And there it is on the horizon, level with our eyes, which it has dazzled and conquered.
Meanwhile the earth is awakening; the cocks are crowing hoarsely; the weathercock on the belfry has managed to catch a drifting haze which has escaped from the sun. The chimney pot of the millhouse is smoking and the château goes on sleeping; a bell chimes on the north side—that means fine weather. Peasants always like to boast how early they get up, but the only person I can see is the farmer himself, poking his nose into the chicken house. The horses and cattle, who’ve spent the night in the meadow, have already begun to eat again.
A magpie and a golden oriole fly across and two turtledoves cut through the air, while a blackbird, whom I know, is no doubt going from hedge to hedge in search of his cheap little whistle. Over there, a rabbit, who thinks mankind has vanished forever, can’t hear anything and is enjoying himself. Nearby, a flower, like a little girl, is opening up its pure lips on which a pink dewdrop is shining.
And that’s that.
There’s nothing to be added to the mystery that has just taken place.
People are becoming less and less interested in this daily rebirth of the earth; they persist in being concerned only with hiding their shame; they yawn and show nature a big black hole into which, hearing the sound of our numb feet clumping across the ground, the rabbit has just jumped. And off we go—what else is there to do?—back to our inviting, lovely bed.
THE CATERPILLAR
HE COMES OUT OF A tuft of grass where he’d taken refuge from the heat. He’s rippling over the sandy path, taking care not to stop and, for a moment, thinks he’s got lost: he’s landed in a footmark made by the gardener’s clogs.
When he reaches the strawberry bed, he takes a rest, raises his nose, and sniffs right and left; he then sets off again, over the leaves, under the leaves, he now knows where to go.
What a lovely caterpillar he is, plump, hairy, well-filled out, brown with tiny golden spots. And what lovely black eyes!
Following his nose, he wiggles and knits his brows. What beautifully thick eyebrows he’s got!
He stops at the foot of a rosebush.
He’s delicately feeling its rough bark with his hooks, waves his puppy-dog head around, and decides to climb up.
And now you’d think he’s painfully swallowing every inch of the way.
At the very top of the rosebush, there’s an open rose, the color of a guileless little girl: she’s intoxicated by her own luxuriant scent; she’s completely unsuspicious and lets the first caterpillar that comes along climb up her stalk. She welcomes him as a gift.
And feeling that it might be a cold night, she’s delighted to have a feather scarf round her neck...
THE BUTTERFLY
THIS LOVE LETTER, folded in two, is looking for a flowery address.
THE WASP
IN THE END, SHE’S BOUND to spoil her waistline.
THE FLEA
AN ELASTIC PINCH OF SNUFF.
THE DRAGONFLY
SHE’S TAKING CARE OF her ophthalmia. She goes from one side of the river to the other, dipping her swollen eyes in the cool water.
She’s buzzing, she must be running on electricity.
THE SQUIRREL
NIMBLY DASHING HERE AND THERE, he’s lighting up the autumn leaves with the little torch of his tail.
THE MOUSE
I’M WRITING BY CANDLELIGHT the page I write every day when I hear a slight sound. When I stop, it stops, too; as soon as I start again, it follows suit.
It’s a mouse waking up.
I can guess its whereabouts as it scurries to and fro in the out-of-the-way corner where our maid keeps her dusters and brushes.
It jumps down and trots over the tiles of the kitchen. It passes by the fireplace, under the sink, vanishes among the crockery and in a series of further recess, it’s coming closer and closer to me. It gets worried every time I put down my quill. When I’m using it, perhaps it thinks there’s another mouse around somewhere and feels reassured.
Now I’ve lost sight of it. It’s under the table, by my legs. It’s moving around from one chair leg to the other, brushing against my wooden clogs, nibbling them, or boldly, there she goes, climbing onto them! And I mustn’t shift my legs or breathe too hard; it’d be off in a flash.
But I’ve got to continue writing or else I’ll be left alone and bored, so I just make marks on my paper, teeny-weeny squiggles, all very, very tiny, while it nibbles away at my clogs.
MONKEYS
GO AND LOOK AT THOSE naughty little monkeys (they’ve torn the seat of their pants!) as they scramble around, dancing in the early-morning sun, getting annoyed, scratching themselves, peeling something, drinking with graceful, Old World gestures while, occasionally but not often, you can see in their uneasy eyes a sudden flash of enlightenment, quickly extinguished.
Go and look at the flamingoes, walking on a pair of fire tongs to avoid getting their pink petticoats wet in the water; the swans and the showy plumbing of their necks; the ostrich with the wings of a chick and its authoritative stationmaster’s cap; the storks which never stop shrugging their shoulders—it’s really not all that important; the marabou, who feels the cold in his miserable morning coat; the penguins in their Inverness capes; the pelican holding his beak up like a wooden saber; and the parrots, of which the tamest aren’t as tame as their keeper, who manages to extract twenty-five cents from each of us.
Go and see the yak, weighed down by prehistoric thoughts; the giraffe, poking his head, which is stuck on a pike, over the bars of the railing; the elephant who slops to the door in his slippers, bending over and keeping his nose down—he’s almost disappeared into his baggy breeches which have worked their way too far up and have a little bit of string hanging down behind.
Don’t miss the porcupine, provided with penholders—they must make it very awkward for him and his lady friend; the zebra, a pattern for all the other zebras; the panther, who’s come down to stretch out at the foot of his bed; the bear, who’s amusing us but is not greatly amused himself; and the lion yawning and making us yawn.
THE STAG
I WENT INTO THE WOOD at one end of the avenue as he was coming in at the other.
At first I thought a stranger had just come in, wearing a plant on top of his head.
Then I could see the little dwarf tree spreading out its leafless branches.
Finally the stag came plainly into sight, and we both came to a halt.
“Don’t be afraid, come closer,” I said. “I’m carrying a gun, but it’s just pretense, I’m only imitating people who take themselves too seriously. I never use it, and I’ve left the cartridges in a drawer at home.
The stag was listening to me and sniffing.
When I stopped talking, he didn’t hesitate: his legs moved like twirling twigs blown by a gust of wind. He fled.
“What a shame!” I shouted after him. “I was already dreaming that we’d go off together. I was going to pick all sorts of grass that you particularly like and offer them to you. And you’d be walking along beside me, carrying my gun on your antlers.”
THE GUDGEON
I
HE’S SWIMMING AHEAD against the strong current, following a line of pebbles, for he doesn’t like mud or weeds.
He sees a bottle lying on a sand bed. I’ve deliberately not put any bait in it, it’s just water. The gudgeon is swimming round it, finds the way in—and he’s caught.
I pull the bottle out of the water and throw the gudgeon back in.
He can hear something upstream. He doesn’t keep away from it; he’s curious and swims up closer. It’s me, splashing about in the water for fun and stirring up the bottom with a net on a stick. The gudgeon tries to get through a mesh and can’t get out.
I pull up the net and throw the gudgeon back.
Lower down, there’s a sudden tug on my line and my float is darting about all over the place.
I pull my line up and there he is again...
I get hi
m off the hook and once again toss him back in.
He won’t be back again.
In the clear water, I can see him at my feet, not moving, with his swollen head, his large stupid eyes, and his couple of barbels.
He’s yawning, with a torn lip, breathing hard after his shock.
But he’ll never learn.
I put my line in, with the same worm.
And the gudgeon immediately bites.
Who’s going to get tired first?
II
There’s no doubt, they’re not biting. Hasn’t anyone told them that this is the first day of the fishing season?
THE PIKE
IN THE SHADE OF A WILLOW, he’s not moving; he’s the hidden dagger of some old bandit.
THE WHALE
SHE’S CERTAINLY GOT ENOUGH in her mouth to make a whalebone corset, but with a waistline like hers...
FISH
AS AN ANGLER, MONSIEUR VERNET was not in the least fussy; he didn’t know much about it, he’s not inspired, he didn’t talk about it at great length, he wasn’t unbearably boring. He hadn’t got special clothes, expensive and useless gear, and the day before the season opened, he wasn’t feverishly excited.
He was quite happy with a line—just a length of twine—a discreetly colored float, worms from his own garden as bait, and a cloth bag to bring home his catch. Yet Monsieur Vernet did like fishing, though passionately would be an exaggeration; he was very fond of it, it was the only thing he was fond of, after having progressively had to give up other things he preferred.
Once the season was open, he’d go fishing every day, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, mainly at the same spots. Other anglers think it’s important to study the direction and strength of the wind, the heat of the sun, what the water’s like; Monsieur Vernet never bothered. With his hazelwood fishing rod, he set off when he felt like it. He’d walk along the Yonne, stopping as soon as he didn’t want to go any farther, uncoil his line, put it in the water, and spend a few pleasant hours until it was time to go home for lunch or dinner. Monsieur Vernet was far too sensible to eat uncomfortably outdoors on the pretext of going fishing.
Thus it was that last Sunday morning, rather early because it was the first day of the season, he found himself sitting on the grass, not in a deck chair, beside the river.
He immediately started to enjoy himself: it seemed to him a delightful morning, not just because he was fishing but because the air was cool, the Yonne was shimmering, and he could see long-legged mosquitoes skimming over the water and hear crickets singing behind him.
All the same, he was also greatly interested in fishing.
He soon caught a fish.
This wasn’t anything extraordinary: he’d caught fish before. He didn’t pursue fish madly, he was quite capable of doing without them, but every time a fish was too greedy, you had to pull him out of the water. And every time he did it, Monsieur Vernet always felt a slight thrill. You could tell this because while putting on a new bait, his fingers were trembling.
Before opening his bag, Monsieur Vernet put the gudgeon down on the grass. And don’t say, “What? Only a gudgeon?” There are big gudgeons which shake your line so violently that the heart of an angler starts beating faster, just as it would at the theater.
Monsieur Vernet had calmed down. He cast his line back into the water and, for some strange reason (he could never say why), instead of putting the gudgeon in the bag, he looked at it.
After a few frantic jerks, which left it exhausted, the gudgeon lay quite still on its side and gave no further sign of life, except through its obvious efforts of trying to breathe.
With his fins flat against his back, he was opening and closing his mouth; his lower lip was adorned underneath with two tiny barbels, like a soft little mustache. Slowly, his breathing became more and more difficult, and he even had trouble closing his jaws.
“How funny,” Monsieur Vernet said, “I can see it’s suffocating.”
And added: “How he must be suffering!”
This was something he’d never noticed before and it was as clear as it was unexpected. Yes, when they’re dying, fish suffer; you don’t realize it at first because they don’t tell you. They don’t say a word, they’re dumb, there’s no mistake about that! And when it stretched out as it died, it still seemed to be playing a game.
To see a fish dying, you have to happen to be watching it closely, as Monsieur Vernet was. As long as you don’t think about it, it doesn’t matter—but when you do!
“I know what I’m like,” Monsieur Vernet was saying to himself, “and I know that’s that. I shall keep on asking myself and I can feel that I’ll keep on doing it till I reach my conclusion. It’s impossible not to follow one’s logic to the bitter end. And I shan’t stop because I’m afraid of looking ridiculous. After shooting, it’s going to be fishing. One day, I can’t remember when, as I was out shooting, after committing one of my crimes, I asked myself: ‘What right have you to be doing this?’ The answer was obvious. You quickly realize that breaking a partridge’s leg, a hare’s paw, is repulsive. This evening, I’ll hang up my gun, so that it never kills anything anymore. I’ve only now realized that fishing, though not so bloody, is equally nasty.”
As he was saying this to himself, Monsieur Vernet saw that his float was darting about on the surface, almost challenging him. Once again, he pulled in his line, automatically. It was a perch, prickly and bristling and, like all perches, greedy; it had swallowed the hook right into its belly. To get it out you had to pull out flesh, tear the red lacework of the gills, make your hands filthy with blood.
God, all that blood told its own story!
Monsieur Vernet coiled up his line, hid his two fish at the foot of a willow, where they might be found by an otter, and went home.
He seemed quite cheerful and, as he was walking along, he was thinking.
“It’d be quite inexcusable,” he was saying to himself. “When
I went out shooting, I used to eat game, even though I could afford other sorts of meat, but that was to feed myself, I wasn’t killing just for fun. My wife has a good laugh, though, when I come back with a few dry, stiff fish, which I’m ashamed to ask her to cook. It’s the cat who feasts on them, so if it’s so fond of them, it can go and catch them itself, if it wants to. I’m going to cut up my fishing line.”
IN THE GARDEN
However, later on, as he was holding the bits of fishing line in his hand, Monsieur Vernet murmured, half sadly, “Doesn’t the getting of wisdom suggest you’re rather losing your love of living?”
THE GARDEN
A SPADE: Fac et spera.
A PICK: Me, too. I always say to myself: work in hope.
FLOWERS: Is it going to be a sunny day?
A SUNFLOWER: If I want it to be.
A WATERING CAN: Excuse me, if I want it to, it’ll be raining, and if I take my sprinkler off, it’ll be pouring.
A ROSEBUSH: Oh, what a wind!
A STAKE: I’ll be there to support you.
A RASPBERRY: Why do roses have thorns? People don’t eat roses.
A CARP IN THE FISHPOND: Well said. It’s because people eat me, I’ve got prickly bones.
A THISTLE: Yes, but it’s too late then.
A ROSE: Do you think I’m lovely?
A HORNET: We’d have to see what you’re like inside.
THE ROSE: Come in.
A BEE: Don’t lose heart. Everybody tells me I’m a good worker. By the end of the month, I hope to be made head of the honey department.
VIOLETS: We’ve all got decorations.
WHITE VIOLETS: All the more reason to be modest, dear sisters.
A LEEK: Certainly. Have you ever heard me boasting?
A SHALLOT: Pooh! What a smell!
A GARLIC: I bet it’s that carnation again!
AN ASPARAGUS: My little finger tells me everything.
A POTATO: I think I’m giving birth.
POPPIES
THEY’RE
EXPLODING IN THE WHEAT like a whole army of soldiers but much lovelier—and they don’t attack anyone.
Their swords are wheat ears.
It’s the wind that makes them run away, and every poppy can linger at the edge of a furrow without worrying. They’re fellow countrymen.
THE VINE
ALL THE STOCKS AND STAKES are shouldering arms. What are they waiting for? There won’t be any more grapes this year and the vine leaves will only be of use for statues.
BATS
THE NIGHT HAS BEEN SERVING so long that it’s getting worn out.
It’s not wearing out at the top, like the stars, but at the bottom, like a dress trailing on the ground between the stones and the trees, down there in unhealthy tunnels and damp cellars.
A shred of night creeps into every single corner. Thorns are piercing it, cold is freezing it, it’s being fouled by mud. And every morning, when night lifts, dirty rags fall off, haphazardly.
That’s how bats are born.
And because they’re born like that, they can’t face bright daylight.
When the sun’s gone down and we’re enjoying the cool air, the bats unhitch themselves from the old beams where they’ve been hooked.
We’re disturbed by their awkward way of flying. Their featherless, whaleboned wings are feeling around us. They find their way more by their ears than by their useless, sore eyes.
Nature Stories (9781590175682) Page 5