 
 It is the cathedral, the legendary cathedral, the marvel 
 of olden times; more surprising than Milan, Strasburg or 
 Toledo. In its Sunday evening abandonment, the great 
 organs silent and the censers extinguished, it inspires 
 something of dread. 
 
 At first, the impression one gets, is that of entering a 
 petrified forest, of walking under huge trees. The columns, 
 the enormous trunks rise up entwined by what might be 
 ivy or moss, in fact, fine and wonderful sculpture. Above, 
 wherever these pillars spread out their branch-like arches, 
 masses of foliage cluster, a veritable leafage of stone, close 
 and thick, like a roof of high forest trees overhead, testi-
 
 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 95 
 
 fying to the patient work of a whole generation of men. 
 All carved in living stone, all infinitely durable in spite of 
 such rare delicacy, and already transmitted to us from afar 
 through the past centuries. Between enormous pillars, in 
 all directions, are giant gates in bronze and iron, thirty feet 
 high, prodigiously wrought, separating the great nave from 
 a multitude of secondary chapels still more inconceivably 
 magnificent, where the delicate leaves, the fairy-like 
 bowers, which there too rise to the vaulted roof, are no 
 longer of stone but of glittering gold. 
 
 A man, who is the guardian of all this wealth, opens 
 these heavy barriers of bronze or of iron, one after another, 
 with wrought keys that are as long as daggers ; the 
 banging of the gates, as they close behind us, resound 
 lingeringly under the vaulted roof. 
 
 It is too late, he says, to see everything; night is coming 
 on. He hastens me forward. 
 
 At first we were alone in this vast place, then four or 
 five mountain peasants arrive in old clothes, with a shrink 
 ing look, uncouth and miserable, who ask permission to 
 follow, and join themselves to us in a group. They peer 
 quite closely at the sumptuous things in the growing 
 dusk, touching the gold with their fingers, and moistening 
 the marbles with their breath. 
 
 We go into the choir which is full of inestimable 
 treasures. It is shut ofF in a kind of great bronze cage, 
 concealed by long draperies of brocade falling the whole 
 height of the nave ; candlesticks of embossed silver, that 
 measure five or six feet, are arranged before the high altar
 
 96 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 glistening with gold. Afterwards, into all the secondary 
 chapels, whose gates in opening, awake louder and more 
 lingering echoes in the growing darkness, their golden 
 traceries, imitating acanthus leaves and dainty chicory 
 plants, seen close at hand, are peopled by hundreds of 
 figures and animals. Then, hurrying on again, we are 
 shown the tombs of the saintly founders ; the man, who 
 conducts us, briskly raises the cloth of red and gold velvet 
 that covers their images of alabaster or of marble, their 
 white reclining statues. We pass through a labyrinth of 
 cloisters full of souvenirs and relics ; the doors are fastened 
 by strange locks representing human faces, the key fitting 
 into mouths that grin. And at last back to the immense 
 nave again, nearly dark now, re-entering unexpectedly by a 
 small door. 
 
 There is no sense of religious peace in the place; on the 
 contrary, only a feeling of magnificence that is implacable 
 and overpowering ; no, not even calm, in spite of the 
 dusk and the silence ; not even the restful unity to be 
 found in certain Japanese sanctuaries of the Holy Moun 
 tain, which, together with this one, are the most splendid 
 temples to the Gods still unmolested by time. In this 
 extravagant excess of wealth one is conscious of something 
 wrong, of something intensely human and almost sensual. 
 A prodigious past is evoked : the Spain of the great 
 period, abounding in power and in gold ; but the peace, 
 the sweet peace of so many other Christian Churches is 
 wholly absent here. 
 
 I have experienced, before now, that to see things for 
 the first time by stealth, in the evening, in the fever of a 
 hurried visit, is the way to receive a complete, definite
 
 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 97 
 
 and just impression of them. It happened once, sometime 
 ago now, that having paid my first visit to the Acropolis at 
 Athens in the middle of the night, in the course of a few 
 minutes, at the price of many difficulties, and at the risk 
 of missing my ship, I remember that I caught a vivid 
 glimpse of its ancient splendour, in a way that I have 
 never since experienced. Thus with Burgos, I feel I 
 would rather not come again to weaken and dwarf my im 
 pressions of the whole, merely for the sake of seeing some 
 incomparable details I might undoubtedly discover. 
 
 We are going out. 
 
 Two small lights burn like Tom Thumb tapers in the 
 far distance of the nave, and near them a dark kneeling 
 form becomes visible. Let us see what it is ; let us ap 
 proach very quietly over the resounding flagstones, in order 
 not to disturb this praying phantom. Two wax tapers, 
 such modest tapers, are burning before a picture of the 
 Virgin, which hangs in a neglected corner, in an unim 
 portant niche behind one of the great pillars, yet is sump 
 tuous enough in its frame of old gold. 
 
 A woman dressed in black, with a mantilla of mourning 
 on her head, is prostrate before it. She holds a miserable 
 baby at her breast, a child but a few months old, in whose 
 shrivelled little face there is already the stamp of death. 
 She prays ardently for him as the wax of the tapers gradu 
 ally diminishes, the penny tapers she has placed before the 
 humblest picture she could find, this sorrowing creature. 
 The contrast between the prodigious wealth all round and 
 the rags of the supplicant is overwhelming and cruel : be-
 
 98 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 tween the persistent durability of those many thousand 
 saints draped in gold and the frailty of this little being 
 with no to-morrow, brought to them all wrapt up in rags, 
 and timidly presented before them that they may take pity 
 on him, destined surely to return soon to mother earth. 
 
 She is already decrepid, this woman whose attitude sug 
 gests such boundless distress, a grandmother perhaps, dis 
 puting with death for the child of a dead daughter, or 
 perhaps a mother, who, at an advanced age, has conceived 
 a child that is not likely to live. 
 
 With infinite tenderness she holds and covers up the 
 poor little human thing that owes its failure, its miserable 
 state to some unknown chance ; she draws a black hand 
 kerchief over the piteous face that seems to express already 
 some future suffering, and wraps a shawl about the thin 
 body no bigger than a doll's, to protect it from the sepul 
 chral damp that is falling on it from the vaulted roof. 
 Still she kneels, and her lips move in obstinate and vain 
 repetitions. Now she looks at me with eyes full of deso 
 lation, divining a pity no doubt in mine, seeming to ask 
 doesn't he look ill, my poor little one. 
 
 I turn away to elude her dumb question that tears at 
 my heart, and pretend to be interested in other things. 
 But the next moment, seeing that I remain there, she 
 raises her head towards me again, after a quick glance at 
 the splendour around. Evidently she is not quite con 
 vinced, and her eyes ask still more anxiously this time : 
 Do you really think that they will listen to me, these 
 magnificent divinities ? 
 
 God ! I do not know if they will listen. In her place 
 I would rather carry my child to one of those country
 
 CATHEDRAL IMPRESSIONS. 99 
 
 chapels where the Virgin of simple folk reigns. The 
 Madonnas and Saints who inhabit this place are, more 
 than anything else, I think, creatures of ceremony, hard 
 ened by secular pomp. No, I cannot imagine that they 
 would occupy themselves with a poor old woman in tears, 
 and with her little deformed child who is dying.
 
 The Passing of the Sultan. 
 
 am 
 
 HE window through which I 
 looking is in one of the Kiosks of the 
 Yeldiz Palace, the habitual resi 
 dence of His Majesty the Sultan. 
 
 And the window forms the frame 
 to a great scene that is very peculiar, 
 very unique, and that furnishes at 
 the very first glimpse a precise indi 
 cation of the time and place. 
 
 First, there is a Mosque, miraculously white in the-dust 
 and blazing June sun at mid-day, under a sky pale with 
 heat, quite a new and elegant Mosque, though built in the 
 pure old style, a Mosque suggesting the refinements of a 
 modern Islam, in this, not unlike our new Gothic churches 
 in which-archaic researches are allied to perfected methods; 
 almost too pretty with its high portico crowned by Arabian 
 trefoils, the fine carving of its windosw, the grace of its 
 minarets covered with ornaments like reversed stalactites, 
 and surmounted by a glittering crescent of gold. 
 
 In the immediate neighbourhood all is equally new, the
 
 THE PASSING OF THE SULTAN. 101 
 
 ground sanded and naked, the trees young, the grass mown, 
 and baskets of flowers arranged with all the care usual in 
 princely residences. 
 
 Behind the white Mosque all in lace-work, that occu 
 pies the centre of the picture, and is the principal sub 
 ject, appear indistinctly the great marvels of former times. 
 In the distance which, as the perspective indicates, we are 
 looking down upon from a height stretches theBosphorus, 
 the silhouette of Asiatic Scutari ; then, that incomparable 
 thing, the point of the old Seraglio jutting out into the 
 water of Marmora, with minarets, cupolas and the cypresses 
 of Stamboul : all lightly sketched in grey blues, devoured 
 by the sunshine and the glare of the scintilating sea just 
 visible under a veil of luminous dust, and occupying little 
 space in the background, behind the lovely Mosque, like 
 the diminutive houses and palaces that nestle near the arms 
 and against the shoulders of the central figure in certain 
 pictures by old masters. It is so wonderful this point of 
 Stamboul with Saint Sophia and the old Seraglio, that 
 the very indication of its presence evokes in this modern 
 scene, recollections of the glorious past. 
 
 The interlacing roads, and alleys, and avenues that sur 
 round the Imperial Mosque, are full of soldiers on the 
 march, approaching one another to the sound of military 
 music, and gradually concentrating round the white per 
 forated walls of the sanctuary, where evidently some solem 
 nity is to take place. On all sides they are seen crossing 
 one another, and zigzagging as in some endless fairy defile 
 on the stage. Cavalry flags, black banners embroidered in 
 silver, the red ensigns of the lancers, pass and repass before 
 one another in a cloud of rising dust; the brass instruments
 
 fHE PASSING OF 
 
 of the bands sparkle in the sun, as well as the high Cha- 
 peaus-chinois (military musical instruments) decorated with 
 horses' tails ; bells ring and flourishes resound, whilst the 
 air is filled with the peculiarly solemn tone of Turkish 
 trumpets. Still the soldiers continue to arrive, massing 
 themselves in a pre-arranged order, with a perfect preci 
 sion, and halting suddenly at their post. The nearest, 
 those who take their stand in serried ranks directly below 
 us, against the walls of the Kiosk, are Arnautes from the 
 north of the Empire, and Zouaves of Tripoli in green 
 turbans splendid men, both in bearing and demeanour, 
 individually and in mass. 
 
 Now they are all there, not a movement among them, 
 every man wrapt in thought, for the holy hour of noon is 
 approaching, and soon the ceremony will take place in the 
 Mosque, for which they have all been assembled, the 
 " Selamlike," the great Friday prayer, at which the Sultan 
 will be present in person. 
 
 In the room here, there is no feeling of devout silence ; 
 diplomatists talk with the wives of ambassadors, or discuss 
 political questions together. Nor is there any in the 
 adjoining room, which is crowded with people, women 
 especially : tourists of different European nationalities to 
 whom, by request of the embassies, the Grand Master of 
 Ceremonies has given permission to come and see the 
 procession of the Selamlike. An aide-de-camp, the most 
 obliging Mehmed-Bey, in long flowing Circassian sleeves, 
 does the honours and shows the fair sight-seers to suit 
 able seats. Will his Majesty, who is to pass here under 
 these very windows, be on horseback or in a carriage ? A 
 question that greatly absorbs the spectators, and that is
 
 THE SULTAN. 103 
 
 impossible to answer. Generally, for this short transit of 
 two or three hundred yards between the Palace and the 
 Mosque, the Sultan finds it simpler to get into a carriage 
 while his chargers are led behind, in this case regrettable, 
 for his Majesty looks very fine on horseback, and besides, 
 answers better to our idea of a Khalif than when passing 
 in a landau like any western king. 
 
 The time draws near ; the marble steps of the Mosque 
 have just been hastily covered with the precious red carpet, 
 on which the Sultan is to place his feet, and on each side of 
 the door, strange Asiatic groups have ranged themselves ; 
 long robes, green and yellow and orange, stand out against 
 the snowy whiteness of the walls ; dark heads of solemn 
 aspect surmounted by large turbans: priests deputed from 
 Mecca, from Bagdad, from far distant countries over which 
 the Khalif extends his religious empire, bringing with 
 them a charming touch of the fierce barbarity of ancient 
 times. 
 
 Along the sanded avenue, lined by the troops and kept 
 clear by a double row of soldiers, dignitaries of all sorts 
 begin to arrive on their way to the prayer, more especially 
 officers, generals, and marshalls, all the heads of the Turk 
 ish Army : but they are scarcely noticed in the general 
 impatience to see the Sultan pass. 
 
 In an elegant closed carriage, the princesses of the 
 Imperial family sweep by, a cloud of muslin concealing 
 their dress and faces. 
 
 The sun blazes : in the white rooms, on the white 
 Mosque, in the distances blurred by scintillating reflections 
 and dust, everywhere a glare of light, whilst the presence 
 of these thousands of armed men massed together in silence,
 
 104 THE PASSING OF 
 
 all but holding their breath, seems to augment the oppres 
 sive heat. 
 
 One by one the great personages invited to the prayer 
 continue to arrive on foot; the Imperial princes, the elders 
 with their aides-de-camp, the children in military cos 
 tume accompanied by their tutors. Irresistibly charming 
 is a beautiful boy in naval costume covered with crosses, 
 who walks superbly, and turns his delightful intelligent 
 face to the people as he passes. In the tourists' room, 
 where he is not known, women's heads, in flowery hats 
 like May gardens, lean from the window to look at him, 
 and ask : " Who is it ?" It is the little Prince Burhan- 
 Eddine, his Majesty's youngest son. 
 
 Mid-day approaches. Everyone looks towards the 
 Palace. Watches are consulted travellers' watches that 
 never agree, being regulated to all the different European 
 times. Through the troops, who rouse themselves and 
 stand erect, there runs a perceptible movement that 
 announces the approach of the sovereign. Amidst the 
 clashing of brass instruments the bands play the Imperial 
 Anthem. And up in the aerial gallery of the white min 
 aret, under the golden crescent, the mezzin has just appeared, 
 very small against the sky in the blazing sun. The mez 
 zin who is to chant the holy prayer. 
 
 Twelve o'clock ! Suddenly the music ceases, halts in 
 the middle of a phrase, an unexpected silence falls as 
 though under the oppression of something rather awful. 
 The troops stiffen themselves to a panting immobility. 
 Then the three cries, Allah ! Allah ! Allah ! rising simul 
 taneously from the powerful chests of five thousand soldiers, 
 rend the hot motionless air.
 
 THE SULTAN. 105 
 
 And in the silence that falls again, after the great out 
 burst, the sovereign passes. 
 
 He is in a carriage, with Osman Pacha the illustrious 
 hero of Plevna in front of him, and passes quickly, as every 
 head bends. 
 
 And from aloft, under the blazing sky, the chant of the 
 mezzin falls, the oriental call, the secular call : this mar 
 vellous voice, chosen from among all voices, dominates the 
 noise below, covers the military commands and the vague 
 murmuring of so many thousand men. It is fresh, flexible 
 and infinite, something strange, too, in its melancholy 
 hautboy tones. The quick plaintive fugues rise and fall 
 above the human heads, throwing the mystic feeling of 
 Islam, even over the unbelieving strangers assembled there 
 for this unusual sight. 
 
 The Khalif, who has descended from his landau, mounts 
 the marble stairs on the red carpet. The oriental dresses 
 and sombre turbans, that were grouped upon the steps, 
 prostrate themselves to the ground. The last notes of the 
 heavenly voice grown plaintive, die on the air and it is 
 over. The Khalif has passed. Everyone begins to breathe 
 and speak freely again after the religious hush, and con 
 versations are resumed among the cosmopolitan groups in 
 the Kiosk, whilst the beautiful white chargers harnessed 
 in gold are led away. 
 
 The moment has been short, but nevertheless, one has 
 felt again with a thrill amid splendid scenic effects, the 
 sweeping past of one of those special beings called Em 
 perors or Kings, in whom great nations are personified.
 
 The Passing of the Queen. 
 
 CTUALLY I live in France, but 
 on a kind of projecting balcony 
 that overlooks Spain. As the 
 windows and terraces of my little 
 home are almost washed by the 
 Bidassoa, I can see and hear all 
 that passes on the opposite shore, 
 which is not in France. 
 
 To-day, a lovely day in the 
 
 height of summer-time, there is suddenly an unexpected 
 commotion among the bells over there : the Church of 
 Fontarabia, the Church of Irun, the monasteries, all peal 
 and peal as for some great festival. Then a large national 
 flag, red with a band of yellow, rises quickly above the 
 Castle of Jeanne-la-Folle, brilliant against the brown, 
 sombre mountains, and the French boats put off hurriedly 
 for Fontarabia, taking people from here evidently to see 
 some sight, 
 
 " What is it ?" I ask a boatman from my window. 
 " It's the Queen the Queen of Spain. We are going 
 to see her pass !"
 
 THE PASSING OF THE %VEEN. 107 
 
 Of course, I knew that every summer Her Majesty the 
 Queen Regent came from St. Sebastian to make a pil 
 grimage of several hours to old Fontarabia. Well, sup 
 posing I go too, and mix in the crowd of peasants and 
 fishermen to see the Queen pass. I hasten down and take 
 my place in a gay boat-load, in which a troop of young 
 girls and boys exchange merriments in the most ancient 
 and mysterious language in the world, with that full, light 
 roll of the r peculiar to Basque words. 
 
 Ten minutes on the Bidassoa that sweeps sluggishly 
 along under the brilliant southern sunlight, and we land 
 on the Spanish shore, on the deserted quai of Fontarabia. 
 
 The young girls say that it is already late : the Queen 
 will soon leave the Church and go away ; one must run. 
 
 By a familiar short cut we climb nimbly up between 
 houses built in the darkest middle ages, sinister and dead 
 under the burning sun, and we are soon in the wonderful 
 old street des Chevaliers^ close to the Church with its walls 
 like a fortress, magnificently emblazoned. 
 
 But we are late indeed hardly in time to doff our caps 
 and open our sun-dazed eyes, before the Queen passes, very 
 quickly, in an open carriage drawn by mules at a galop 
 over the noisy paving stones. She has hardly appeared, 
 hardly been recognised, than she is driving rapidly away, 
 with the infant King at her side, who turns for a moment 
 to look at the Church with his deep young eyes. She is 
 quite simply dressed, this queen, according to the modern 
 custom that requires sovereigns to look as much as 
 possible like their subjects, yet so queenly in appearance, 
 in spite of her attempt at simplicity that in this particular 
 case, there could be no confusion.
 
 io8 THE PASSING OF THE QUEEN. 
 
 I smile at the disappointment of my companions who 
 
 had hurried over from our France where there are no more 
 
 , kings, in the hope no doubt of admiring a golden dress. 
 
 (Really this strange levelling which sweeps everything 
 
 away customs, traditions, dress, pomp and ceremonies 
 
 strikes the imagination most forcibly here among the 
 
 Spanish surroundings of a past still intact, among the 
 
 grand old houses with their armorial bearings, and with 
 
 the sound everywhere of those very ancient bells pealing 
 
 in honour of the Queen.) 
 
 At the far end of me narrow old street, the Royal 
 carriage is already nearly out of sight, and the country 
 folk and the fishermen, grouped round the Church, are 
 slow to put on their caps, slow to raise their voices, as 
 if affected by some religious emotion. And yet they are 
 all Carlists by ancient enough tradition ; but one feels that 
 even to them the sovereign and mother who has just 
 passed, so unaffected and quiet in her simple dress, com 
 mands a sympathy and respect by the mere charm of her 
 presence.
 
 The Moth. 
 
 NE cloudy evening, in my own par 
 ticular study, that resembles some cor 
 ner of the east, a gleam of light slips 
 through between the half-drawn cur 
 tains, forming a long line in the sur 
 rounding obscurity. 
 
 From the folds of my red velvet 
 wall hangings, gold embroideries 
 of archaic design, some tiny crea 
 ture makes its escape, as if drawn towards the dying 
 gleam of light, and once there, flutters impatiently about ; 
 a tiny grey moth hardly visible a wisp of straw with 
 wings, that has doubtless just been hatched in this pale 
 renewing of the year. 
 
 \ A season ago, whilst I was sailing the Chinese seas, it 
 had surely been a horrible little worm, silently devouring 
 the fibre of the precious velvet, in the undisturbed security 
 of my deserted room. 
 
 And to-day an entirely new life intoxicated this atom, 
 the small place seemed huge to him, and this semi-dark 
 ness, light. This was its hour of youth, of exuberance, its
 
 no THE MOTH. 
 
 hour of love, and the goal and crown of its whole inferior 
 larval existence. 
 
 Quicker and quicker in the delirium of life it flapped 
 its wings of silken dust to describe those fantastic little 
 curves. 
 
 In passing, I knocked it down with a thoughtless flip. 
 There on the ground, on the purple of an oriental carpet, 
 I saw its little battered body again, shaken with the flut- 
 terings of death, and out of pity, that it should not suffer 
 further, that it might return to its nothingness, I placed 
 my foot on its microscopic agony. 
 
 And then I paused to think a minute. What did this 
 remind me of? Something of the same kind, a similar 
 sort of agitation, a similar intoxicated flutter, had produced 
 in me a brief melancholy of the same nature, but more 
 acute. 
 
 Where had I seen it then ? 
 
 Yes, surely at Constantinople, one evening in April, on 
 the wooden bridge that joins Stamboul to Pera ! It was 
 the end of such a Spring day as this, when I was making 
 my way in the mist across a bridge. All the beggars that 
 haunt this spot were at their posts ; along the whole length 
 of the balustrade, their familiar figures were grouped, the 
 blind, the lame, and idiots covered with sores. Among 
 the rest was a miserable child, four or five years old per 
 haps, with shrivelled hands and sore eyes, who sat day by 
 day motionless upon some rags at the edge of the pave 
 ment, apathetic and slow as any caterpillar. Behind him 
 crouched his mother, an old woman showing the red 
 stumps of her two legs amputated at the knee. 
 
 People passed by, the busy and the idle, on horseback,
 
 THE MOTH. in 
 
 and in carriages, men in red fezes, veiled beauties of the 
 harem, and, behind these crowds, Stamboul raised its domes 
 magnificently into the evening sky. 
 
 In a voice that was almost sweet, the woman without 
 legs called her little one to her, saying in Turkish : "Come 
 and put on your coat, Mahmoud ! Come quickly, for the 
 wind is turning cold." 
 
 He rose meekly and went. His coat was a little old 
 sordid Arabian cloak of a greyish colour with undecided 
 stripes, and of the oriental shape with a hood. His 
 mother handed him this rag, and he put out his tiny arms 
 ending in the deformed hands. 
 
 But, in a moment, before the second sleeve was on, he 
 escaped in a sudden fit of mischief, and began to run 
 wildly about, describing circles before the passers by, and 
 amusing himself by fluttering the sleeves of his Arabian 
 cloak like wings in the rising wind. 
 
 A little of that eternal youth so evanescent, a little of 
 the playful childishness of budding life that is common to 
 man and beasts, had chanced to wake in him. Among 
 his ancestors there must have been, as among everyone 
 else's, beings who were healthy, who knew the joy of 
 physical pleasure, the simple joy of being and of moving : 
 something then of those who had gone before lived again 
 furtively in his frail atrophied flesh. 
 
 I watched him in astonishment, having always known 
 him inactive : an infinite sadness possessed me at the sight 
 of his poor little ephemeral attempt at gaiety, his playful 
 sport, the fluttering of his grey cloak in the cold wind 
 and waning light. 
 
 His crippled mother became anxious, fearing the horses
 
 ii2 THE MOTH. 
 
 and carriages : she called him, and grew angry, trying to 
 drag herself towards him to catch him. But still he 
 whirled in amongst the indifferent groups as they passed, 
 whirled distractedly, like the grey moths of the evening. 
 
 He came back however and crouched down at his post 
 of misery, resuming the dejected attitude, and did not 
 move again. It had ended, suddenly, as it had begun. 
 
 Something more cruel even than the flip given to the 
 moth had just crushed this already thoughtless little 
 creature : the uncertainty of its shelter and supper that 
 night ; the consciousness of being so miserable, so different 
 from others, of having dead hands, and of being a pariah. 
 His head was bent now, and he looked down on the 
 ground with a cunning evil expression, winking his eyes 
 the while. 
 
 The association in my mind between him and the moth 
 is even more intimate than I have been able to express.
 
 Profanation. 
 
 HE grave-digger is in the garden, 
 and has come to inform the Com 
 mander that the holes are made ! " 
 
 This sinister sentence is addressed 
 to me by a young sailor with a fresh 
 bright voice, speaking with a Gas 
 con accent. 
 
 A Spring morning, a wondrous 
 morning in May, beams on the 
 Basque country. And there is so much fresh life every 
 where, so much joy in the air, so much rising sap in the 
 green plants, that death seems a dark improbable dream. 
 Yet, at the gate of my garden so full of roses, there stands 
 the old man just announced the grave-digger with earth- 
 soiled hands. 
 
 It concerns those poor young Breton sailors, youths of 
 twenty, drowned four years ago in the breakers of the 
 Bidassoa, who are to be exhumed to-day. The ceme- 
 tary where they rested has become too small, too full of 
 the dead they must be roused and moved. The crew of
 
 n 4 PROFANATION. 
 
 their ship, of which I am now in command, has just bought 
 for them a freehold piece of ground where they are all to 
 be laid together. And, as their relations are far away, the 
 care devolves on me of superintending this change of rest 
 ing-place. 
 
 The holes are made. It is time I should go. Fol 
 lowing the old remover of the dead, I take the path 
 bordered with daisies and veronicas and wild germander, 
 that leads to the enclosure of perfect peace. 
 
 From the top of a hill bordering the Bidassoa, the ceme 
 tery overlooks great luminous depths of sea, expanses of 
 water and mountains together, in all conceivable blues, 
 from the very pale to deep intense indigos. The air, 
 which is peculiarly soft to breathe, is full of the scent of 
 hawthorn and lilies. The cemetery is all in bloom, like a 
 private garden where everything grows in profusion ; 
 white lilies and old-fashioned flowers raise their long stalks 
 here and there above the tombs ; pinks are massed in 
 borders, or spread out in carpets ; Easter daisies as bou 
 quets in formal rows ; and, above all, quantities of Bengal 
 roses in luxuriant flower, masses of pink, outlined deli 
 cately against the distant blue. Surely southern May has 
 thrown an exquisite raiment about this spot, and the 
 weather to-day is exceptional, even here in the south, 
 clearest of the clear, and mild without being oppressive, 
 almost still, with an occasional waft of breeze that passes 
 impregnated with life. In vain has one experienced the 
 illusions of these spring days, one allows oneself to be taken 
 in by them again and again, as one ever will do until old 
 age. One gives oneself up to an intoxication of living, of 
 wellbeing, that seems as if it could never come to an end,
 
 PROFANATION. 115 
 
 any more than this festival of light and youth that per 
 meates the world this morning, immense, gleaming and 
 soft. 
 
 The earth has been dug out, till the rotten planks of 
 of the coffins are laid bare ; at this they have stopped, 
 in accordance with my orders ; they wait for me before 
 raising the awful lids. 
 
 Well, let us begin with Tvon Gaeto, 22 years of age, top 
 man, whose name is written in white letters on a meagre 
 little cross of black wood overturned among the pinks and 
 the daisies. 
 
 The old grave-digger descends till he disappears between 
 the walls of the freshly-opened grave ; another man, his 
 mate, remains above on the brink, waiting attentively. 
 
 One stroke of the mattock, and the planks yield and 
 crumble, and amidst a rich soil darker than the rest, hide 
 ous remains are brought to light. The grave-digger pulls 
 at something long and blackish : a leg that breaks at the 
 knee and remains in his hand : 
 
 " Here," says he to the man above, " they are too far 
 gone ; we must take them bit by bit ; run home quickly 
 and fetch the basket!" 
 
 And bending over his work, he scratches about with 
 his nails, picking up the toes one by one, and placing 
 them in a little heap, as if for a game of knuckle-bones. 
 
 " I should not have thought they would have been so 
 far gone," he continues, " though they do go more quickly 
 on this side of the cemetery." 
 
 Indeed nothing remains but the bones that hardly hold 
 together. 
 
 The May sun pours down into this grave as brightly as
 
 ii6 PROFANATION. 
 
 on the neighbouring flowers, pours down upon these long 
 buried bones that one would imagine were of a shadowy 
 world, made to move only in the darkness of night, and 
 that one is surprised to find visible in the daylight, so in 
 ertly still. The horror one waited for is less of a fact they 
 differ so little, these bones, from the earth around, whence 
 the roses draw their life. 
 
 The osier basket is brought, and the remains are heaped 
 into it. The digger proceeds methodically, working by 
 degrees towards the head of the dead man. Having found 
 the legs, and carefully counted all the toes, he now dis 
 covers the larger bones of the trunk entwined by numer 
 ous white filaments of some vigorous root. 
 
 Still higher up, more horrible than all the rest, is the 
 chest : between the reddish circles that are actually the 
 ribs, is a mass of rottenness, an accumulation of worms. 
 Then, in spite of the smiling sun, in spite of the deluding 
 flowers, a shudder of revolt and of horror passes over us, 
 and even the old man straightens and hesitates. 
 
 He makes up his mind at last, however, joins his hands 
 and cleans out the thorax as with a spoon. He is right 
 after all it is nothing but inoffensive matter, nourishing 
 to those roots, even now almost mould, and that will 
 pass into the branches of the rose trees when next they 
 spring up. 
 
 Again, and this time more definitely, the horror of it 
 leaves us ; the revolt, the disgust, gives place to a certain 
 grave resignation, and I feel that I too, if needs be, could 
 dare touch such remains as these, at some rural work of cul 
 tivation or in the performance of a pious duty. Coming 
 thus, in broad daylight, upon the mystery of subterranean
 
 PROFANATION. 117 
 
 transformations, to see that a corpse is nothing but this, that 
 at the end of three or four years it is so little human, so akin 
 to the soil and to the stones, has after all something of a 
 tranquilizing effect. It helps one to understand the last 
 wish of certain thinkers, of Alphonse Karr amongst others, 
 to be buried between thin planks hardly solid, that they 
 might the sooner return to the earth. 
 
 Meanwhile they have rilled up the basket ; some frag 
 ments of the sailor's shirt, still recognisable, and his tie, 
 almost intact, have been thrown into it. 
 
 Now the man thrusts in a piece of the coffin, and I ask 
 him : 
 
 " Why this bit of wood ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " he answers, " for what's stuck to it. Look, 
 it's part of him his worms," and he turns the plank over 
 to show me a mass of larvae clinging to it underneath. 
 
 The sun rises brilliantly in the blue heavens. The hour 
 of noon advances in a calm splendour. From the soil 
 rises a scent of mint, of burnt grass, that will overpower 
 the perfume of all the flowers, of the roses and pinks and 
 gilly-flowers, until the cool of evening. The air seems 
 full of joy ; life scatters its thousand forces, and the spring 
 smiles everywhere. Far below, the glistening surface of 
 the sea has covered itself with innumerable little white 
 sails : the whole flotilla of the Fontarabian fishermen sail 
 ing gaily out into the open sea in a light breeze. Perched 
 on the walls of the enclosure are little children peering 
 down to see what we are doing, and close to us, two young 
 girls, with Basque handkerchiefs on their heads, quietly 
 watch the piled-up basket. 
 
 The old grave-digger continues to search with his fingers.
 
 1 1 8 PR OFANATION. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaims, " look, they are quite right in 
 saying that the corpse always falls to the same side, the 
 head to the left here is the head ; look which way it is 
 turned ! Oh ! his teeth, how white they are like milk ! " 
 
 He picks up the head, raising it dripping and red from 
 the grave into the glare of the sunlight. 
 
 "Just look at these teeth, how fine they are. By our 
 Lady, so young too children like that, and such beautiful 
 children as they were !" 
 
 Then turning to the two handsome girls who do not 
 seem in the least impressed, having been watching from 
 mere curiosity, he says : 
 
 " I know of more than one girl in the country who 
 wept on the day of their death, I can tell you ! At their 
 burial I can remember it as though it were yesterday 
 I bet there were more than three hundred people Ah ! 
 the hair now ; see, here is the hair ! 
 
 And on the heap of remains he puts some light bits 
 that look like pale tow, 
 
 Meanwhile the basket at the edge of the grave is brim 
 ming over, and a mass of black rottenness slips off and 
 falls upon the old grave-digger, on to his neck and down 
 the inside of his shirt. 
 
 " Oh ! " he murmurs, a little disconcerted, and shakes 
 himself, " I should have preferred him to fall on me, when 
 he was alive. However, it will not kill I am thinking ! " 
 
 The painful task goes on. Three of the bodies have 
 been dispatched by bits ; we are at the fourth, Jean Ker- 
 gos, steersman. Near his leg, at the height where his 
 trouser-pocket might have been, the old man finds a little 
 black thing which he puts down at my feet : a leather
 
 PROFANATION. 119 
 
 purse, with a metal clasp. The poor fellow, not washed 
 ashore till days after the wreck, was no doubt placed in 
 the coffin as he was. 
 
 I have the purse opened. It contains some pieces of 
 silver, some Spanish pence, and some sailor's buttons with 
 needles to sew them on. The lad was careful evidently, 
 one who liked to keep his sailor's clothes in good order. 
 Well, give him back his purse and sewing materials ; let 
 them be in the basket with the rest, with his bones and 
 the remains of his flesh. Let us only keep the pieces of 
 silver he has perhaps some old poverty-stricken mother 
 to whom this last legacy might furnish bread. 
 
 When the basket has been rilled for the last time, and 
 they carry it away along the green paths over which wild 
 roses trail, I leave the empty graves, and follow. The birds 
 about are singing, and bees hum in the still warm air, 
 fresh withal. I have never seen a more charming day, 
 nor more enchanting weather, nor the spring more full of 
 sweet deluding promises^ And the sense of unexpected 
 peace deepens in me, peace from the physical fear of death, 
 from the horror of cemeteries a resignation to this 
 prompt decay in the earth where the friendly roots pene 
 trate and transform everythingj 
 
 We come to the single grave that has been prepared to 
 receive them together. Down, into a large case of white 
 wood where the mixed remains of the others are already 
 accumulated, they throw the contents of this fourth basket. 
 Then all that sense of peacefulness goes. The contempla 
 tion is awful of all this mass of red bones, of rags of sailor's 
 clothes, of black rottenness and of worms, which was 
 once four young men, four fine sailors. Some reddish balls
 
 1 20 PR OFANATION. 
 
 the skulls stand out in the nameless heap, the head of 
 one between the shin bones of the other in hideous pro 
 miscuity, in ridiculous and pitiable disorder. 
 
 With some feeling of anxiety I ask myself if we have 
 not, in our pious endeavours, committed the most odious 
 of profanations. Oh ! if we could only leave the bodies in 
 peace, there where they are laid not open tombs not 
 lay hands on the naked bones ! 
 
 /The Orientals encumber their towns with cemeteries, 
 rather than violate a sepulchre ; they divert a road rather 
 than disturb the humblest of the dead. But we we are 
 far away from such delicate respect ! ]
 
 For those at Sea. 
 
 ERHAPS in former days I may have 
 turned a small current of sympathy and 
 of charity towards the heroic race of 
 sailors consecrated, from father to son, 
 to the Iceland fishing. Tears have 
 been shed over the Yanns and over the 
 iSylvestres, over the Gauds and the old 
 grandmother Moans ; who are in- 
 ' numerable among these fisher folk. 
 At a time when the sea had made more orphans and 
 widows than usual, my unknown friends generously re 
 sponded to my appeal, and I had the immense joy of dis 
 tributing large alms at Paimpol. 
 
 And yet they are the happier, these Icelanders who die 
 like Yaun and like the crew of the Leopoldine in the 
 fulness of health and vigor, carried away suddenly by the 
 waves in the midst of a storm. 
 
 It is for the still more disinherited that I hold out my 
 hand to-day ; for those who are taken ill at sea during the 
 fishing season, on those distant frozen waters ; for those 
 who succumb there in awful agony, eternally tossed about
 
 122 FOR THOSE AT SEA. 
 
 and wet on board uninhabitable boats, where everyone is 
 hopelessly ignorant of what should be done to cure them. 
 These brave fellows have not even the elementary succour 
 that the poorest highway wanderer is sure of finding in 
 the workhouses of France. The mortality through ill 
 nesses that are not tended is enormous every year, and it 
 is shocking to think that nothing has been done to lessen 
 it, though it were so easy ! 
 
 A work has been started with this object. A society 
 has been formed to equip hospital boats to go to the Ice 
 landic seas, and in which invalids will be received re 
 ceived and nearly always saved, for in general the slightest 
 care and the most ordinary remedies are sufficient to re 
 establish these robust constitutions. 
 
 But money is still wanted by this new society. It 
 should be given now, given to prevent the miserable death 
 of those distant sufferers : young and valiant fathers ot 
 families, or sons of widowed women or elder brothers, the 
 support of forsaken nests, or the longed-for of poor affi 
 anced brides in white caps.
 
 Carmencita. 
 
 WENTY years alas ! have passed 
 since then. 
 
 I was quite a young midshipman: 
 I looked like a child attached to the 
 staff of the admiral who was in com 
 mand of the South Sea station. 
 
 I really do not remember who had 
 introduced me to this beloved Car 
 mencita. She lived at Valparaiso, 
 
 far from the quays and the ships, in a lovely quarter they 
 call the Almendral, her house, with iron-barred windows 
 according to the South American custom, situated in the 
 midst of a garden. She must have been about thirty-five 
 or thirty-six years old, the age when beauty wanes amongst 
 the Spanish women on this coast. To my youthful eyes 
 she seemed already a person of middle age, and indeed she 
 made no secret of her years, in spite of the elegant toilettes 
 that were sent her direct from Paris. " I am such an old 
 maid," she would say. 
 
 We were soon bound together by an intimate friendship
 
 1 24 GARMENCITA. 
 
 in the purest sense of the word. I consecrated my even 
 ings to her, every hour I was spared from duty on board; 
 and every day, in a sweet maternal fashion, she made me 
 conjugate my Spanish verbs. Her fine face, a little yellow 
 and a little -just a little like parchment, was dominated 
 by wondrous eyes, so long that they seemed never to end, 
 with eyelashes that curled, and corners that, when she 
 smiled, turned up like those of a Chinese. I thought to 
 myself how pretty she must have been. Habitually silent, 
 she would speak in monosyllables, doing the rest with 
 quick flashes of facial expression a pout or a glance, yet 
 she was witty enough at times, and something of the tease, 
 though quite without malice. 
 
 She was very clever at palmistry. I would let her hold 
 my hand for any length of time, in my eagerness to know 
 the future, having always some new question to put to her. 
 
 At her house, especially in the evening, as soon as it 
 grew dark, I would feel a sensation of distant exile, in spite 
 of the European hangings and furniture. Perhaps because 
 of that silent isolated quarter in which she lived, and the 
 thought of the long tramp that must be made through the 
 empty streets before reaching those animated quays ; and 
 of those two kilometres to be rowed in a boat, often on a 
 rough sea, in order to reach my ship before midnight, for 
 midshipmen on the Chilian coast had not the right to sleep 
 ashore nor even to outstay the hour of Cinderella. Her 
 garden, too, was foreign, yet there were shrubs with small 
 leaves and small flowers which grew there as well as in 
 temperate countries that have a winter, but they were all 
 new to me, and unknown : plants of the southern hemi 
 sphere subject to the cold of a winter the inverse of ours.
 
 CARMENCITA. 125 
 
 One of her great means of charming was music. She 
 had wonderful fingers, and would play Listz in a wild 
 delightful manner, mingled with a certain exotic strange 
 ness. I would often ask her to play habaneras and sequi- 
 dlllos and all kinds of Spanish and Chilian dances. And 
 once, when she was playing one with a rhythm that seemed 
 new to me, I asked her what it was. " That ?" she said, 
 "A Sema Coueque. The dance of the country ; you really 
 didn't know it ?" 
 
 Later on, I was often to see this Sema Goueque, amongst 
 the pretty Cholas (half-castes of Spanish and Indian blend). 
 But just then I did not know it. " Oh !" she continued, 
 " very well we will dance it for you." She sent at once 
 for Juanita, Mercedes, and Pilar (fifteen to eighteen years 
 of age) her three nieces who lived at the end of the gar 
 den with their mother. When the dancers were in their 
 places, each with a raised arm holding a handkerchief in 
 her hand, she suddenly got up from the piano where she 
 was going to play this Sema Coueque'. " Oh," she exclaimed, 
 " you had better sing like the Cholas^ and I will do the 
 tambourine." 
 
 The girls sang as they swayed, and she with a changed 
 look her eyes seemed almost Indian beat on the reso 
 nant wood with her little dry hands, that surely had be 
 come sticks, marking the jerky pang! pang! pang! of the 
 Sema Coueque. 
 
 That the evening might be complete, they even served 
 mathe, a traditional South American infusion that one 
 drinks through a reed tube. 
 
 I did not take long to learn. And it became a habit 
 to end our evenings, when Pilar, Mercedes and Juanita
 
 ia6 CARMENCITA. 
 
 always came in, with a " Suppose we dance Sema Coueque" 
 Once, on the eve of leaving Chili and of starting for Poly 
 nesia, I wanted her to dance herself: 
 
 " Oh !" she said, " such an old maid as I ! Really, Pilar, 
 can I possibly do what he asks ?" 
 
 " Monsieur," answered Pilar, " no one in Valparaiso 
 dances like Aunt Carmencita." 
 
 With a grace that was supple and light, she began to 
 dance. At first her slender figure swayed from the hips 
 which scarcely moved, shaken only by a slight rhythmic 
 motion. Then suddenly she started off, as if lifted up by 
 the strange cadence, and whirled round. Then for the 
 first time it seemed to me that she was young. 
 
 We saw each other again, ten months later on my 
 return from Oceania. A short and melancholy stay before 
 my departure for France the long farewell. I found her 
 aged especially after the young Tahitians whom I had 
 just left. In my absence her hair had become mixed with 
 silver threads, and one of her pretty teeth had been filled 
 with gold. 
 
 In the garden the austral plants were losing their leaves: 
 we were in April the beginning of Autumn there. 
 
 We parted, promising to write to one another. 
 
 Then, in time, the letters grew scarce, and somehow at 
 last ceased. Twenty-three years is such an eternity ! 
 
 My thoughts of the South Seas, of Valparaiso, of the 
 Almendral became more and more rare. She is old now, 
 I would say to myself, my poor Carmencita, bent perhaps 
 and grey haired. 
 
 And now, last night I dreamt of her, I saw the house 
 again at the Almendral, the old drawing-room in the grey
 
 CARMENCITA. 127 
 
 twilight, Carmencita in an arm-chair, grown white and 
 decripid. I said, "Suppose we dance a Sema Coueque!" 
 With a sad gesture she showed me the old lady cloaks and 
 shawls in which she was wrapped up to the chin. 
 
 Then in my dream the hour suddenly struck when I 
 had to go back on board my frigate which was leaving. 
 It was already late. I had a long way to go through the 
 dark town, through the poor quarter where many Cholas, 
 mocking and laughing, were dancing the Sema Coueque ; 
 their bare arms, holding out the handkerchief, met at every 
 moment to bar my way and retard my progress. At last 
 the vision melted out into the silent night of nothingness, 
 as I reached the borders of a sombre sea where no one 
 danced any more. 
 
 This morning, when I awoke to real life again, I found 
 the memory of Carmencita very vivid, as invariably hap 
 pens when one has dreamt of anybody. It made me espe 
 cially melancholy to think of her faded beauty, and of her 
 figure that had now lost its grace. And it was for the first 
 time, after twenty-three years, like the rousing of some 
 tender emotion that lurks unconsciously at the root of all 
 friendship with women when they are beautiful or have 
 scarcely ceased to be so.
 
 The Opposite Wall. 
 
 f IGHT at the end of a court, the three 
 lived together in a modest abode, the 
 mother and daughter and a maternal 
 relation (an aunt), already advanced in 
 years, whom they had just received 
 into their home. 
 
 The daughter was still quite young, 
 still in the ephemeral freshness of her 
 eighteen years when they were ob 
 liged, through reverse of fortune, to shut themselves up in 
 the most retired corner of their ancestral home. The rest 
 of the beloved abode, all the bright side that looked on to 
 the street, must needs be let to desecrating strangers, who 
 changed the aspect of the old place and destroyed its asso 
 ciations. 
 
 An executive sale had despoiled them of the more luxu 
 rious furniture of the old days ; they arranged their new 
 little drawing-room with rather incongruous things: relics 
 of their ancestors, odds and ends collected from the lofts 
 and store-rooms of the house. But they had loved it at 
 once, this humble room, which now for years to come
 
 THE OPPOSITE WALL. 129 
 
 was to unite all three around the same fire and the same 
 lamp in the winter evenings : a comfortable room with 
 a homely and cosy look, somewhat enclosed it is true, yet 
 without giving any impression of gloominess, for the win 
 dows, simply draped in muslin curtains, looked out on to a 
 sunny court, where low walls were decked with honey 
 suckle and roses. 
 
 Happy in this modest room, they were already begin 
 ning to forget the comfort and the luxury of former times, 
 when one day a communication was made to them which 
 caused the deepest consternation. The new owner was to 
 build two stories on to his abode ; a wall was to rise up 
 there before their windows, taking away the air and hiding 
 the sun. 
 
 And no way alas ! of averting this evil that struck home 
 more acutely than all the foregoing reverses of fortune. 
 
 To buy up the neighbour's house (an easy matter in the 
 days of their past prosperity) was not to be thought of 
 now ! There was nothing to be done, in their poverty, 
 but to bow the head. 
 
 So the wall began to spring up, layer by layer ; they 
 watched it rise with anguish, and a mournful silence 
 reigned in the little sitting-room that grew more gloomy 
 day by day, in proportion as the dark thing rose up. And 
 to think that it, growing ever higher, would soon replace 
 the depths of blue sky, or the golden clouds against which 
 the low wall stood out in relief with its covering of 
 branches ! 
 
 In a month the masons had finished their work: a
 
 130 THE OPPOSITE WALL. 
 
 smooth surface of hewn stone painted a greyish-white, 
 very much like a November sky, perpetually opaque, 
 monotonous and dead ; and in the summers that followed, 
 the rose trees and the shrubs of the court became etiolated 
 in its shadow. 
 
 The hot June and July sun still penetrated the sitting- 
 room, though more tardily in the morning, disappearing 
 quickly in the evening ; the dusks of late autumn fell an 
 hour earlier, followed at once by a pervading grey gloom. 
 
 And time passed : the months and seasons went by. As 
 the light waned in the nondescript hours of the evening 
 when one by one the three women put down their em 
 broidery or their sewing before lighting the lamp, the 
 young girl who would soon have ceased to be young 
 always raised her eyes towards that wall, which stood 
 there instead of the sky of former days ; and with a kind 
 of childish melancholy, that came upon her constantly like 
 the mania of a prisoner, she would amuse herself by look 
 ing, from a certain place, at the branches of the rose trees 
 and the tops of the shrubs against the grey background of 
 painted stones, and by trying to imagine that this back 
 ground was a sky, a sky rather lower and nearer than the 
 real one, as the kind that weighs down upon the distorted 
 visions of a dream at night. 
 
 They had the hope of inheriting some money, and often 
 spoke of it, round the lighted lamp at their work-table, as 
 of a fairy tale, so far away did it seem.
 
 THE OPPOSITE WALL. 131 
 
 But when they should have it this American succes 
 sion at no matter what price, they would buy the neigh 
 bour's house in order to pull down all the new part, to 
 re-establish things as they were in the old times, and to 
 give back to their court, to their dear roses the sun of 
 former days. To throw down this wall had become their 
 one terrestrial desire, the one thought continually in their 
 minds. 
 
 And the old aunt would say : 
 
 " My dear children, God grant that I may live long 
 enough to see that happy day !" 
 
 It was long in coming, this inheritance of theirs. 
 
 The rain in time had made black stripes on the smooth 
 surface, sad to see, forming a kind of V, or the blurred 
 outline of a bird hovering. And the young girl gazed on 
 it for a long time every day, every day. 
 
 Once, in a very hot Spring when, in spite of the sha 
 dow of the wall, the roses had bloomed earlier and more 
 profusely than usual, a young man appeared at this end of 
 the court and for several evenings sat at the table with these 
 three ladies of meagre fortunes. He was passing through 
 the town, and had brought introductions from mutual 
 friends, not without a thought of marriage. He was good 
 looking, with a proud face bronzed by the great sea breezes. 
 
 But he thought the inheritance too chimerical. She 
 was not rich enough, this young girl, whose cheeks were 
 moreover, beginning to grow pale for want of light.
 
 1 32 THE OPPOSITE WALL. 
 
 He departed to return no more, he, who had repre 
 sented, for a time, sun and strength and life. And she, who 
 had already considered herself his betrothed, felt at his 
 departure a sudden inward sense of death. 
 
 And the monotonous years continued their course like 
 impassable rivers ; five went by, ten, fifteen and even 
 twenty. The portionless girl lost her freshness little by 
 little this freshness that was so useless and despised ; the 
 mother's hair turned white ; the old aunt became infirm, 
 with shaking head, an octogenarian in a faded armchair, 
 eternally seated in the same place, near the darkened win 
 dow, her venerable profile outlined against the foliage of 
 the court, below that background of smooth wall, where 
 unwonted marks in the shape of a bird, traced by the 
 slowly dripping rain, were becoming more accentuated. 
 
 In the presence of the wall, of the inexorable wall, they 
 all three grew old. And the rose trees and shrubs grew 
 old too, with the less sinister age of plants that seem to 
 grow young again each Spring. 
 
 " Oh ! my children, my poor children," the aunt still 
 continued to murmur in her cracked voice that no longer 
 finished the sentences, " if only I live long enough ." 
 
 And her bony hand pointed with a menacing gesture to 
 the oppressive stone thing. 
 
 She had been dead for ten months. They had wept 
 for her as for the dearest of grandmothers. Her absence 
 from the little sitting-room had left an unspeakable void
 
 THE OPPOSITE WALL. 133 
 
 in the lives of these recluses, and then, the inheritance 
 came, came when they were no longer thinking of it, with 
 a shock at last. 
 
 The old maid she had reached forty now felt quite 
 young in the joy of possessing a fortune once more. 
 
 They would get rid of the tenants, of course, they would 
 reinstate themselves ; but from preference they would 
 generally occupy the little sitting-room of their humbler 
 days : in the first place it was now full of associations, and 
 then, it would regain its sunny cheerfulness as soon as 
 they had taken down the imprisoning wall that was now 
 nothing but a useless eyesore, easy enough to destroy with 
 a battery of golden sovereigns. 
 
 At last it took place, this pulling down of the wall. 
 For twenty mournful years they had desired its destruction. 
 Now, on an April day, with the first warm breezes and the 
 first long evenings, the thing was accomplished, quite 
 easily amidst the noise of falling stones and clouds of dust 
 and the singing of the workmen. 
 
 And towards the end of the second day, when all was 
 finished, when the labourers had gone, and silence reigned 
 again, they found themselves once more seated at their 
 table, mother and daughter, astonished at seeing so clearly 
 and having no need of the lamp to begin their evening 
 meal. As in a strange return to former days, they saw the 
 rose trees in their court once more against the sky. But 
 instead of the joy they had expected, they felt at first an 
 indefinable uneasiness : there was too much light, all at 
 once, in their little room, a sort of resplendent sadness,
 
 OPPOSITE 
 
 and the sense of an unaccustomed void outside, of an im 
 mense change. No words came to them in the presence 
 of the accomplishment of their dream; each was absorbed; 
 a growing melancholy took hold of them, they remained 
 there without speaking, without touching the repast that 
 was served. Little by little, as their two hearts contracted 
 more, it grew into a veritable distress, like one of those 
 dark and hopeless regrets caused by death. 
 
 When at length the mother perceived that her daugh 
 ter's eyes were rilling with tears, and devined the unex 
 pressed thoughts that were surely the same as her own, 
 she said : 
 
 " It could be rebuilt. It seems to me that they could 
 try, could they not, to make it just the same ?" 
 
 " I was thinking of that too," answered the daughter. 
 " But no, you see ; it could never be the same!" 
 
 Heavens ! could it possibly be ? Had she indeed, she 
 herself decreed the annihilation of that familiar background, 
 the background before which, one spring, she had seen the 
 handsome face of a certain young man, and for so many 
 winters the venerated profile of the old aunt now dead. 
 
 And all at once, as she remembered the vague design in 
 the form of a shadowy bird, traced there by drops of rain, 
 and which she would never, never, never see again, her 
 heart was still more piteously torn ; she wept the bitterest 
 tears of her life over the irreparable destruction of that 
 wall.
 
 An Old Missionary of Annam, 
 
 VER there, in the benighted yellow 
 country of the Far East, during the 
 war, our ship, a cumbrous ironclad, 
 was stationed for weeks at her block 
 ading post, in one of the bays along 
 the shore. 
 
 With the neighbouring land 
 mountains of a miraculous green, or 
 rice-fields smooth like plains of velvet 
 we rarely communicated. The inhabitants of the vil 
 lages and of the woods, kept aloof, suspicious or hostile. 
 An overwhelming heat fell upon us from a heavy sky that 
 was generally grey, veiled by a perpetual curtain of lead. 
 One morning, during my watch, the steersman on the 
 look out came and said to me : " There's a sampan, Cap 
 tain, coming from the end of the bay, and which looks as 
 though it were making for us." 
 " Oh ! and what is there in it ? " 
 
 Being uncertain, he looked through the glasses again, 
 before answering :
 
 136 AN OLD MISSIONART 
 
 " There's a sort of ... bonze, Captain, a Chinaman, 
 I don't quite know what, who is seated all alone in the 
 stern." 
 
 Slowly and silently, the sampan approached over the 
 smooth water oily and hot. A young girl of yellow 
 complexion, dressed in black, stood rowing our ambiguous 
 visitor, who certainly wore the costume, the headdress 
 and the round eyeglasses of a priest of Annam, but who 
 had a beard and a strange face not in the least Asiatic. 
 
 He came on board and addressed me in French, speak 
 ing in a timid and glum way. 
 
 " I am a missionary," he said, " I come from Lorraine, 
 but I have lived for more than thirty years here, in a vil 
 lage about six hours inland, where they have all become 
 Christian. I wished to speak to the Commandant to ask 
 him for help. The rebels have threatened us, and are 
 already close upon us. It is certain that all my parish 
 ioners will be massacred if we do not get help at once ! " 
 
 Alas ! the Commandant was obliged to refuse the help 
 requested. All our men and guns had been sent else 
 where ; at that moment we had only just the necessary 
 number of sailors left to manage the ship ; really we could 
 do nothing for those poor " parishioners," and must leave 
 them to their fate. 
 
 The oppressive hour of noon approached, with its daily 
 torpor that suspends all life. The little boat and the 
 young girl had gone back to shore, and had just dis 
 appeared among the unhealthy verdure of the coast. 
 
 The missionary had remained, and was naturally a little 
 taciturn, though uncomplaining. The poor man was 
 hardly brilliant during the breakfast he shared with
 
 OF ANN AM. 137 
 
 us. He had become so Annamite that all conversation 
 seemed impossible with him. After coffee, when the 
 cigarettes appeared, he grew a little more animated, 
 and asked for some French tobacco to fill his pipe ; 
 for twenty years, he said, such a pleasure had been 
 denied him. After which, excusing himself on the plea 
 of the long journey he had made, he fell asleep on the 
 cushions. 
 
 We should probably have to keep this unexpected 
 guest, whom the heavens had sent us, for several months, 
 till a reconciliation could be effected. I confess it was 
 without any enthusiasm that one of us went at last to 
 speak to him on the part of the Commandant. 
 
 "A room has been prepared for you, Father. It is un 
 necessary to say that you will be one of us until the day 
 when we can deposit you in a safe place." 
 
 He appeared not to understand. 
 
 " But I was only waiting for night to ask you for a 
 little boat to take me back over there, to the end of the 
 bay. You can surely put me ashore before night, at 
 least ? " he continued anxiously. 
 
 " Ashore ! And what will you do ashore ? " 
 
 " I will return to my village," he said with a simplicity 
 that was quite sublime. " Oh ! I cannot sleep here, you 
 understand. Supposing the attack were to be to-night ! " 
 
 With each word he seemed to grow bigger, this soul 
 who had appeared so ordinary at first sight ; we began to 
 surround him with interested curiosity. 
 
 " Yet, you will be the last they will spare, Father ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, that is quite probable," he answered, calm 
 and splendid as an old martyr.
 
 138 AN OLD MISSIONART OP ANN AM. 
 
 Ten of his parishoners awaited him on the shore, at 
 sunset ; together they would return at night to the threat- 
 
 red village, and then, God's will be done ! 
 And when he was pressed to stay for it would be 
 going to his death, to some atrocious Chinese death, if he 
 returned there after this refusal of help he grew gently 
 indignant, obstinate, immovable, but with no grand 
 phrases, and with no anger.i 
 
 I " It was I who converted them, and you wish me to 
 abandon them when they are persecuted fpr their faith ? 
 But they are my children, you understand !| . . ." 
 
 Not a little moved, the officer on watch 'ordered one of 
 our boats to row him back, and we all went up to shake 
 hands when he left. Still unperturbed, quietly, grown once 
 more insignificant and silent, he entrusted us with a letter 
 to an old relative in Lorraine, took a small provision of 
 French tobacco, and started on his way. 
 
 As the day drew in, we stood for a long time silently 
 watching the outline of this apostle gliding over the hot, 
 oily sea into the distance, where he was going quite 
 simply to an obscure martyrdom. 
 
 We set sail the following week for I forget where, and 
 from that time forth, we were buffeted by events without 
 intermission. We never heard anything more of him, 
 and I think, for my part, I should never have thought of 
 him again, if Monseigneur Morel, the director of Catholic 
 Missions, had not begged me one day to write a little 
 Missionary Story.
 
 Three Days War in Annam 
 
 i. 
 
 On Board. 
 
 August 1 7th, 1883. 
 
 HE whole Squadron is assembled in 
 the Bay of Tourane. An attack on 
 the forts and on the town is to be 
 made to-morrow. 
 
 No communication with land. 
 The day is spent in preparation. 
 The thermometer shows 33^5 in the 
 wind and in the shade. High 
 mountains surround the bay, recal 
 ling the Alps minus their snow. In the distance, on a 
 sandy promontory, one can see the town of Tourane : a 
 collection of low huts made of wood and of reeds. 
 
 On board we are busy equipping the companies that 
 are to disembark, giving to each man his ration, ammu 
 nition knapsack, gun-strap, etc., even making them try on 
 their shoes. The sailors are as merry as great children at
 
 140 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 the thought of going on shore to-morrow, and the prepar 
 ations are carried on in absolute hilarity. 
 
 Yet, sunstrokes and fevers have already made many 
 ravages amongst them ; brave fellows, who quite lately 
 were brisk and strong, walk about with bowed head and 
 drawn yellow faces. 
 
 In the afternoon a small boat arrives from shore, with 
 some mandarins dressed in black, one of them shaded by 
 an immense white parasol. They go on board the flag 
 ship to confer, and then return as they came, 
 
 At five o'clock, a meeting and consultation of the cap 
 tains on board the Bayard. Storm and rain in torrents. 
 
 The sailors pass the evening in singing, more gaily than 
 usual. One even hears the shrill sound of the binlon (a 
 kind of bagpipe) that some Bretons have brought with 
 them. 
 
 Saturday, August i8th. 
 
 At nine o'clock in the morning, in superb weather, the 
 Squadron, Bayard^ Atalante^ Annamlte^ Chateau-Renaud, 
 Diac, Lynx, Vipere^ steams out in file from the Bay of 
 Tourane through a legion of fishermen's junks, that have 
 sails like the wings of butterflies, and makes its way to 
 wards Hue, the capital of Annam. 
 
 At twenty minutes past two, the Squadron arrives at 
 the mouth of the river Hue. In the foreground, a sandy 
 coast sparkling in the sun, green plumed cocoa-trees and 
 houses with arched Chinese roofs, and a solitary great 
 fort visible, guarding the entrance to the river, where the 
 sea breaks.
 
 IN ANN AM. 141 
 
 The Squadron approaches with precaution, taking 
 soundings, and anchors as near as possible, hoisting the 
 French flags, and bringing the guns to bear in order to 
 commence the bombardment, 
 
 The fort replies bravely, hoisting the yellow flag of 
 Annam. It looks like a modern fort, well constructed 
 and protected by casemates, though there are no cannons 
 to be seen. Some persons appear at the embrasures, and 
 seem to lounge about and look calmly at us ; no doubt 
 their resistance will not be serious, we expect to see them 
 fly at the first gun-shot. 
 
 Above the brilliant line of the sands, the mountains 
 form a blurred back ground, rising high into the heavens, 
 sombre against the great luminous blue. 
 
 5.30 in the evening. 
 
 The first shell thrown by the Bayard gives the signal 
 to fire. It falls right on to the Annamite fort, raising a 
 red cloud of sand and of gravel. From every ship in the 
 Squadron a regular systematic bombardment begins, each 
 one aiming at the precise spot pointed out to her yester 
 day. Several minutes elapse, and nothing stirs on shore ; 
 apparently the Annamites have fled. 
 
 Then suddenly little rapid lights flash from the em 
 brasures of the fort, accompanied by white smoke ; it is 
 the reply : they are firing on us. 
 
 There are after all a great many cannons, little batteries, 
 that we did not see, arranged all along the coast in the 
 sand, and that keep up a constant firing. 
 
 But they are round balls that do not carry sufficiently 
 far to reach us. They fall half-way, making eddies in
 
 142 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 the water. Only our advice boats, which have approached 
 nearer, could receive a chance hit or two the ironclads 
 are too far off and watch them coming without fear ; we 
 can see them hit the water, rebound like a child's ball, 
 and then disappear. 
 
 Soon great red flames begin to rise behind the fort of 
 Thouane-An ; it is a fire caused by our shells, some vil 
 lages that are burning over there ; the fire gains ground 
 quickly, and rises high into the air with a thick smoke. 
 
 The bombardment continues. In spite of the rolling 
 that spoils our aim, shells pour down upon the Annam- 
 ites, capsizing everything ; but still they hold out and 
 precipitate their fire. Assuredly they are brave. 
 
 Seven o'clock in the evening. 
 
 It is almost dark ; the glare of the burning village 
 alone guides us in our aim. Thick clouds have gathered 
 on the mountains of Annam ; they form a huge black 
 background over which the lightning wanders ; down be 
 low, on the level of the sea, ever the rapid little flashes of 
 the cannons firing on us. A great yellow moon, which 
 rises amidst a confusion of clouds, sheds hardly any light; 
 one can no longer see anything at all. The Admiral gives 
 the signal to cease firing, and all is silent. 
 
 But the Annamites have responded up to the last, with 
 an unexpected force of resistance, and the flags of King 
 Tu-Duc still fly on the shore. 
 
 To-morrow morning, Sunday, at daybreak, we are to 
 attempt a landing by main force ; they have prepared the 
 bridges and rafts of bamboo, all the necessary apparatus. 
 The sailors are still carried away by a careless excitement ;
 
 IN ANN AM. 143 
 
 but the more thoughtful are somewhat preoccupied by 
 the thought of this sudden attack by so few men, amidst 
 the breakers, on a coast protected by cannon and soldiers. 
 Seen close at hand, it appears less easy than it did yester 
 day, when talked over at Tourane. 
 
 Sunday, August I9th. 
 
 Hammocks up ! at four o'clock in the morning. The 
 companies who are to disembark quickly seize their arms, 
 their ammunition and their rations. Field-pieces and 
 quick firers are lowered into the boats. 
 
 Half-past five. 
 
 Counter-orders from the Admiral, the landing is defer 
 red. Some whalers belonging to the Squadron have been 
 to shore in the night to examine the breakers, which are 
 too dangerous to-day. Before sunrise the men are dis 
 armed, the landing apparatus stowed away, and, as though 
 nothing had happened, the great traditional Sunday wash 
 ing begins on all the ships. 
 
 At daybreak, the air is so clear that the minutest details 
 of everything on land can be distinguished, even far into 
 the distance. 
 
 Telescopes search the country up the river Hue : great 
 trees, green palms, and, from distance to distance, Anna- 
 mite flags, indicating forts and batteries. Nothing can be 
 seen of the town, where, it is said, the head of poor 
 Commandant Riviere is still exposed in the public place, 
 at the end of a pole. 
 
 Now there is a movement among the troops on the 
 sandy shore. People come out of the fort of Thouane-An
 
 144 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 which we bombarded yesterday ; they are clothed in 
 black and wear great white Chinese hats, like mushrooms, 
 on their heads : their weapons glisten in the sun : they 
 are soldiers belonging to the regular army of King Tu-Duc. 
 They begin to cross the river on a ferry in order to con 
 centrate themselves opposite in a fort on the south bank. 
 The Bayard throws out shells ; the result is a panic, a fall 
 ing into the water ; they are seen running like madmen 
 on the sand. But the movement still goes on, and the 
 Annamite forts begin to answer us. 
 
 This morning, to our surprise, their projectiles reach 
 us, and whistle through the air with a noise similar to our 
 own. They have evidently been shot from rifled barrels. 
 They had none of these yesterday, and must have put 
 them up during the night. 
 
 A shot goes through the mast of the Vipere^ another in 
 dents the iron sheeting of the Bayard, and strikes a sailor 
 on the chest. Then, at a signal from the Admiral, the 
 general bombardment begins again. 
 
 There is no rolling to-day ; the perfectly aimed guns of 
 the Squadron bear full on the Annamite batteries, which 
 must be smashed. Each one of our shots raises a whirl 
 wind of sand and of stones. Their fire does not hold out 
 ten minutes. At the end of half-an-hour we cease ours, 
 as the land no longer replies. 
 
 It is eleven o'clock. This will be a day of rest for the 
 sailors, who have need of it ; on board, the well-known 
 whistle is given : " Men to hammocks, games allowed ! " 
 The batteries of the Squadron, dirtied by the powder, the 
 smoke, and the muddy water of the mops, have not their 
 usual aspect, their pleasant Sunday cleanliness ; but to-day
 
 IN ANN AM. 145 
 
 they are swept by a goodly sea-breeze, not too hot and 
 very refreshing. Instead of taking their sacks, the sailors, 
 tired out by several days of excessive work and of long 
 watches, lie flat down on the boards and fall asleep. The 
 ships become as silent as great dormitories. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening, council of war on board 
 the Bayard. The breakers have greatly subsided : the 
 Annamite forts, twice bombarded, can no longer be in a 
 condition to offer a long resistance ; the disembarkation is 
 decided on for to-morrow morning, and the sailors retire 
 quickly to their hammocks in order to have a short time 
 for sleep before the call of " hammocks up," which is to 
 be sounded at four o'clock. 
 
 The officers of the landing corps are designated in ad 
 vance, according to certain fixed rules, relating to their 
 seniority and their duties on board ; those who have to 
 remain behind for the management of the ships, and the 
 service of the batteries, are accordingly prepared for the 
 deprivation, and accept it without a murmur. 
 
 For the sailors there is more liberty of choice ; many 
 topmen, who were not originally selected, have succeeded 
 to-day in substituting themselves for others less keen, and 
 are to go in their stead. It is a question, to-morrow morn 
 ing, of taking possession of the whole left bank of the 
 river Hue, which is the most seriously fortified portion of 
 the coast. 
 
 Independently of the little batteries erected here and 
 there on the sand, there is the great circular fort to the 
 south, which guards the entrance to the river with forty 
 embrasures for cannon ; then, the battery of the Rice 
 Magazine, and lastly, continuing in a north-westerly
 
 146 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 direction, the fort furthest to the north. All more or less 
 injured by our shells, but no doubt repaired during the 
 night, and still capable of opening fire. 
 
 A splendid night. The ships of the Squadron sweep 
 the coast with great jets of electric light which must 
 somewhat frighten the Annamites. Meanwhile the French 
 whaling boats sound the entrance to the river and explore 
 the breakers on the shore. 
 
 Monday, August 2oth. Four o'clock, a.m. 
 
 "All hammocks up!" Night is over. The landing 
 corps breakfasts hastily, arms itself, takes its ammunition 
 and two days' rations. A few hand-shakes, a few words 
 of advice exchanged between those who are going and 
 those remaining behind : then the boats are manned. All 
 the guns of the Squadron are pointed to the shore, ready 
 to open fire. 
 
 5.30 a.m. 
 
 At daybreak, the French flags are hoisted at the top of 
 every mast ; the uproar of bombardment begins again. 
 The land makes no response. The sand-hills form a white 
 line all along the horizon ; and high above, the violet 
 outline of the Annam mountains cuts into the brightening 
 sky. 
 
 5.50 a.m. 
 
 The whole flotilla of little boats gets under weigh. 
 The weather is very clear, absolutely calm. The sun 
 rises amongst little golden clouds. Day has broken sud 
 denly, as is the way in tropical countries. Every detail of 
 the mountains stands out accentuated in pink and blue.
 
 IN ANN AM. 147 
 
 Above the sand-hills one can see the green cocoanut trees, 
 the batteries, the villages, the pagodas, the houses with 
 their -carved roofs. In all this nothing stirs, and our 
 shells seem to fall on a deserted country. 
 
 6. 20 a.m. 
 
 The companies, disembarked from the Bayard and the 
 Atalante^ reach the shore, and get wet through as they 
 begin to land amidst the breakers. There is a moment of 
 anxiety : from the ships of the Squadron, rows of Anna- 
 mite heads are plainly visible appearing above the sand 
 hills, though they cannot be seen by the sailors who are 
 landing ; these men are awaiting them there behind the 
 trenches. The Lynx, which is nearest to shore, greets 
 them with a volley of fire which appears to cut down 
 about twenty ; the rest conceal themselves. 
 
 The landing is effected close to the North fort, opposite 
 a village. Suddenly, from behind the sand-hills, there 
 comes a shower of flaming shells with a few projectiles 
 and pieces of iron. No one is wounded. The shells are 
 practically harmless, and fall softly on to the sand like 
 little meteors. The sailors make a rush for the sand-hills, 
 meet the Annamites in the trenches, fire upon them, then 
 charge them with bayonets. Instantly, the whole yellow 
 troop is in flight. A thousand men, perhaps, fly before a 
 handful of sailors. The Atalante company make a rush 
 on the North fort. Some Annamites come hurriedly out, 
 advance, fire without killing anyone, then draw back and 
 take to flight. 
 
 6.40 a.m. 
 
 The Atalante company is in the North fort. The 
 Annamite flag is lowered and the first French flag hoisted
 
 148 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 in its place by Lieutenant Poidloiie, in command of the 
 company. The sailors pursue the Annamites towards the 
 north-west. 
 
 7.0 a.m. 
 
 The Artillery and the first group of Marine Infantry 
 have landed. The boats return for the second transport. 
 Another Annamite battery, established in the sand, opens 
 fire on the Vipere which replies. The shells have set 
 fire to the north village, that begins to blaze. 
 
 7.30 a.m. 
 
 The Annamite battery of the Rice Magazine opens 
 fire. The shells have caused another fire, a magnificent 
 one, this : village, pagoda, everything, burning with im 
 mense red flames and whirlwinds of smoke. 
 
 7.40 a.m. 
 
 The second detachment of Marine Infantry has landed; 
 all the Artillery is disembarked and mounted on the crest 
 of the sand-hills. The French troops mass themselves on 
 the shore, facing south, and prepare to march against the 
 great forts. 
 
 7.50 a.m. 
 
 A shell from the Squadron has set fire to the circular 
 fort to the south. All the French troops are massed ; the 
 Artillery opens fire on the forts. Towards the north, 
 every house is burning. 
 
 8.0 a.m. 
 
 The French troops divide and advance towards the 
 south. 
 
 8.35 a.m. 
 
 The first French detachments arrive, in small numbers, 
 at the Rice Magazine, and keep up a continuous firing.
 
 IN ANN AM. 149 
 
 8.40 a.m. 
 
 They retreat a few steps and take shelter : the circular 
 fort is firing on them. The Squadron accelerates the 
 bombardment. 
 
 8.45 a.m. 
 
 The landing corps signals from shore to the Admiral's 
 ship (by means of flags hoisted on a pole) : 
 
 " Please, cease firing on the forts." The Admiral's ship 
 answers by signalling to the Squadron : " Cease fire ! " 
 
 8.50 a.m. 
 
 For a moment the hearts of those who watch from 
 on board stand still : the Annamites make a general sortie 
 from the Rice Magazine, and pour a rapid fire upon the 
 first French detachment which retreats and throws itself 
 down on the sand. 
 
 8,55 a.m. 
 
 They breathe again on board. All the French are on 
 their feet. Evidently no one is hurt for they all run ; 
 they run towards the Annamites without giving them 
 time to reload their guns. Moreover, reinforcements of 
 sailors and of soldiers of the Marine Artillery come up 
 from behind. The Annamites take to their heels, fly to 
 wards the south, and take refuge in a cluster of houses 
 over which their flag is flying. The French pursue them. 
 
 9.0 a.m. 
 
 From the Squadron, it is difficult to see what is happen 
 ing amongst the houses and the trees. Sharp fusilad- 
 ing is heard, and the flag of Annam falls. The French 
 continue to run forward towards the circular fort to the
 
 150 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 south. The sun is rising high in the heavens, and the 
 heat becomes terrible. 
 
 9.5 a.m. 
 
 One can hear the French Artillery, which has reached 
 Thouane-An (the last village to the south) firing quite 
 close to the circular fort. The village of Thouane-An is 
 set alight by the first shot, and flares like a huge bonfire 
 of straw. 
 
 9.10 a.m. 
 
 Simultaneously from two sides, the French have en 
 tered the great circular fort which the Squadron's shells 
 have already filled with dead. The remaining Annamites 
 who had taken refuge there, make their escape, climbing 
 over the walls, like madmen : some take to the water, 
 others try to cross the river in boats, or by the ford, in 
 order to take refuge on the south bank. Those who are 
 in the water try naively to protect themselves with mats, 
 osier shields, or pieces of iron sheeting. The sailors, out 
 of pity, cease firing, and allow them to escape ; there will 
 be corpses enough in the fort to clear away this evening 
 
 Cefore they can get to rest. 
 The great yellow flag of Annam, that has been flying 
 )r two days, is lowered, and the French flag hoisted in 
 its place. All is at an end; the entire north bank is taken, 
 swept over and burnt. In a word, a glorious morning's 
 work, admirably carried out. 
 
 On the Annamites' side, about six hundred dead strew 
 the roads and the villages. 
 
 On our side, scarcely a dozen wounded, not one killed, 
 not one even seriously hurt.]
 
 IN ANN AM. 151 
 
 9.15 a.m. 
 
 On board the Bayard, the flagship, the sailors are made 
 to man the rigging and shout : " Hurrah ! " Every ship 
 of the squadron follows suit. 
 
 And then a general calm reigns. All retire to rest, at 
 any rate till the evening. 
 
 The troops on land signal for wine and for water which 
 are sent, and then they install themselves in the shade. 
 
 One was admirably placed on board for following from 
 above, as on a map, the movements of the attack. Now, 
 with telescopes, all the details could be distinguised, every 
 thing that passed, the very costumes, and attitudes of the 
 men. 
 
 A topman walks solemnly along the shore under a 
 great mandarin parasol. 
 
 A sailor, who is carrying a barrel, comes across an 
 Annamite feigning death on the sands, and shakes a finger 
 at him, as one does to a street urchin. The Annamite 
 humbly chin-chins to him, and kisses his feet, begging 
 for mercy. 
 
 The sailor has a kind heart and allows himself to be 
 softened. 
 
 But, look here, you'll have to carry my barrel. 
 
 He puts the thing on the man's shoulders and makes 
 him follow like a groom. 
 
 There is not a breath of air. The oppression of noon 
 falls on everything. The motionless sea reflects the heat 
 like a mirror. The line of sand-hills in the sun is of a 
 dazzling white ; two or three Annamite bodies lie on the 
 sand ; some sheep and pigs, frightened by the burning 
 villages, run over them ; a poor dog, who has evidently
 
 152 7HREE DATS WAR IN ANNAM. 
 
 no master, rushes wildly to the right and to the left, as 
 though he had lost his head. Behind the sands, the 
 mountains of Annam fade away in a kind of hot haze, 
 and the blue of the heavens appears tarnished by the heat. 
 
 Nothing can be heard. But the villages are still burn 
 ing with long, red flames ; their smoke rises straight up 
 to an astonishing height, so still is the air ; in the midst 
 of all the dazzling blue, they look like gigantic black 
 columns. 
 
 Another slight cannonade towards three o'clock in the 
 evening. The Squadron has changed its moorings and 
 has taken up a position opposite the mouth of the river. 
 The Annamite forts on the south bank of the river fire on 
 Vipere and the Lynx which are moored quite close to the 
 bar, to be in readiness to cross it to-morrow morning. 
 The Squadron answers, and the firing ceases. 
 
 The night is absolutely calm. All along the coast can 
 be seen the glare of the Annamite villages, which burn in 
 the moonlight until morning. 
 
 Around these fires, many curious things must take 
 place. But they are far off, and from on board nothing 
 more can be seen.
 
 II. 
 
 On Land : In the Camp of the Sailors of The 
 Atalante. Night of August 2Oth. 
 
 7 p.m. 
 
 Night already ! Near a small fire that is burning on 
 the ground, two officers of the Squadron are seated in 
 gilded armchairs of Asiatic form; it is in the enclosure of 
 a fort, on the sand, amidst a wreck of broken pots, of rags 
 and fragments of all kinds. 
 
 Behind them is a tent that has been hurredly made with 
 the first things that came to hand : old sails, bits of yellow 
 flag or draperies of embroidered silk ; the whole supported 
 by lances, broken oars, sticks of bamboo, or standard poles 
 speckled with gold. 
 
 Sailors come and go in the darkness, marauding for 
 supper ; their footsteps make no noise on the sand, and 
 they do not talk at all; affected by the general silence that 
 seems to lie heavily on everything as the night falls. 
 
 These sumptuous details the tent and the lances, the 
 gildings, in the midst of the havoc assume in the night 
 a false air of grandeur. Vaguely it all makes one think 
 of events long past, the pillages and invasions of Ancient 
 Asia. 
 
 And the two officers, who are seated in their chairs of 
 state confide to one another this feeling that has come
 
 154 THREE DATS 
 
 upon them, laughing at themselves as they talk of it, 
 making fun of the whole idea, as men do who are used to 
 incongruous situations, with the modern spirit that jokes 
 at everything. At heart, really, they have a feeling, 
 which they rather enjoy, of watching in some camp of 
 Attila's or of Tchengiz. And the comparison is a fair one, 
 for though the epoch is different, and the names too, the 
 events in themselves are similar. 
 
 Still it is impossible to carry on the conversation cheer 
 fully. Without knowing why they relapse into silence. 
 Their thoughts wander over the whole region, now in 
 darkness, that surrounds the low walls of the fort and is 
 strewn with the long-haired dead. Truly a peculiar look 
 is given to the bodies of the soldiers by those masses of 
 wiry hair. 
 
 In this silence and calm a thousand details come back 
 to one, a clearer conception of things is gained, and one is 
 beset suddenly by the horror of what had to be done. 
 
 Slowly, hour by hour, one goes through the whole suc 
 cession of that hard day's events. 
 
 First, the risky landing at dawn amongst the breakers 
 on the shore : the sailors, waist deep in water, shaken by 
 the waves, stumbling, wetting their ammunition and their 
 weapons. A bad beginning. Then the safe arrival of all 
 on the sands in spite of the shot and the shower of bombs 
 fired from above by invisible persons, hidden behind the 
 sandhills. Quickly they had begun to mount and run, 
 keeping dead silence. And then, suddenly, in a line of 
 trenches wonderfully laid, and apparently surrounding the 
 whole peninsula, they had come upon the watching enemy, 
 crouching like Saturnine rats in their sandholes : yellow
 
 IN ANN AM. 155 
 
 men of extreme ugliness, lean, ragged, miserable, scantily 
 armed with lances and old rusty guns, and white lamp 
 shades on their heads. They had not looked like danger 
 ous enemies ; one dislodged them with the butt end of 
 the rifles or with bayonets. 
 
 Some had fled towards the north, dropping their provi 
 sions, their little baskets of rice, their portion of betel. 
 . . . And all this that had happened very, very quickly 
 in a few seconds floated through the mind now with 
 a lengthiness and precision of detail that was strange. 
 
 Then the superior officer in command of the landing 
 corps had given the order to the Atalante company to 
 climb to the end of the sandhill and take possession of the 
 fort on the right, over which floated the yellow flag of 
 Annam. 
 
 They climbed the hill at a run, somewhat in disorder ; 
 the sailors once started, went at it like children. Then 
 suddenly they had stopped, retreating a few steps. A new 
 trench filled with human heads ! All those faces had 
 risen up together, under a row of Chinese hats like lamp 
 shades ; their little eyes with turned-up corners looked 
 out with a false, ferocious expression, dilating with in 
 tense life, and paroxysms of rage and terror. 
 
 It was these they had seen from the Squadron, and had 
 watched anxiously through telescopes. 
 
 They were not in the least like the poor wretches of 
 the lower trench; they were fine, vigorous, thick-set men, 
 square military heads, the true Hun's head, with long hair 
 and small pointed Mongolian beards. 
 
 Correctly equipped, carrying their provision of bullets 
 in small baskets slung over the arm, like housewives going
 
 156 fHREE DATS WAR 
 
 to market, they remained there, barring the road, wait 
 ing without moving or speaking : they were the regulars 
 of Annam, and they must have been brave to have held 
 out since yesterday under the terrible fire of the shells. 
 
 Badly armed, it is true; but it was impossible to judge of 
 that on first sight ; lances ornamented with tufts of red 
 cloth, large and terrible cutlasses set in hafts, and rifles on 
 which bayonets were fixed. 
 
 A moment's hesitation and fear amongst these great 
 excited children our sailors caused no doubt by surprise 
 at the sight of those yellow heads, of those strange physi 
 ognomies they had never seen, met there face to face, 
 emerging from their sandy hole. 
 
 It is a serious thing when such fright takes hold of one. 
 The men of Annam had straightened themselves still more, 
 as though ready to leave their holes. The moment be 
 came supreme. There were scarcely thirty who had 
 reached the top in the presence of all these yellow men ; 
 the rest were only half way up, too far off to support 
 them. 
 
 And, as it happened, in spite of their manly appearance 
 and their square figures, these sailors of the leading section 
 were very young, nearly all children of about twenty 
 years, Breton fishermen who had left their village last 
 Spring, and who had never seen an affair of the kind. 
 They had been told about traps, of the holes furnished 
 with points that the Chinese conceal for your steps ; they 
 had even been given knotted cords, and shown the trick 
 of these snares and how to escape from them. And they 
 remembered those things, and the head of Commandmant 
 Riviere stuck on the end of a spike, and the death of the
 
 IN ANN AM. 157 
 
 tortured prisoners. Yes, they were really somewhat 
 afraid. 
 
 The ship's lieutenant in command of this company from 
 the Atalante had shouted " forward !" and had quickly 
 said all he could to encourage them. He had a plucky 
 second mate with him, Jean Louis Balcon, who had fought 
 in China and who, on his side, had done his utmost to 
 encourage the left wing by a quick, quaint seaman's har 
 angue. And the heads that watched from behind the 
 trench opened their little slanting eyes, hesitating still, 
 and wondering whether the moment had yet come to rush 
 upon these Frenchmen, 
 
 All this, which takes so long to tell, had not lasted two 
 minutes. But, from the Squadron, they had seen that 
 movement of hesitation too, and had watched it with 
 great anxiety. 
 
 At last, the sailors had been suddenly carried away, 
 whether by some more inspiriting word, or by a sense of 
 rage or of duty, I cannot tell. They threw themselves 
 headlong, with a shout, upon the men of Annam. 
 
 These latter had expected an attack of cold steel, hav 
 ing seen the glitter of the French bayonets. But no, 
 the muskets were loaded up, it was the fierce repeating 
 fire, the quick, devastating volley on volley of the kropa- 
 tschek that beat upon them like hail. They fell to the 
 ground, making the sand fly, and found voice then to cry out 
 in shrill tones ; they became mad with fear, and no longer 
 knew how to use their lances, stupified by the rapidity of 
 our firing. No, they had never imagined anything like 
 it : rifles more frightful and working more mysteri 
 ously than the cannons of yesterday ! Then they were
 
 158 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 seized by that nameless terror of the incomprehensible, 
 the fatality of things, against which one feels that there is 
 nothing to be done, and the panic of defeat spread like 
 fire in a train of powder. 
 
 They fled shrieking, knocking each other over in their 
 narrow trench. 
 
 And the sailors, that little handful of men, fully excited 
 now by the smoke, by the sun, by the sight of blood, ran 
 in pursuit of them, up the sandhill. 
 
 In a few seconds they were at the top, before the fort. 
 Some soldiers, with heads like Huns, guarding it behind 
 the slope, had come out suddenly, like devils out of a box, 
 and had fired in their faces. By one of those extraordi 
 nary chances that favoured us that morning, they wounded 
 no one, and immediately fled in disorder, seized, too, by 
 
 (he contagion of fear. 
 Then the ship's lieutenant in command, still aided by 
 the second mate, Jean Louis Balcon, had torn down the 
 yellow flag of Annam, the black Mandarin flag, and 
 hoisted in their place the flag of France. This fort was 
 the culminating point of the peninsula ; the little French 
 flag was immediately seen from all around ; from the 
 shore and from the Squadron ; the sailors, who were just 
 then very excited, greeted it with shouts of joy. It was 
 the first to float on this land of Tu-Duc ; it was nothing, 
 and yet it was a great deal a sign of hope, visible there 
 to the whole little troup of Frenchmen, and, for the others, 
 the presage of defeat) 
 
 From the top of this fort to which all the men of 
 the Atalante had rushed, one saw in the distance the 
 whole of the landing corps, the detachment from the
 
 IN ANN AM. 159 
 
 Bayard, the artillery, the infantry of the marines, the 
 indigenous matas massing themselves on the sandhills to 
 begin their great uniform movement towards the forts on 
 the south. This could all be seen with a glance of 
 the eyes ; but it was more especially necessary to watch 
 those who had escaped from the trenches ; they were 
 hurrying down the other slope of the sand towards the 
 interior and the great lagoon, but might at any given 
 moment join forces again and return to the attack. 
 
 They had taken refuge on the left in a village which 
 was there, at the foot of the fort. A village smiling in 
 the sunshine with little white houses, speckled in the 
 Chinese fashion; beautiful exotic trees and gardens full of 
 flowers, and ancient pagodas whose walls were covered 
 with many-coloured crockery and whose roofs bristled 
 with monsters. 
 
 Oh ! the unhappy refugees ! A moment later, this 
 village was in flames. A shell from the Squadron had 
 fallen into the middle of it, right on to some straw- 
 thatched cottages. Walls of painted planks, thin laths of 
 bamboo, open-work partitions of Indian reed, the whole 
 caught fire almost simultaneously, the flames going so 
 quickly from house to house, one had not time to see 
 them pass. 
 
 In the fresh blue light of the morning these flames 
 looked extraordinarily red ; they gave no light, they were 
 dull like blood. One watched them writhe and mix and 
 hasten to consume everything ; the smoke, intensely black, 
 diffusing a strong musty stench. On the roofs of the 
 pagodas, among the devils, among all the outspread claws, 
 all the forked tails, all the darts, it seemed at first natural
 
 160 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 enough to see the leaping tongues of fire. But these little 
 plaster monsters had begun to crackle and burst, throwing 
 to right and left their scales of blue porcelain, and the 
 crystal balls of their wicked eyes, then had sunk with the 
 rafters, into the gaping holes of the temples. 
 
 It became difficult to hold the sailors back; they wanted 
 to go down into the village, search under the trees, and 
 put an end to these men of Tu-Duc. An unnecessary dan 
 ger, for evidently the poor refugees would be forced to 
 leave it and fly elsewhere, half singed and completely 
 muted. 
 
 T During this time, towards the south, the combined 
 movement of the other French troops had been acceler 
 ated ; there, as here, the enemy was in flight, and, one 
 after another, the yellow flags of Annam fell The great 
 battery at the Rice Magazine was taken, the villages be 
 hind were burning with red flames and black smoke. 
 One was astonished to see all these fires, to see how 
 quickly and well everything was going, how the whole 
 country was in flames. One had no more conscience for 
 anything, and every feeling was absorbed in that astound 
 ing: fever for destruction. 
 
 r ^3 
 
 ( After all, in the Far East, to destroy is the first rule of 
 warfare. Besides if you come with a little handful of men 
 to impose your law on a great country, the enterprise is 
 so adventurous, that it is necessary to excite terror, lest 
 you yourself should succumb. J 
 
 Now, into the midst of these sailors from the Atalante^ 
 who had remained on the top of the sandhills, having 
 nothing more to do, an Annamite fort sent three well- 
 directed bullets, which by a rare chance ; traversed the
 
 IN ANN AM. 161 
 
 different groups without touching any one, the sailors 
 hardly noticed them, so occupied were they in watch 
 ing the rout at their feet on the hot sands, which was 
 hastening to an end almost of itself. 
 
 In fact, they had not long to wait before the exodus of 
 Tu-Duc's soldiers, escaping from the burning village, took 
 place. Suddenly they were seen to emerge and collect on 
 the outskirts of the houses, hesitating still, tucking their 
 things well up in order to run the better, covering their 
 heads for fear of bullets, with bits of planks, with mats, 
 and osier shells childish precautions, such as one would 
 take against a shower. And then they started off at 
 full speed. You could see some who were absolutely mad, 
 running blindly like wounded creatures ; they ran, this 
 race of terror, in zigzags and cross-wise, tucking their 
 things up to their hips in a comical way, their loosened 
 chignons, and long hair making them look like women. 
 Others jumped into the lagoon, covering their heads with 
 fragments of osier and of straw, and tried to swim to the 
 junks. 
 
 And in the smouldering village one saw burnt bodies 
 in little heaps on the 'ground. Some were still moving : 
 an arm, a leg stiffened itself out straight as it shrivelled, 
 or one heard horrible cries. 
 
 Hardly nine o'clock in the morning, and all appeared 
 to be over ; the detachment from the Bayard and the in 
 fantry had just taken the circular fort over there to the 
 South, containing more than a hundred cannon ; its great 
 yellow flag, the last, was on the ground, and on this side 
 as well, the panic-stricken soldiers had leapt into the waters 
 of the lagoons. In less than three hours the French
 
 1 62 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 manoeuvres had been carried out with surprising precision 
 and success^ the defeat of the King of Annam was accom 
 plished.] 
 
 The noise of the artillery, the dry sound of the great 
 cannons had everywhere ceased; the ships of the Squadron 
 were no longer fireing, but floated tranquilly on the blue 
 water. 
 
 And then a crowd of men in white had swarmed up 
 the masts ; all the sailors on board had climbed into the 
 rigging, facing towards land, and, waving their hats, 
 shouted all together, " Hurrah." That was the end. 
 
 As noon approached the Atalante men had by degrees 
 set in order the little fort that they were to occupy until 
 the following day, by order of the Commander-in-Chief. 
 They were overcome by heat, by nervous excitement and 
 thirst. The red sandhills reflected the heat unbearably 
 under the sun which was at its zenith ; the dazzling light 
 fell perpendicularly, and the shadows, thrown by the men 
 standing, stopped short at their feet. 
 
 And this great country of Annam, that one could see on 
 the other side of the lagoon, seemed an Eden with its high 
 blue mountains, its cool wooded valleys. One thought of 
 that immense town of Hue, which was behind the screens 
 of verdure, scarcely defended now, and full of mysterious 
 treasures. Of course we should go there to-morrow, and 
 that would be the real affair. 
 
 The dinner hour had come, and all settled down as com 
 fortably as it was possible to a meagre campaign repast of 
 ship's rations. Fortunately, close at hand there was a 
 portable cabin belonging to a military mandarin who had 
 fled the day before: a vast cabin made of bamboo and
 
 IN ANN AM. 163 
 
 reeds in fine and elegant trellis-work, extremely light. 
 It was brought up, with its cane benches, and its arm 
 chairs, and we sat down in it, well sheltered from the 
 burning sun. 
 
 Sad surprise : the wine ran short, in spite of express 
 orders from the Admiral and from the Captain of the 
 Atalante. It was incomprehensible. . . However, one 
 put a little more water in the canteens and dined very 
 merrily all the same. 
 
 The men had picked up lances, chaplets of sapeques 
 (Chinese money), and all sorts of garments. They had 
 wound round their hips beautiful strips of different coloured 
 materials. (Sailors always have a great liking for sashes). 
 They put on the airs of conquerors and strutted under 
 magnificent parasols, or played carelessly with fans as they 
 warded off the flies. 
 
 With this shelter from the sun and the rest, their 
 youthful heads grew cool again ; the excitement over, 
 they naively wondered how they could have been fighting 
 and taking life so short a time ago. 
 
 One of them, hearing the groan of a wounded man out 
 side, got up and made him drink the remainder of the wine 
 and water from his own canteen. 
 
 The fire in the village had slowly burnt itself out; just 
 a few little red flames were to be seen here and there 
 amongst the black ruins. Three or four houses only, had 
 not been burnt. Two pagodas were also left standing ; 
 another, nearest the fort, in burning out, had emitted a 
 sweet perfume of balm and of incense. 
 
 The sailors now all left their shelter of bamboos, and 
 though rather tired and blinded by the light, they wan-
 
 1 64 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 dered about under the dangerous mid-day sun, looking for 
 the wounded, to give them drink and rice ; to place them 
 more comfortably on the sand, or to lay them with their 
 heads higher. They sought Chinese hats to put on their 
 heads, and mats to give them a little protection from the 
 heat. And the yellow men, who invent refined tortures 
 for their prisoners, looked at them with dilated eyes full of 
 wonder and gratitude. They signalled their thanks with 
 poor trembling hands, and above all they dared to relieve 
 themselves by groaning aloud, by giving vent to the 
 mournful " Han ! Han ! . . ." they had 
 
 restrained since the morning, that they might appear to 
 be dead. 
 
 Some of the corpses were already very dreadful. And 
 great horseflies were devouring them. 
 
 Peace had settled everywhere. 
 
 Over there, towards the great south fort where the final 
 round had been played this morning by the detachment 
 from the Bayard, nothing was to heard either. 
 
 It was the headquarters of the Captain in command of 
 the Expedition, and the fact that the firing had ceased 
 there was proof enough that the day of action was offici 
 ally at an end. 
 
 Some human heads now appeared in the lagoon from 
 under the old capsized junks, looking to see if it were true 
 that the fighting was really over before they ventured out 
 poor scared creatures, the last of the refugees who had 
 hidden, suffocating in the water since the morning. 
 
 The heat was oppressive. Distant villages continued to 
 burn in the silence. Nothing happened, but from time to 
 time some death of an Annamite, some isolated episode to
 
 IN ANN AM. 165 
 
 break the stillness of the evening, and the monotony of the 
 sun scorching down on the sands and on the dead. 
 
 A young Annamite soldier whose chest was pierced by 
 a deep hole, was the first who dared to drag himself to the 
 camp of the Atalante. Having heard how the others had 
 been treated, he had come to beg for a little rice. 
 
 Then he had stretched himself almost at the feet of the 
 lieutenant in command, guessing he would find protection, 
 and unwilling to move. 
 
 With great care and precaution they had taken him 
 away all the same, and had laid him elsewhere, on account 
 of the repulsiveness of his wound : with every breath, air 
 came out of the hole, causing a horrible liquid to bubble 
 at the opening. 
 
 There was no ambulance, no " Cross of Geneva " in 
 Annam. This was all that could be done for them : a 
 little rice, a little cold water, a little shade and at last 
 leave them to die, turning away that one might not see. 
 
 5 o'clock. 
 
 A wounded man had got up suddenly, speaking very 
 loud in a prophetic tone, as though he were saying things 
 to the French that ought to be heard. Then they had 
 sent the interpreter to him. 
 
 It was a terrible curse against the military mandarins 
 who had taken to flight after having pushed them to 
 battle, against the spirits of the pagodas who had not been 
 able to protect them. He had further said that the spirits 
 of the French were superior to those of Annam, and ended 
 by asking for a little wine and sugar. 
 
 The glass emptied, his jaw had fallen with a sound like
 
 1 66 THREE DATS WAR IN ANN AM. 
 
 a box opening, and he was dead, his hands still moving as 
 though to make a last tchin-tchin. 
 
 One was hungry in spite of all, and it was neccessary to 
 think of dining, before the night which comes so suddenly 
 in these countries. 
 
 Then the boys of Saigon had been sent for, who set 
 to work at once to ferret in the village like wicked little 
 thieving foxes. In a twinkling, they had found rice, 
 plates, sauce-pans, drawn fresh water, caught and plucked 
 some chickens. . . Everything that one asked for 
 seemed to come like magic from their hands. Won 
 derful little servants indeed, they had even brought, for 
 the two in charge of the fort, some beautiful blue ham 
 mocks of silken thread, as well as these great gilt armchairs 
 in which those officers had sat down, like sovereigns in 
 the declining light, beginning to review in their calmer 
 state of mind the whole series of the day's events.
 
 III. 
 
 And now that night has really come these scenes fade 
 into a half-dream. One realizes that this will be a long 
 night and wearisome to pass ; one has no inclination to 
 sleep. 
 
 That town of Hue, which is there, quite close at hand, 
 only two hours' march away, though nothing reveals its 
 presence, shut in by its high walls, begins in like manner to 
 take fantastic shapes in the imagination. Shall we go there 
 to-morrow? It seems probable. And no doubt we shall 
 take possession of it as we did of Thouane-An, though 
 there are forts along the road and bars in the river. 
 
 A town unique among towns ; only one European ever 
 penetrated it, a Missionary Bishop, sent for by the king 
 when Hai-Phong was ceded. He gave some astonishing 
 accounts : 
 
 Its gates are closed to all, even to the people of Annam, 
 who only pass into its outer precincts under certain special 
 circumstances finding it still more difficult to leave than 
 to enter. 
 
 It forms a perfect square, so extensive that it takes a 
 man more than a day to walk round it, and is almost 
 empty. Strangers, workmen, merchants, all who live 
 there are lodged in the suburbs, outside its interminable 
 walls. Inside it is nothing but the huge dwelling-place 
 of a king who is invisible or perhaps dead.
 
 1 68 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 Nothing but palaces, seraglios, parks and pagodas; and, 
 no doubt, piled-up riches, that have lain untouched for cen 
 turies ; no one but courtiers and mandarins shadowy 
 rople who govern and oppress this old kingdom of dust. 
 Five concentric walled enclosures, containing, in pro 
 portion as you approach the centre, personages who are 
 more and more important and more and more mysterious, 
 
 In the centre at last is the king, who has never been 
 seen, enclosed as though in the depths of one of those 
 series of Chinese boxes that fit one into another indefi 
 nitely. It sometimes happens, they say, that a guard of 
 the palace, seized with an overwheming curiosity, will 
 risk his life to catch a glimpse, through a door or an 
 open window of this old kingly visage fatal as that of 
 Medusa; for V he succeeds and is discovered his head is 
 at once cut ofFJ 
 
 This town/ it appears, is protected by a charm. 
 " When Europeans enter it,'* says an ancient proverb, " the 
 heavens will fall." 
 
 It is well worth the risk of an attack, and the thought 
 of the morrow pre-occupies the imagination. 
 
 8 o'clock in the evening. 
 
 It is time to make the first nocturnal patrol in the vil 
 lage ; the detachments of artillery and infantry encamped 
 there are under the authority of the fort. 
 
 The start is made with fully loaded arms. The patrol 
 lantern, carried by a sailor, which lights the way is an ex 
 quisite little Chinese lamp of ancient workmanship, taken 
 from a pagoda. 
 
 The patrol descends, often slipping on the sand. There
 
 IN ANN AM. 169 
 
 is a smell of burning ; here is the village : red brasiers 
 give out smoke of a horrible odour ; grunting pigs poke 
 their snouts amongst the rubbish and the dead ; scared 
 hens and guinea-fowl flutter in search of a roosting place. 
 In spite of oneself one avoids the dark corners, one walks 
 in the open for fear of the dead bodies. 
 
 Again that horrible " Han ! Han ! " that one had 
 begun to forget the sound of a hollow voice at the last 
 gasp ; and hands stretched out in supplication, endeav 
 ouring to do tchin-tchin. There are many on the ground 
 who call out ; one must stop to give them drink, and the 
 canteens of the honest patrollers are soon emptied. 
 
 A great building has been left standing in which 
 shadows appear to be moving round a fire : inside, gilded 
 walls, a gilded roof, the vastness of a church and the mag 
 nificence of a seraglio. It was one of the King's pagodas. 
 It is full of soldiers of the marine infantry who talk and 
 smoke as they come and go ; they burn up arm chairs of 
 rare beauty, covered with a fine coating of lacquer and of 
 
 fild, in order to cook their soup. 
 The night is dark and oppressive. More burnt houses 
 and dead bodies. Formless heaps ; half-scorched heads 
 trying to raise themselves ; hands that move. The little 
 Chinese lamp throws light on all this in passing . . 
 
 And then another pagoda, a smaller one, apparently 
 very old ; an antique curiosity with a confusion of devils 
 on the roof, and of grinning china monsters at the en- 
 tfanc^/. 
 
 \ Buddhas of jasper, broken gods and goddesses in gilded 
 wood lie about near the door, legs in the air, and 
 headless ; many have, no doubt, been taken away, and
 
 170 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 these appear to be the remains after a hasty selection) 
 There is a fire at the further end, burning badly enough; 
 its light dances on the ancient gildings, on the mother-of- 
 pearl inscriptions, and on the china figures; it is the kitchen 
 of four soldiers who are occupied in boiling a pig. Several 
 editions of the mystic group of the Heron and the Tor 
 toise are lying on the ground ; and one of these great 
 herons is even burning under the saucepan amongst other 
 remains of sculpture, lying across the fire, with its stiff 
 red lacquered paws, and its gilded back. 
 
 The four men who are there laugh loudly, exchange 
 suburban jokes with a bad Parisian accent ; one would 
 guess that they were keepers of the barrier gates whom 
 .^chance has collected round this supper. 
 \ A little further on some others have picked up a tiny 
 little girl, a baby four or five years old, slightly wounded 
 on the leg. They have dressed the wound and have laid 
 her down as comfortably as possible, and are watching 
 her with the utmost solicitude. She is sleeping with 
 perfect trust in the midst of them; her eyes sloping 
 towards the temples give her the look of a little Toodie 
 cat, very sweet and winsome) 
 
 They had first laid her down quite naked, so that she 
 should be more at her ease in the great heat ; but they 
 have just decided, in consultation, that they must cover 
 her stomach lest she should get the colic from the damp 
 ness of the night; and one amongst them gives his sash. 
 
 Poor little forsaken thing, what can they do with her ? 
 They will not be allowed to take her with them ; what 
 is to become of her, all alone, when they have gone ? 
 
 Now we must go back to the fort ; to sit in the great
 
 IN ANN AM. iji 
 
 gilded arm-chairs or lie down in the blue hammocks 
 which the boys have slung, the chairs, most probably, 
 to keep a better look out. 
 
 The night grows darker and darker. One feels that 
 one is on an elevated plain because of the stretches of 
 darkness everywhere, with the distant fires of the camps 
 and burning houses. 
 
 The sailors have behaved very well. Many have 
 already gone to lie down quietly in the house of the 
 military mandarin. Others are sitting up, silently and 
 thoughtfully, heart-broken at having had to charge with 
 the bayonet, at seeing blood on their linen clothes, and 
 waiting impatiently for the morning to go and wash it out 
 " in soft water." 
 
 Some want to have supper already, from mere childish 
 ness, having scarcely recovered from their ample dinner ; 
 they have made another raid in the direction of a certain 
 pool of water where all the chickens and ducks, that 
 escaped the fire, have collected for a last conventicle of 
 their feathered kind. They have put a dozen to boil, with 
 a young pig, in an enormous saucepan on a bamboo fire. 
 
 An explosion and everything is scattered ! The sauce 
 pan jumps into the air, flies into pieces; the sauce falls in 
 rain. In order to discover the cause of the explosion, 
 they examine the remaining bamboos, which had been 
 taken, shortly before, from the mandarin's house ; they 
 are powder cases, full to the brim. It makes them laugh; 
 then they go and lie down for the night. 
 
 The silence increases, and the sound of the breakers on 
 the shore begins to be heard. 
 
 From time to time, " bang, bang, bang, bang," as the
 
 172 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 boys of Saigon say : a scared sentinel, half asleep, who 
 thinks he hears footsteps, has fired hasty shots on some 
 phantom of his dream. 
 
 Or else a sepulchral groan rises from below the walls ; 
 always the " Han ! Han ! . . ." prolonged to a heart 
 rending moan ; some Annamite dying. One stops one's 
 ears in order not to hear. 
 
 There must be a great swell out at sea this evening, for 
 the noise of the breakers grows louder. Already this 
 morning the boats had difficulty in reaching the shore; 
 to-night it would be quite impossible, and, in case of a 
 surprise, or a defeat, there would be no means of getting 
 back to the ships. 
 
 One listens with something of melancholy to the dull 
 grumbling of the waves that now cut off all communica 
 tion with the squadron and the European world, remem 
 bering how small a number of men hold the place by 
 force of terror. And it seems strange in thinking of it 
 that one should have come in this impudent way to 
 encamp in the middle of an immense country, surround 
 ing oneself with the dead by way of inspiring fear. 
 
 8-30 p.m. 
 
 A flash of light, a great noise that makes one start up : 
 a cannon-shot from the village below. "Turn out ! " one 
 shouts : " Stand to arms ! " 
 
 It is only the scouts who thought they had seen the 
 outlines of some great junks appear in the middle of the 
 lagoon, on the glossy surface of the water. 
 
 After all, perhaps they are coming to negotiate. 
 
 They are no longer seen. All is silent again.
 
 IN ANN AM. 173 
 
 9 o'clock. 
 
 At the same point several junks appear one after the 
 other, suddenly illuminated by a bright fire with long 
 tongues of flame that burns in front of one of them. 
 
 Once again turn out and stand to arms ! These junks 
 come from the mainland, from the direction of Hue. 
 
 Then they stop : there is the white flag of truce above 
 the fire, lit there no doubt to make it plainly visible. It is 
 necessary to go down to the shore with the interpreter to 
 receive this embassy, and give the order to the sentinels 
 to allow them to land. 
 
 They approach slowly, these junks, as though hesitating 
 with fear : they arrive, with their effect of Venetian 
 gondolas, carrying high their central dome and their 
 arched points. They move noiselessly, propelled by a 
 single oar from behind, with that little fluttering motion 
 peculiar to this method of progression. A voice that 
 sounds very French, asks : 
 
 " Will you receive the envoys from the court of Hue, 
 who come to sue for peace ? " 
 
 We answer : 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 And they come ashore. Improvised torches, pieces ot 
 flaring wood, throw light on the landing of these strange 
 people. First the guards of the court of Annam, clothed 
 in sombre blue, with large collars bordered with white. 
 
 They certainly seem rather numerous for a simple em 
 bassy, but it is probably a matter of etiquette, and besides 
 they are unarmed. 
 
 Then great sumptuous litters of gold are seen to emerge, 
 ending in grotesque faces ; and parasols of gold open in
 
 174 THREE DATS WAR IN ANN AM. 
 
 the darkness, and baldachins, and hammocks ... It 
 seems an unpacking of fairyland. 
 
 All these things are arranged methodically on the sand. 
 The guards raise the golden litters to their shoulders, hang 
 the blue hammocks on them and then cover them with 
 baldachins and with curtains in all, four complete sedans 
 into which mount with an air of mystery, some person 
 ages whom one cannot see. Four bearers of parasols rush 
 forward as though to protect them from imaginary rays, 
 and at last the procession advances. With a silent retinue 
 it moves towards the man who in their eyes represents war, 
 invasion, terror: the ship's lieutenant in command of the 
 fort. 
 
 He stands waiting, about a hundred paces off, near a 
 fire that has been stirred up to give more light. He is 
 in campaining attire, dusty and torn, and soiled with earth 
 and smoke, and feels not a little amused at so ceremonious 
 an embassy. 
 
 Two paces from him the first parasol is lowered, the 
 first sedan stops, and the curtains are drawn aside. . . .
 
 IV. 
 
 One expected to see some great Asiatic personage des 
 cend. But no, it is a European head, very pale, that 
 raises itself up from the hammock fringed with blue; the 
 voice, which is absolutely French, has that gentle and 
 rather unctuous drawl peculiar to Church functionaries ; 
 the man is clothed in a violet cassock ; the pastoral ring 
 glistens on his finger, and he first holds out his hand, to 
 receive a kiss which is not bestowed. 
 
 " Sir, I am the Missionary Bishop of Hue. I accom 
 pany the envoys. Will you receive the King's minister ? " 
 
 At the same time, the arm of one of the invisible per 
 sonages partly draws aside the curtains of the second sedan 
 and presents a letter on which the address is written in 
 French and in a very flowing handwriting (the Bishop's, 
 no doubt) : 
 
 "To the Civil Commissioner General, or, in his absence, 
 to the Rear-Admiral, Commander-in-Chief." 
 
 Assurance is given to his Eminence that he will be 
 treated with the utmost regard, he and those whom he 
 accompanies. But he is warned, at the same time, that 
 the laws of warfare, as also of simple prudence, make it 
 necessary to conduct him to the fort under an armed 
 escort ; there he will be courteously guarded till the 
 return of the junior officer who is going to headquarters 
 (the South fort) to bring back superior orders. 
 
 Then, at a given sign, a band of sailors surrounds the
 
 1 76 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 entire embassy, and the procession, resuming its march in 
 the light of the torches, begins in dead silence to climb 
 the steep slope of the sands. 
 
 These torches, from time to time, light up dead bodies 
 that lie across the road, half buried in the sand, their hands 
 in the air, or a dying man who utters his horrible groan 
 as loud as he can, stretching out his arms towards the 
 soldiers of the court. But these pass on without daring 
 to turn round, trembling and stupefied by fear. 
 
 They halt at the top, in the little camp of the Atalante. 
 
 Then all the golden parasols are lowered and the bearers 
 bend down. The curtains of the sedans shake as though 
 they were about to be drawn ; the invisible personages are 
 going to appear ; and the sailors, curious to see their faces, 
 form a circle about, stirring up the bamboos, that they 
 may see better. 
 
 First the bishop, who puts his feet painfully to the 
 ground, assuming an attitude of languor. Next his vicar 
 alights. And at last the two Annamite personages, the 
 Prime Minister and the Secretary of State. 
 
 These two are trembling perceptibly, and press close 
 to the Bishop. 
 
 They are attired with extreme simplicity, in Chinese 
 tunics, uniformly black, fastened with loops and buttons 
 of pink jasper ; they wear thin, pointed little beards, 
 like Attila ; and their hair, long as a woman's, is care 
 lessly put up in an old-fashioned chignon at the nape of 
 the neck. They are both very distinguished in their 
 whole appearance ; with refined faces, small patrician 
 hands and marvellous nails pointed like claws. 
 
 The Prime Minister leans on the shoulder of a strange
 
 IN ANN AM. 177 
 
 courtier, of ambiguous sex, who had rushed forward to 
 help him descend : clothed in black like his master, 
 his hair parted in the middle into two very long braids, 
 he has a slight and elegant figure, and an effeminate and 
 pretty face. One would say at first it was a young girl 
 in man's clothes. But apparently it is a boy. 
 
 Then one thinks of those " Asiatic children " whom 
 the refined classes of the Lower Roman Empire used to 
 have brought them at great cost, and whom they attached to 
 their persons as things of fashion and luxury .\ Doubtless 
 the unprogressive Far East, so old before our era began, 
 has not changed since the Roman epochy 
 
 The boys of Saigon who are themselves " Asiatic chil 
 dren," would be very useful now in improvising raising 
 out of the ground a presentable supper for the envoys, 
 who seem overcome by their emotions and the journey. 
 But they are no longer here. They were sent out of the 
 sailors' camp at nightfall, by order, and have gone away 
 to sleep no one knows where. A little wine and water, 
 and some tea and rice, is all that we can offer to the 
 Prime Minister and to the bishop. 
 
 Now the two priests, the two French officers and the 
 two Annamite grandees, with the " Asiatic child " at 
 their feet, are quietly seated, like friends, on the military 
 mandarin's light benches. 
 
 The conversation begins, rather slowly with some em 
 barrassment. The Bishop acts as interpreter, and his 
 drawling voice denotes excessive fatigue. He tells of the 
 consternation that reigns in Hue, the stupor, the con 
 tagious fear caused by our enormous cannon, our far- 
 carrying musketry, and our rapid firing.
 
 178 THREE DATS 
 
 And then he adds, in a lower tone, that his role as 
 Bishop is naturally quite official. In coming this evening, 
 he had merely ceded to the solicitations of the Court of 
 Annam ; the terror was such that, without him the envoys 
 would not have dared to present themselves in the French 
 Camp. 
 
 The silent retinue of the embassy has established itself 
 in the middle of the fort enclosure ; courtiers and simple 
 guards sitting pell-mell on the sand, leaning against one 
 another, overwhelmed, as though with the approach of 
 their last hour. And the magnificant sedans lying on the 
 ground, the gilding of the great parasols, give the Asiatic 
 note to these mute groups. 
 
 The night is less dark; the heavy clouds, which at sun 
 set had hung like a velarium, begin to break, leaving clear 
 spaces full of stars. 
 
 The sailors, who had all wakened up to see the sedans 
 and the procession arrive, are now seated around on the 
 low walls of the fort ; they smoke and talk in undertones. 
 Over their heads can be seen the dark stretches of the 
 heaven, grown so tranquil with the coming of night. In the 
 distance, towards the west, there are still the red braziers, 
 all that remains of the villages. To the east, the Chinese 
 sea a great unbroken plain that looks like bluish marble; 
 begins to glisten here and there, reflecting the spaces of 
 stars above. 
 
 Once again the " Han ! . . . Han ! . . ." rises 
 up from the shore in a horribly prolonged moan. Yet 
 another dying ! In spite of oneself one is silent while the 
 groan lasts, and the men of Annam shudder. 
 
 And then on the edge of the horizon one sees the great red
 
 IN ANN AM. 179 
 
 disc of the moon, spreading her luminous trail over the 
 immensity of the waters. In a minute it will be quite light. 
 
 Little by little, among the group of envoys, the conversa 
 tion becomes more animated, more cordial. The Minister 
 offers his long Annamite cigarettes, rolled into thin wafers, 
 which he has brought ready made in a little coffer ; he 
 appears to gain confidence when he sees that they are 
 Accepted. 
 
 The language of the country seems to be a succession 
 )f uncertain, nasal consonants, cut up into somewhat halt 
 ing monosyllables, amongst which, at short intervals, 
 something like the miaoo of a cat recurs. Yet it all appears 
 to have a signification, for the Bishop translates a host of 
 very graceful \things that the poor vanquished ones feel 
 obliged to sayl 
 
 Towards 10.30, the Captain of the frigate L arrives 
 
 from the South fort, announcing the receipt of the letter 
 of truce and bringing the superior orders: the Ambassador 
 and the Bishop are to repair at once to Headquarters, 
 bringing their secretaries with them if they choose ; as to 
 the men of their retinue, they are to remain in the Ata- 
 lanta fort, under the supervision of the lieutenant in com 
 mand, who is requested to make them lie down surrounded 
 by his sailors. 
 
 Quickly the beautiful litters are raised, the hammocks 
 and curtains arranged ; the four personages take their 
 leave, and their sedans move off to the quick and measured 
 step of the bearers. The moon, which is still low, throws 
 a warm light upon them ; we watch them disappear in 
 the distance over the pink sands, still with their golden 
 parasols and their look of beings from out of fairyland.
 
 i8o THREE DATS WAR 
 
 In the encampment there is a general movement and 
 preparation for settling down to sleep. 
 (^ But the yellow men are frightened now that the Bishop 
 and their chief have gone. Before lying down amongst 
 the sailors, they want to cement their friendship with 
 them, to assert it by a thousand amicable proofs. They 
 go through long forms of politeness, Annamite bows 
 of every description, ceremonious chin-chins with joined 
 hands, shakings of the hand that are endless. And 
 the sailors, greatly impressed by these beautiful man 
 ners, return the salutations and the handshakes, whilst 
 stifling their desire to laugh ; they are very much aston- 
 isned to meet yith such obsequious courtiers, and to feel 
 their lone nails.y 
 
 X 
 
 Before midnight, every one is more or less housed, 
 lying down, and asleep the sentinels excepted. 
 
 The two officers, still in the mandarin chairs, are not 
 asleep yet either. 
 
 In vain the moon sheds forth her beautiful, clear light, 
 clouds disperse and the heavens become pure and splendid 
 again, nothing can lessen the gloom of this night of vigil. 
 The smoke of the burning villages can be distinguished as 
 plainly as in daylight ; on the shining sands, the bodies of 
 the dead form black patches in the shape of a cross when 
 the arms are extended. \ And the continued noise of the 
 breakers produces that feeling of isolation, of being, cut 
 off from the rest of the world, in this land of AnnamJ 
 
 Then, suddenly the horrible "Han ! . . . Han ! . . ." 
 is heard again, and this time it seems to come from some 
 where close at hand, from the ground, almost from under 
 the chairs, and at the same instant real arms stretch out
 
 IN ANN AM. 181 
 
 towards us, and try to embrace our knees . . . It is 
 the wounded man of last night, the poor fellow with the 
 pierced chest, who has come back again, who has dragged 
 himself along and presented himself here, God knows 
 how ! 
 
 We dare not have him removed this time ; we give 
 him a covering, some wine to drink, and everything he 
 wants ; but it is provoking that he should insist on coming 
 back; since nothing can be done to save him, he had better 
 die at once. 
 
 I The air is heavy, and the wind hot; there is a sweet, 
 enervating scent of tropical plants and sandhill flowers 
 with a scent of other things as well, a mixture, at the 
 same time fetid and musky, which is peculiar to the vil 
 lages, and the people, and everything of this country. 
 The sailors say : " It smells Chinese/' and it cannot be 
 better expressed. That is it exactly : *tlt smells Chinese," 
 which is characteristic and indefinable/ 1 
 
 . . . Suddenly a first whifF of cemetery air mixes itself 
 with these other strange odours . . . The corpses are 
 beginning to grow obnoxious ! Indeed, they 
 
 should have been removed before nightfall ; it ought to 
 have been thought of at sunset, when the first black 
 birds were seen to collect. But one counted on making 
 the prisoners do this business in the morning, one had no 
 idea that decomposition would set in so quickly. 
 
 ... A second whifF arises, sickening, horrible . . . 
 it will certainly grow rapidly worse before morning, 
 and become intolerable. What is to be done ? 
 Wake the sailors, who are already so tired ? . , . One 
 hesitates between the horror of going to move the dead
 
 1 82 THREE DATS WAR IN ANN AM. 
 
 bodies at night, and the dreadful discomfort that their 
 vicinity causes. A lassitude nails you to the spot; till a 
 kind of troubled sleep comes at last, full of dreams, 
 haunted by the contortions, the grimaces, and the dreadful 
 writhings of the dead. . . .
 
 V. 
 The day of August 2ist. 
 
 At six o'clock the sun is there, flooding the land simul 
 taneously with brilliant light and extreme heat as it rises. 
 Then the visions of the night evaporate, and things re 
 sume their true proportions. 
 
 The tent where one has slept is rilled with sunbeams. 
 The gilded poles and the pagoda lances that sustain the 
 hangings, glitter ; but the hangings are soiled and sordid. 
 
 Outside, the whole camp is waking. The Annamites, 
 in stretching, sigh as they remember their defeat and the 
 terrors of yesterday. They shake their blue gowns that 
 are spoilt twist up their long hair and re-arrange their 
 chignons like women. Several fires are already lighted 
 on the sand. The sailors must needs set again to cooking 
 their chickens at the first sign of daybreak. 
 
 Down below, the land of Annam looks very beauti 
 ful, and rather strange at this early hour. The violet 
 peaks of the high mountains stand out clearly in the sky ; 
 they seem to be more jagged than is natural, as in a landj 
 scape that might have been painted by the Chinese. 
 The wooded plains are of that fresh and brilliant tint, 
 which is peculiar to the Tropics. And the mirador of 
 Hue that of the Royal Palace can be seen, dominating 
 the green distances . . .
 
 1 84 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 The wounded man with the pierced chest has died in 
 the night ; he is stretched out stiffly, open-mouthed in the 
 sun. All round the fort, of course, there are still the 
 dead bodies in the same positions as last night. And, as 
 though there were not enough, the sea has even washed 
 up those that were thrown into it yesterday ; they are 
 all along the shore, washed by the white spray of the 
 waves, still with their hands in the air and all swollen, 
 looking like great big-bellied baboons. It will certainly 
 be necessary to dig vast holes to bury so many bodies. 
 
 Will there be a march on Hue to-day will its great, 
 mysterious walls be scaled ? Doubtless not ; that embassy 
 which came last night will have signed anything rather 
 than see us enter the town and palaces, the old pro 
 verb of Annam will be right once again. 
 
 Close round the camp there is nothing but the hot 
 sparkling sand, contrasting with the green border of the 
 interior ; and then the ruins and remains of all that the fire 
 destroyed yesterday. Two pagodas still standing, show 
 with an evil look their horns and claws and whole array of 
 earthenware devils. And the cocoa-nut trees in the vil 
 lage that were so fresh, have turned black ; they are 
 planted in the midst of all this waste like scorched old 
 feather-brooms. 
 
 Towards seven o'clock the distant noise of a fusilade. 
 It is the French troops encamped in the Circular Fort 
 who have just crossed the river Hue in the Squadron's 
 small boats, and are advancing on the sands of the south 
 bank. Through the telescope one can follow the distant 
 movements of these rows of little black pigmies who are 
 seamen and soldiers ; one can see them take possession,
 
 IN ANN AM. 185 
 
 without striking a blow, of two or three forts that the 
 enemy abandoned in yesterday's great panic and the 
 tricolor is hoisted everywhere. 
 
 That must be the end of it all, and doubtless there will 
 be no more righting. 
 
 An oppressive day, long, monotonous, excessively hot 
 and painful to get through. 
 
 The dead are being buried. There are more than one 
 had realized. The Annamite official report reckons 
 twelve hundred, and that is about the number. They 
 are thrown altogether into great holes. The prisoners 
 perform this duty, guarded by the Serjeants of the native 
 troops of Saigon with pointed bayonets. 
 
 The seamen, who are very thirsty to-day, draw water 
 from the cisterns ; but it is muddy water, and what is 
 more, it is musky like everything in this country. The 
 prisoners explain that it has been brought from the main 
 land in bottles of goat skin from which it gets the 
 smell, and that nevertheless it has a very good flavour. 
 
 Still, for fear of poison, the sailors decide to filter it. 
 And now the great Chinese hats which have already 
 made splendid funnels for pouring the wine into the 
 canteens are again in requisition. (The sand is strewn 
 with them, with these great conical hats in the forms of 
 lamp shades, dropped there during the rout.) They put 
 some pounded charcoal in the bottom, and then fill them 
 up with water, and soon, from the point, a little clear 
 stream runs out which is not bad to drink. 
 
 3 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 The embassy once more comes to camp, on its return
 
 1 86 THREE DATS WAR 
 
 from headquarters. It passes on without stopping, picks 
 up its escort, descends with gymnastic strides towards the 
 lagoon, and embarks in the junks. And throughout this 
 rapid march, the great Asiatic parasols, speckled with 
 gold, turn, rise or fall, following the rays of the sun, 
 manipulated with rare precision by their bearers. 
 
 This time the sedans remain closed. The Bishop 
 alone pushed aside his curtains to wave his hand and 
 announce that the Treaty of peace had been accepted with 
 its hardest clauses : they are hastening as much as possible 
 to take it this same evening for the signature of the King 
 of Annam. . . . 
 
 So the old proverb is true, and the great walls of Hue 
 will keep their mystery. 
 
 The wind is decidedly in a peaceful quarter. At sun 
 set, two mandarins arrive at the fort, trembling a little, 
 but eager and obsequeous, with an air of profoundest 
 humility, making fine chin-chins, shaking hands with 
 everyone, an operation in which the folds of their pagoda 
 sleeves and the length of their nails come rather in the way. 
 
 Their robes are of ultramarine silk gauze, brocaded with 
 a large rose pattern. The fronts of a paler blue, like those 
 waistcoats worn by fashionable women in France. 
 
 They have come to bring us a supply of cattle, of pigs 
 and bananas, and fresh water, all kinds of good things 
 tbat will be very welcome. 
 
 C They also bring sensational news : it would seem that 
 the King in person, the invisible, the unknowable, went 
 up yesterday into his great mirador that one can see over 
 there, to watch the bombardment and the Squadron. It 
 is true that rigorous threats of death had been spread in
 
 IN ANN AM. 187 
 
 the town against whoever should dare to raise his eyes 
 towards this tower; and all the houses, all the windows 
 had been closed in terror. But from the great suburbs 
 inhabited by Europeans and merchants, he could have 
 been seen through glasses, and this fact is really a sign of 
 the timts, a thing without precedent in the history of 
 Annam.J 
 
 9 o'clock in the evening. 
 
 The order arrives from headquarters to re-embark the 
 marines to-morrow in the early morning. 
 
 It is over, this little dream of conquest. The forts will 
 be left in charge of the Marine Infantry and of the Vipere. 
 
 The seamen, greatly disappointed, wander about the 
 burnt village, to pick up amongst the rubbish a thousand 
 little souvenirs that they wish to take away with them ; 
 with the help of lanterns they make an extraordinary 
 choice from amongst the remains, lamenting greatly that 
 they had not been warned earlier, that they had not been 
 able to select it all by daylight. They only go to sleep 
 very late, when they have prepared their little bundles 
 and sung several songs.
 
 VI. 
 August the 22nd. 
 
 Towards eight o'clock on a glorious morning the 
 heavily-laden boats that are bringing the sailors with 
 their arms and baggage back over the glittering sea, 
 reach the ships of the Squadron. 
 
 The others, the less fortunate, those who had re 
 mained on board, wait near the bulwarks to see the 
 return: the men come on board with the air of conquerors, 
 displaying their beautiful sashes, wearing Chinese hats, 
 carrying lances, yellow flags or black ones at the end of 
 gilded poles ; they are deeply sunburnt, one and all, and 
 dying of thirst. . . . 
 
 And then, some have picked up tea-pots in old China 
 ware, flowery plates, buddhas, or mystic herons, birds 
 of the pagodas perched on tortoises. 
 
 And others, the practical and greedy, have brought 
 back fowls in cages, to be cooked on board even little 
 live pigs slung in shoulder belts across the back, fastened 
 by their paws and shrieking horribly. 
 
 There is much rejoicing over this great and rapid suc 
 cess ; the news of the doubtful days in the north on the 
 banks of the Red river has not reached us yet, and we 
 imagine that peace will at once be signed, followed by 
 our departure, and return to France. At supper different
 
 THREE DATS WAR IN ANN AM. 189 
 
 dishes, not provided by the rule, circulate at the tables of 
 the crew, with wines that come from the officers' quarters. 
 And on the stroke of nine a procession is even organized 
 and marches past, the men stooping low as they go under the 
 hammocks. Then those who are already asleep, wake up 
 with a start, and lean over, scared to see what is passing 
 under them : great pointed hats, a procession of Chinamen ! 
 . . . some in mandarin dresses of official cut, in black 
 silk, too tight often and split at the shoulders ; others 
 quite naked, simply carrying a lance, a mystic heron, or a 
 buddha to give a proper effect. 
 
 Not a single death to regret, no one missing at the roll 
 call, not an empty place ; thus it all ends in gaiety and 
 fun. 
 
 And to-morrow the Squadron is to separate in order to 
 fulfil the several duties of re-victualling and of blockade.
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 LD-LTRL 
 
 JUN 21965 
 
 AM 
 
 7 - 4 4 - 9 tf**- f 
 
 AUG 3 1978 
 
 orm L9-Series 444 
 
 PM 
 V 
 
 Nsr^ n Gr-Ultf 
 APR 1 2 1982 
 
 MAY 0419e 
 
 , REC'DLD-t/RC 
 
 
 JLM. 6 1989
 
 ^679 
 
 DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRAI 
 
 AA 00069842'