I

In order to invest the room in which I made my Night Journey with some interest, I must acquaint the inquisitive reader how it came into my possession. Being continually interrupted in my work, in the noisy house where I lived, I had intended for some time past to look out for a more solitary retreat, when one day turning over a life of M. de Baffon, I read, that that celebrated man had selected an isolated summerhouse in his garden, which contained no other furniture except an armchair, the bureau on which he wrote, and no other work except the one on which he happened to be then engaged. The trifles about which I busy myself are so far removed from the immortal works of M. de Baffon, that the idea of imitating him, even so far, would certainly never have crossed my mind, if an accident had not compelled me to do so. While dusting the furniture, my servant fancied he saw a good deal of dust on a sketch in pastel which I had just finished, and he cleaned it so effectually that he completely removed all the dust which I had been arranging with so much care. After venting my anger against the fellow during his absence, but saying nothing about it on his return, according to my custom, I at once set out on an expedition and returned home with the key of a little room which I had hired on the fourth floor in the Rue de la Providence. That very day, I moved thither the materials necessary for carrying on my favourite occupation, and thenceforth passed the best part of my time, secure from domestic chatter and picture cleaners. In that retired abode the hours fled like minutes, and more than once, while there, my meditations caused me to forget the dinner hour.

Oh, sweet solitude! How well I know the charms with which you captivate your lovers! Alas for him who cannot be alone for a single day without being bored to death, and who would rather talk with fools, if he must, than hold communion with himself! I must confess that I like the solitude of a large town, but, unless constrained thereto by some serious business, such as a journey round my room, I should prefer to be a hermit in the morning only; in the evening I love to see humanity again. Thus I play off against one another the disadvantages of society and solitude, and the contrast also enhances their comparative delights.

But there is such an uncertainty and fatality about the things of this earth, that the very keenness of the pleasure I found in my new abode ought to have forewarned me that it would be but of short duration. The French Revolution, like a flood, swept over every land, crossed the Alps and precipitated itself upon Italy. The first wave swept me far as Bolognia; I shut up my hermitage, whither I had transported all my effects, till happier times. For some years I had been without a Fatherland; one fine morning I discovered that I was without employment. After an entire year spent in seeing people and things I thoroughly detested, and longing to see those whom I should see no more, I returned to Turin. It was necessary to make up my mind to some course of action. I left the hotel La Bonne Femme, where I had put up, with the intention of restoring the little room to its owner and removing my furniture.

The sensations I experienced on entering my hermitage are difficult to describe: everything was there in the exact order, or rather disorder, in which I had left it⁠—the furniture, piled against the walls, had been sheltered from the dust by the elevation of its resting place, my pens were still in the dried up inkstand, and I found an unfinished letter on the table.

I congratulated myself on being once more among my household goods. Each object recalled some event of my life, and my room was crammed full of souvenirs. Instead of returning to the inn, I determined to spend the night in the midst of my effects. I sent out to fetch my bag, and, at the same time, made up my mind to start next day and, without taking leave or advice of anybody to abandon myself entirely to Providence.

II

Whilst making these reflections and congratulating myself on my well-laid plans, time slipped away, and my servant did not return. Necessity had compelled me to take this fellow into my service some weeks before, and I had some suspicions as to his honesty. Suddenly it occurred to me that he might perhaps have walked off with my bag, and, without losing a moment, I hurried off to the hotel: it was time I did so. On turning the corner of the street in which the Hotel de la Bonne Femme is situated, I saw him hastily come out of the door, preceded by a porter, who carried my portmanteau. He, himself, had charge of my handbag, and, instead of turning my way, he set off to the left, in the opposite direction to that he ought to have taken. His intention was plain. I joined him leisurely and, without speaking to him, walked for some time at his side before he saw me. If one had wished to paint the expression on the human countenance of the height of astonishment and fear, there could have been no better model than my man, just at the moment when he became aware of my presence.

I had plenty of time to make a study of it, for he was so disconcerted by my sudden appearance and by the grave air with which I looked at him, that he kept on walking for some time beside me without saying a word, as if we had been taking a walk together. At last, he mumbled an excuse about some business in the Rue Grand Doire, but I put him into the right road and we reached home, where I discharged him. It was only then that I determined to make a fresh tour of my room during the last night I should pass there, and I at once busied myself about the preparations.

III

For a long time I had desired to revisit the country in which I had made such enjoyable excursions; moreover, I did not feel at all satisfied with my own description of it. Some friends, who had dipped into my former journey, had begged me to continue it, and, without doubt, I should have decided to do so sooner, if I had not been separated from my travelling companions. It was with sadness that I resumed my undertaking. Alas! I resumed it alone! I was about to travel without my dear Joanetti and my charming Rose.13 My first room itself showed signs of a most disastrous change. Nay! It no longer existed. Its site was then part of a horrible ruin blackened by flames, and all the murderous inventions of war had combined to destroy it utterly. The wall on which the portrait of Mme. Hautcastle used to hang, had been pierced by a shell. Indeed, if, happily, I had not made my journey before that catastrophe, the literary world would never have known of that wonderful room. In like manner, but for the observations of Hipparcus, they would today be ignorant of the former existence of one more star among the Plëiades, which has disappeared since the time of that gifted astronomer.

However, compelled by circumstances, I had, some time before, abandoned my room and carried my Penates elsewhere. “No great loss after all,” you will say; “but how will you replace Joanetti and Rose?” Ah! that is impossible, Joanetti had become so indispensible to me that I can never replace him. Besides, who can flatter himself that he will always live with those he loves. Just like those gnats we see dancing in the air during the beautiful summer evenings, men meet quite by chance, and but for a brief space of time. They must count themselves fortunate if, in the rapidity of their movements, in which they seem to rival the gnats themselves, they do not break each others heads.

I was lying down one evening, Joanetti was waiting upon me with his usual care and appeared more than ordinarily attentive. When he took away the light, I saw a marked alteration in his countenance. But could I have guessed that poor Joanetti was waiting upon me for the last time? I will not keep the reader in a suspense more cruel than the truth. I prefer to tell him straight off that Joanetti was married the same night and left me next day.

But let no one tax him with ingratitude for leaving his Master so summarily. I had known of his intention some time back and had wrongfully opposed it. Some officious friend came to my house the first thing one morning to tell me the news, and I had time, before seeing Joanetti, to lose my temper and cool down again, and this spared him the reproaches he was expecting. Before entering my chamber, he pretended to speak in a loud tone to someone on the staircase, so as to make me believe that he was not afraid; and, arming himself with all the defiance that such a good fellow could assume, he entered with a determined air. In an instant I saw in his face all that was passing in his soul, and I did not think any the worse of him for it. The wits of our day have so terrified good folks about the dangers of matrimony, that a bridegroom often resembles a man who has just had a bad fall without being hurt, and whose troubled look of mingled fright and contentment gives him a ridiculous expression. It was not astonishing then that the actions of my faithful servant were in keeping with the oddity of his situation. “Ah, then! you are married, my dear Joanetti,” said I to him, laughing. He had only fortified himself against my anger, so that all his preparations were useless. He fell at once into his ordinary manner, and even a little lower, for he began to weep.

“What would you have me do, sir?” said he, in a flattering tone, “I had given my word.”

“Quite right, my friend, and may you be satisfied with your wife and, above all, with yourself, and may you have children who resemble you. But I suppose we must part!”

“Yes, sir, we intend to settle down at Asti.”

“And when do you want to leave me?”

Here Joanetti cast down his eyes with an embarrassed air, and answered in a lower voice, “My wife has found a carter from her part of the country who is returning with his empty wagon, and he sets out today. This would be a fine opportunity, but, however, that shall be as you please, sir, although a like opportunity may be difficult to find again.”

“What, so soon,” said I to him⁠—a sentiment of regret and affection, strongly mixed with vexation, made me remain silent for a moment. “I will certainly not detain you,” said I, rather coolly. “Go at once, if that suits you best.” Joanetti grew pale. “Yes, go my friend, go and find your wife, and be always as good and honest as you have been with me.” We settled our accounts and I bid him goodbye sadly⁠—he went out.

This man had served me for fifteen years; a moment separated us. I have never seen him since.

While walking in my chamber, I was thinking of this sudden separation. Rose had followed Joanetti without his perceiving her. A quarter of an hour afterwards, the door opened and Rose entered. I saw Joanetti’s hand as he pushed her into the room; the door closed again and I felt a pang at my heart⁠—already there is such a gulf between us, that he is afraid to enter my room. In the course of a few moments, two men, who have been comrades for fifteen years, have become perfect strangers! ’Tis pitiable indeed that one can never find a secure and stable resting place for the smallest part of one’s affections.

IV

Then Rose also went to live far away from me. My dear Marie, you will be surprised to hear that, at the age of fifteen, she still was a most loveable animal; that the same superior intelligence, which distinguished her formerly from the rest of her kind, enabled her to bear up against the burden of age. My desire was never to part with her; but when the happiness of one’s friends is concerned, one ought not to consult one’s own pleasure or interest. Rose was to quit the wandering life that she had passed with me, and to enjoy at last, in her old age, the repose for which her master could never hope. Her great age compelled me to have her carried. I felt I must allow her an invalid’s privileges, and a kind nun agreed to take care of her for the remainder of her days, and I know that, in that retreat, she has enjoyed all the advantages that her qualities, her age, and her good name had so well deserved.

Man’s nature is such, that happiness appears to be a thing unattainable; unconsciously and unintentionally friend offends friend, and even lovers inevitably fall out and quarrel at times. And since all legislators, from Lycurgus down to those of today, in their attempts to bestow happiness on mankind have failed miserably, I can at least comfort myself greatly with the thought of having made even one dog happy.

V

Now that I have told the reader the last of the story of Joanetti and Rose, it only remains for me to say a few words more about the soul and the animal. These two persons, especially the last, will never more play such an interesting part in my journey. A gentle traveller, who has followed in my footsteps, declares that they must be tired. Alas! it is but too true! for although my soul shows no perceptible falling off in vivacity, still her relations with the other14 have changed: the latter has not the same readiness in repartee, she has no longer⁠—how can I explain it? I was going to say the same presence of mind, as if an animal could have any! but, be that as it may, and without going into an embarrassing explanation, I will only say, that drawn on by the close confidence which the young Alexandrine appeared to place in me, I had written her a very tender letter, to which I received a polite but cold reply, which ended up in the most proper way as follows:⁠—“Be assured, Sir, that I shall always feel towards you the most profound esteem.” “Heavens!” cried I, “it is all over.” Since that fatal day I resolved never again to put forward my theory of soul and animal. So without making any distinctions between these two beings, and without separating them, I shall palm them off jointly as some merchants do their goods; and in order to avoid all inconveniences in future I shall travel en bloc.

VI

It would be useless to dwell on the dimensions of my new room. It resembles my former one so closely that, at first sight, it might be mistaken for it, if the architect had not carefully made the ceiling slope downwards on the side towards the road, and thus given that angle to the roof which hydraulics require in order to carry off the rain. It lets in the light by a single window, two feet and a half wide and four feet high, raised from six to seven feet above the floor, which one reaches by a little ladder. The elevation of my window above the floor is one of those happy circumstances which may be ascribed either to chance or to the genius of the architect. The almost perpendicular rays of light which shone through it gave an air of mystery to my chamber. The ancient temple of the Pantheon is lighted in nearly the same way. Besides, no outside object could distract my attention. Just as sailors lost in a vast ocean see only sky and sea, I also beheld only the sky and my room, and the nearest outside objects which could claim my attention were the moon and the morning star; and this placed me in close relation with the sky and gave my thoughts a lofty fight, which they would never have had if I had fixed my abode on the ground floor. The window which I have just described was raised above the roof and made the most admirable lookout. Its height was so great above the horizon, that when the first rays of the sun struck it, it was still dark in the street. Thus I enjoyed one of the most delightful views you can imagine. But the most beautiful view fatigues us when we see it too often, the eye accustoms itself to it and then beholds it with indifference. Now the situation of my window preserved me from such a disaster, since I could never see the magnificent spectacle of the plain of Turin without climbing four or five steps, and, my delights being doled out to me, retained their original freshness and attraction. When I was tired and wished to give myself a pleasant recreation I used to finish my day by climbing up to my window.

On the first step, the sky was still all that I could see; but soon the colossal church of the Superga came in view. Then the hill of Turin, on which it rests rises little by little before me, covered with forests and fruitful vineyards, proudly displaying to the setting sun its broad expanse of gardens and palaces, while some simple and modest houses appeared half hidden in its valleys to afford a retreat for the philosopher and to aid his meditations.

Delightful hill, how often have I sought your solitudes and preferred your narrow paths to the brilliant streets of the Capital; how often have I lost myself in your leafy glades, while listening to the morning song of the lark, my heart full of vague unrest, with eager longing to dwell in your enchanting glades for evermore. I greet you, charming hill! you are imprinted on my heart. May the dew of heaven make your fields even more fertile and your woods more leafy! May your dwellers possess their happiness undisturbed, sheltered by the kindly and beneficent shades of your woods, and may your happy confines be always the sweet refuge of true philosophy and modest science, and of the real friendship and hospitality I have experienced there.

VII

I began my journey precisely at eight o’clock in the evening. The weather was calm and there was promise of a fine night. I had taken precautions not to be disturbed by visitors, who are somewhat rare at the height at which I was lodging, and especially in the circumstances in which I then was, as I wished to be alone until midnight. Four hours would be amply sufficient for the execution of my undertaking, as, on this occasion, I only desired to make a short journey round my room. If the first journey lasted forty-two days, it was because I was not in a position to make it shorter. I did not wish to tie myself down to much carriage travelling as in my former journey, being quite convinced that a traveller on foot sees many things which escape the notice of him who travels post. I determined, therefore, to travel on foot or on horseback according to circumstances: a novel method which I have never yet made known, but its advantages will soon become apparent. Besides, I also proposed to take notes by the way, and to write down my observations at the moment they were made, so that I might forget nothing. In order to infuse some method into my undertaking, and to give it a better chance of success, I deemed it well to commence by composing a dedication, and to write it in verse, in order to make it more attractive. But two difficulties arose and all but compelled me to give up the idea, despite all its advantages. In the first place, I did not know to whom to address the dedication, and, secondly, how was I to set about writing it?

After having turned the matter over carefully in my mind, I came to the conclusion that it was more advisable to write the dedication first as well as I could, and then to find someone whom it would suit. I set to work at once and toiled for more than an hour without being able to find a rhyme to the first line I had composed and which I was anxious to keep, as it seemed to me a very happy one. I then recollected, very apropos, that I had read somewhere that the celebrated Pope could never compose anything good, unless he first aroused his inspiration by declaiming aloud in his study for a long time, and by exciting himself in every possible manner.

I tried immediately to follow his example. I took down the poems of Ossian and recited some in a loud voice, striding about at the same time, so as to work myself up to the proper pitch of enthusiasm.

I discovered that this plan did, indeed, insensibly excite my imagination and gave me a secret feeling of poetic power, of which I should have certainly taken advantage by dashing off my dedication, had I not, unfortunately, forgotten the slanting ceiling of my chamber, whose sudden slope prevented my forehead from following the direction of my feet. So violently did I strike my head against this cursed partition, that it shook the roof of the house, the sparrows asleep in the tiles took to their wings in alarm, and the shock of the recoil sent me three paces backwards.

VIII

While I was thus walking about to excite my literary genius, a pretty young lady, who lived in the rooms below, astonished at the racket I was making, and perhaps thinking I was giving a ball, sent her husband to find out the cause of the disturbance. I was still giddy from the blow I had received, when the door opened a little, and an elderly man, with a melancholy face, put his head in and cast an inquiring glance round the room.

Having recovered his surprise at finding me alone, he said, with an angry air, “Sir, my wife has a bad headache, allow me to point out to you⁠—”

I immediately interrupted him, and my speech reflected the loftiness of my thoughts.

“Worthy messenger of my beautiful neighbour,” said I, in the language of the bards, “Wherefore gleam your eyes beneath their shaggy brows, like two meteors in the dark forest of Cromba? Thy lovely companion is a ray of light, and I would rather undergo a thousand deaths than disturb her rest; but thy aspect, oh worthy messenger! thy aspect is as dark as the deepest grotto in the caverns of Camora, when the gathering thunderclouds obscure the face of night, and lie heavy on the silent fields of Morven.”

My neighbour, who had probably never read the poems of Ossian, most unfortunately mistook the enthusiastic strain which animated me for a fit of madness and appeared much embarrassed. As it was not my intention to offend him, I offered him a chair and begged him to be seated, but I beheld him retiring, quietly crossing himself, and saying in a low voice, “Mad, by Bacchus, quite mad!”

IX

I permitted him to go out, as I did not wish to enquire what foundation there might be for his observation, and, as is my wont, I sat down at my bureau to make a note of these events. But scarcely had I opened a drawer, in which I hoped to find some paper, than I shut it again abruptly, disturbed by one of the most unpleasant thoughts one can experience, the loss of one’s self esteem. The kind of surprise with which I was seized on this occasion, resembles that which a thirsty traveller experiences when he applies his lips to the brink of a limpid fountain and sees a frog gazing at him from the bottom of the water. It was, however, only the mechanism and carcase of an artificial dove, which, following the example of Archytas, I had once intended to make fly. I had worked untiringly at this model for more than three months. The day of trial came. I placed it on the edge of a table. But first I carefully closed the door, so that my secret might not be discovered, and so as to give a pleasant surprise to my friends. A single thread held back the mechanism. Who can imagine the beating of my heart and the anxiety of my self-esteem when I seized the scissors and cut the fatal bond. Bah! the machinery inside the dove started off, and whizzed round and round. I looked up to see it fly, but, after having turned a few somersaults, it fell down and was lost to sight under the table. Rose, who lay there asleep, rose mournfully and got out of its way. Rose, who never saw a chicken, or a pigeon, or even the smallest bird, without attacking and pursuing it, did not even deign to cast a glance at my dove, which was fluttering on the floor⁠ ⁠… that was the last straw to my self-esteem, and I went out for a stroll on the ramparts.

X

Such was the fate of my artificial dove. Whilst mechanical science intended it to follow the eagle in the sky, destiny bestowed on it the instincts of a mole. I was walking about sadly discouraged, as one always is after the failure of a great hope, when I perceived a flock of cranes flying over my head. I stopped to look at them. They advanced in a triangular order, like the English at the battle of Fontenoy. I saw them crossing the sky from cloud to cloud. “Ah! how well they fly,” said I to myself, “with what confidence they seem to glide along the unseen path they wish to pursue.” Alas! May God forgive me! but for one moment, only one, a horrible feeling of envy entered my soul⁠—it was on account of the cranes. With envious looks I followed them to the extreme limit of the horizon. For a long time, standing motionless in the midst of the passing crowd, I watched the movements of some swallows, and I was astonished to see them suspended in the air, as if I had never before beheld that phenomenon. A feeling of profound admiration, till then unknown to me, flashed across my soul. I thought that I saw nature for the first time. I heard with wonder the buzzing of flies, the song of birds, and that mysterious and confused murmur of a living creation, which involuntarily proclaims its author. Ineffable concert in which man alone has the sublime privilege of being able to join with hymns of intelligent thanksgiving! “Who is the Author of this wonderful mechanism?” I exclaimed. “What manner of Being is He who opened His creative Hand and launched the first swallow on the wind? At Whose command the trees sprang from the earth and flung their branches towards heaven? And thou, entrancing creature, who walkest majestically beneath their shades, whose looks compel respect and love, Who placed thee on the surface of the earth to embellish it? What mind was it that designed thy divine form, and was able to create the glance and smile of innocent beauty?

“And I, who feel my heart beating, what is the object of my existence? What am I and whence did I come? I, the maker of the ‘artificial dove?’ ” Scarcely had I pronounced this outlandish word, when, suddenly coming to my senses like a sleeping man, over whom someone has emptied a bucket of water, I perceived that I was surrounded by several persons, who were critically examining me, while I was engaged in my enthusiastic soliloquy. At that moment I saw the lovely Georgine, who was walking some paces in front. Half of her left cheek, which was highly rouged and which I saw between the curls of her yellow hair, brought me back completely to everyday thoughts and ideas, from which I had strayed for a few moments.

XI

When I had recovered a little from the disturbing thoughts the sight of my artificial dove had caused, the pain of the blow I had received made itself keenly felt. I passed my hand over my forehead and discovered a new protuberance, exactly on that part of the head where Dr. Gall has located the bump of poetry. But I did not at that time give it a thought; experience alone was to demonstrate to me the truth of that celebrated man’s theories. After some moments, pulling myself together to make a last effort to write my dedication, I seized a pencil and set to work. To my great astonishment the verses flowed of their own accord from my pen, and I filled two pages with them in less than an hour, and I conclude from this fact that, if motion was necessary to enable Pope’s head to compose verses, nothing less than a concussion would suffice to drag them out of mine. However, I shall not show the reader the verses I made at that time, for the tremendous rapidity with which the adventures of my journey succeeded one another, prevented me from giving them the finishing touches. In spite of this reticence, we must, doubtless, consider the accident which had befallen me in the light of a most valuable discovery, one of which poets could not do better than take frequent advantage.

In reality I am so convinced of the infallibility of this new method, that in a poem of twenty-four cantos which I have since composed, and which will be published with “La Prisonière de Pignerol,” I have not thought it necessary up to the present to begin writing the verses, but have written out clearly five hundred pages of notes, which contain, as we know, all the merit, and most of the bulk of our modern poetry.

As I was walking about my room, thinking over my profound discoveries, I came across my bed, and sitting down on it, my hand, by chance, falling on my night cap, it occurred to me to put it on, and I lay down.

XII

I had been in bed a quarter of an hour and, contrary to my usual habit, was still awake. The saddest reflections had succeeded the idea of my dedication; my candle, which was nearly finished, threw only an unsteady and doleful light from the bottom of the candlestick, and my room looked as funereal as a tomb. Suddenly a gust of wind blew open the window and put out the candle and banged the door to violently. The gloomy cast of my thoughts deepened in the darkness.

All my past pleasures, all my present troubles, rushed at once to my breast and filled it with bitter sorrow.

Although I make continued efforts to forget my troubles and drive them away, it sometimes happens, when I am not on my guard, that they rush suddenly into my recollection as if a floodgate had been opened. Then I have no alternative but to abandon myself to the torrent on which I am borne; my thoughts then become so gloomy, and everything seems so mournful, that I generally end by laughing at my own folly, so that the remedy proceeds from the very extremity of the disease.

I was still in the midst of one of these melancholy attacks, when part of the gust of wind, which had blown open my window and banged the door to as it went by, after taking several turns round my room, scattering the leaves of my books, and causing a leaf of “The Voyage” to flutter to the ground, finally got into my curtains and died away on my face. I felt the sweet coolness of the night, and, taking this as an invitation, I immediately got up and ascended my staircase to enjoy the repose of nature.

XIII

The weather was calm and still; the Milky Way, like a light cloud, divided the heavens, a kindly light came to me from every star, and, when I gazed at one attentively, its companions seemed to twinkle all the more brilliantly in order to attract my attention.

Each time that I gaze at the starlit sky I experience new pleasures and fresh delights, and I cannot reproach myself with ever having taken a nocturnal walk, without having paid my tribute of admiration to the wonders of the heavens. Although I feel keenly the utter feebleness of my mind in these lofty meditations, still I find in them an inexpressible pleasure. I love to think that it is not mere chance which has brought to my eyes these emanations from distant worlds; and every star sheds with its beams a ray of hope into my heart. May there not be some other relations between me and these wonderful objects besides this⁠—that they glitter before my eyes? My mind raises itself to their level, my heart is moved at the sight of them; then are not they connected in some way? Man, the ephemeral spectator of an eternal spectacle, raises for a moment his eyes to heaven and then closes them forever, but, during that short moment which is his, from every point of heaven and from the ends of the universe, a ray of consolation starts from every world and falls on his vision, to tell him that there is a relation between immensity and himself, and that he is a part of Eternity.

XIV

A melancholy thought, however, diminished the pleasure I experienced in indulging in these meditations. “How few there are,” said I, “who enjoy with me this sublime spectacle which heaven spreads out in vain for a sleepy world;” but, without taking into consideration those who are asleep, it would cost a very slight effort to those who are out walking, or to those who crowd out of the theatre to look up for a moment and admire the brilliant constellations which everywhere are blazing over their heads? No, the attentive spectators of Scapin or Jocrisse deign not to raise their eyes; they go doggedly home or elsewhere without dreaming that there is a sky. How strange! because they can see it often and for nothing they do not care about it. If the firmament were always veiled from us, and if the sight depended on a showman, the first boxes on the roof would be priceless, and the ladies of Turin would scramble for my garret window.

“Oh! if I were a King,” said I, seized with just indignation, “every night I would have a bell sounded, and compel my subjects of every age, sex, and condition, to place themselves at their windows and look at the stars.” At this point, reason, which, in my kingdom, has only a disputed right of remonstrance, was more than usually successful in the representations that she made to me on the subject of the arbitrary edict, which I desired to proclaim to my subjects. “Sire,” said she, “will not your Majesty deign to make an exception in favour of rainy nights, for then the heavens being clouded over⁠—”

“Very good,” answered I, “I did not think of that; you will make an exception on rainy nights.”

“Sire,” she added, “I think it would be well to except also those fine nights when the cold is excessive and when the north wind blows, since the rigorous execution of the edict would afflict your fortunate subjects with colds and coughs.”

I began to see very clearly the difficulties there were in executing my project, but I would not retract. “You must write to the Medical Council and the Academy of Sciences to fix the height of the thermometer at which my subjects can be excused from looking out of their windows; but I decree, I absolutely decree, that the order be carried out to the letter.”

“And the sick people, Sire?”

“Of course let them be excepted; above all things we must be humane.”

“If I did not fear that I wearied your Majesty, I should still further venture to suggest (that is if you considered it suitable and not inconvenient) an exception in favour of the blind, since, being deprived of the organs of vision⁠—”

“Well, is that all?” said I, somewhat angrily.

“Pardon me, Sire, but the lovers; will your Majesty’s kind heart oblige them also to look at the stars?”

“Well, well,” said the King, “we ill consider about that at our leisure. You will draw me up a detailed report on this point.” Good Heavens! how one must reflect before one issues such a sweeping arbitrary edict!

XV

The most brilliant stars have never been those at which I look with most pleasure. My favourite stars have always been those which look like the minutest and faintest dots in the depths of the sky. And this is easily accounted for: by compelling my imagination to travel as far beyond their sphere as my vision does from this to reach them, I can, with very little effort, transport myself to distant regions, to which few travellers before me have ever attained, and then I marvel that I am still only on the threshold of this immense universe. For it would be absurd to think that there is anywhere a barrier beyond which void commences; as if it were easier to imagine nonexistence than existence!

After the last star I can still imagine another one, which itself cannot be the last. In assigning bounds to creation, be they ever so extended, the universe appears to me but as a point of light compared with the immensity of empty space which surrounds it⁠—the dreadful and sombre void, in the middle of which it would seem to be suspended like a solitary lamp. Here I covered my eyes with both my hands to remove every kind of distraction and to give my ideas the depth which such a subject demands, and, making a supreme mental effort, I constructed the most complete system of the universe that has yet been propounded. Behold it in all its details; it is the result of my lifelong meditations! I believe that space being⁠ ⁠… But this deserves a chapter to itself, and, considering the importance of the matter, it shall be the only one in my journey which shall have a heading.

I believe that space being infinite, creation is infinite also, and that God has created in his Eternity an infinity of worlds in an immensity of space.

XVII

In good faith, however, I will confess that I scarcely understand my System better than any of those other systems which have been evolved, up to the present time, from the imaginations of philosophers ancient and modern; but mine has the advantage of being contained in four lines, comprehensive as it is. The indulgent reader will please also note that it was entirely composed at the top of a ladder. I should, however, have embellished it with commentaries and notes, if, at the very moment when I was entirely engrossed with my subject, I had not been distracted by some enchanting sounds which struck agreeably on my ear. A voice, the most melodious that I have ever heard, not even excepting that of Zénéide, one of those voices which always beat in unison with the fibres of my heart, was singing, quite close to me, a song, of which I did not lose a word and which I shall never forget. Listening attentively, I discovered that the voice came from a window rather lower than mine; unfortunately I could not see the singer, as the edge of the roof, above which rose my garret window, hid her from my eyes. However, the desire of seeing the siren, who so charmed me by her music, increased in proportion to the attractiveness of the song, the touching words of which would have drawn tears from the most soulless individual. Unable to suppress my curiosity any longer, I climbed up to the topmost step of my ladder, and put my foot on the edge of the roof, and holding on by one hand, hung suspended over the street at the risk of falling headlong.

I then perceived in a balcony to my left, a little below me, a young lady in white deshabille: her hand supported her charming head, which was sufficiently inclined to allow me to see by the light of the stars a most interesting profile, and her pose seemed by design to reveal, to an aerial traveller like myself, a slim and graceful figure; one of her bare feet, thrown negligently behind her, was so turned that I was able, despite the darkness, to make a guess at its admirable proportions, whilst one pretty little slipper, which was lying beside it, revealed it more definitely to my eager gaze. I leave you to imagine, my dear Sophie, the extreme awkwardness of my position. I dared not utter the slightest exclamation for fear of startling my beautiful neighbour, nor make the least movement for fear of falling into the street. A sigh, however, escaped me, in spite of myself, but I recovered myself sufficiently to stop in the middle; the remainder was wafted away by a passing breeze, and I had plenty of leisure to examine the pensive lady, and was sustained in this perilous position by the hope of hearing her sing again.

But, alas! her song was ended, and so ill-fated was I that she maintained the most obdurate silence. At length, after having waited a long time, I thought I might venture to speak to her; my only difficulty was to find a compliment worthy of her and of the sentiments which she had inspired. Oh! how I regretted that I had not finished my dedication in verse! how suitable it would have been on this occasion! My presence of mind did not forsake me in this hour of need: inspired by the sweet influence of the stars and by the still more powerful desire of winning a fair lady’s favour, after having coughed lightly, in order to warn her and to render the sounds of my voice more pleasing, “What a fine night it is!” said I to her in my most tender tone.

XVIII

I fancy that I can hear Mme. Hautcastle, whom nothing escapes, even here, demanding some account of the song that I have mentioned in the preceding chapter. For the first time in my life I find myself under the painful necessity of refusing her anything. If I were to insert those verses in the account of my journey, without a doubt I should be taken for their author, and that would make me the butt of many a joke on the necessity of contusions which I would rather be excused. I will, therefore, continue the account of my adventure with my amiable neighbour, for its unexpected termination, as well as the delicacy with which I conducted it, must interest all classes of readers. But before announcing what she replied, and how she received the ingenious compliment I had paid her, I must anticipate an objection of certain people, who fancy themselves more eloquent than I am, and who will ruthlessly condemn me for having commenced the conversation in so trivial a manner, according to their ideas. I will prove to them that, if I had tried to be witty on this important occasion, I should have been acting glaringly in opposition to the rules of prudence and good taste. Every man who begins a conversation with a fine lady with a bon mot, or a compliment, however well he may flatter, permits pretensions to be seen, which should only appear when they are better acquainted. Besides, if he makes a joke, it is clear that he desires to shine, and consequently thinks less of the lady than of himself. Now, ladies wish us to have them ever in our minds; and although they do not always make reflections such as I have described, still they have an exquisite natural taste which tells them that a trivial phrase, uttered only with the idea of beginning the conversation, and to make their better acquaintance, is a thousand times more suitable than a flash of wit, inspired by vanity, and (what is really quite astonishing) is worth more than a poetical dedication.

Further, I maintain (however paradoxical it may seem) that wit and brilliant conversation are not even necessary in the longest lovemaking, where the heart is really engaged; and, in spite of all that people who love but lightly may say about the long pauses which ensue between their ardent professions of love and friendship, the day is always short that is spent with one’s sweetheart, and silence is as interesting as conversation. But, be this as it may, it is quite certain that I thought of nothing better to say on the edge of the roof where I was than the words in question. I had no sooner uttered them than my soul rushed to the drums of my ears to catch the faintest of those tones I was longing to hear. The fair one raised her head to look at me. Her long hair fell down like a veil, and formed a background for her charming face, which reflected the mysterious light of the stars. Already her mouth opened, and the dulcet words were on her lips. But, oh heavens! what was my surprise and terror! A sinister noise was heard. “What are you doing there, Madame, at this hour? Come in,” exclaimed a deep masculine voice from the interior of the room. I was petrified.

XIX

Such must be the sounds which alarm the guilty, when, suddenly, the blazing gates of Hell open before them; such must be the roar of the seven cataracts of the river Styx in the infernal regions, of which the poets have forgotten to make mention.

XX

A bright meteor flashed across the sky at that moment, and was immediately lost to sight. On turning my eyes, which had been dazzled for the moment by the splendour of the meteor, again towards the balcony, a small shoe was all that I could see. My neighbour had forgotten it in her hasty retreat. For a long time I looked at that pretty mould of a foot, worthy the chisel of Praxiteles, with an emotion, the entire force of which I dare not avow; but it will perhaps appear very strange (and indeed I cannot explain it myself to my own satisfaction) that an irresistible fascination kept my eyes fixed on it, in spite of all my efforts to look in another direction.

They say, that when a serpent looks at a nightingale, the unfortunate bird, victim of an irresistible fascination, moves mechanically nearer to the fierce reptile. Its rapid wings bear it on to its doom, and every effort it makes to get further away only brings it nearer to its foe, which pursues it with a glance that it cannot avoid. Such was the effect of this slipper on me, but I am not at all sure whether I or the slipper was the serpent, since, by the laws of physics, attraction is reciprocal. Certainly this deadly attraction was not a freak of my imagination. I was really so strongly attracted that I was twice on the point of losing my hold and letting myself fall. However, as the balcony which I wished to get to was not exactly under my window, but a little on one side, I saw quite clearly that by the force of gravitation as discovered by Newton, in combination with the oblique attraction of the slipper, I should have followed a diagonal course in my descent, and should have fallen on a sentry box, which looked no bigger than an egg from the height at which I was, so that I should have missed my mark. I therefore grasped the window still more tightly, and, making a determined effort, managed to raise my eyes and look at the sky.

XXI

I should find it extremely difficult to explain and define exactly the kind of pleasure I felt on this occasion. All I can say is that it had nothing in common with that which I had experienced a few moments before while I looked at the Milky Way and the starry sky.

However, since, even in the most embarrassing situations of my life, I have always sought to account for all the emotions of my soul, on this occasion also, I wished to understand quite clearly the sort of pleasure an honourable man can feel when contemplating a lady’s slipper, as compared with that which he experiences in gazing at the stars. For this purpose I chose the most striking constellation in the sky; it was, if I am not mistaken, the Chair of Cassiopoea, which was overhead, and I looked alternately at the constellation and the slipper, the slipper and the constellation. I then perceived that these two sensations were entirely different: one was seated in my mind, while the other appeared to me to have its abode in my heart. But I must confess, not without shame, that the attraction of the enchanted slipper absorbed all my faculties. The rapture, which I felt some time before in contemplating the starry sky, had now waxed most feeble, and shortly after, when I heard the door of the balcony reopen, and a little foot, whiter than alabaster, issued noiselessly and slipped on the little shoe, it died away altogether. I wished to speak; but not having had time to prepare myself, as on the former occasion, I did not recover my usual presence of mind, and I heard the door of the balcony shut again, before I could think of anything suitable to say.

XXII

The preceding chapters will be sufficient defence to a charge of Mme. de Hautcastel, who ventured to complain of my first voyage, because there was no lovemaking in it. She will not be able to make a similar complaint against this new voyage; and although my adventure with my lovely neighbour had not been carried very far, I assure you that I derived more satisfaction from it than from many others which had made me feel extremely happy on account of there being no rival attraction.

Everyone enjoys life in his own way; but I should think myself wanting in what is due to the reader’s kindness, if I left him in ignorance of a discovery which, more than anything else, has contributed to my happiness. But it must be understood that this is in the strictest confidence, for it is nothing less than a new mode of making love, with greater advantages than the preceding one, and with none of its numerous drawbacks.

This invention being specially intended for those people who desire to adopt my new method of travelling, it is my duty to devote a few chapters to instructing them in it.

XXIII

In the course of my life I have observed that when I was in love in the usual way, my feelings never came up to my expectations, and that my imagination was always disappointed.

On considering this matter carefully, I came to the conclusion that, if I could only manage to extend my devotion from the individual, to the whole sex in general, I should thereby obtain fresh pleasure without in any way compromising myself. Who could reproach a man because his heart was large enough to embrace all the loveable women in the world? Yes, Madame, I love them all, and not only those I hope to meet personally, but all on the face of the earth. More than that I love all the women who have ever lived, as well as those yet unborn, without counting the far greater number that my imagination creates out of nothing: in fact every possible woman is included in the vast circle of my affections.

Would it not be an unjust and odd caprice on my part to confine a heart like mine to the narrow bounds of a society? Nay! why should I circumscribe its flight by the boundaries of a kingdom, or even a republic?

Seated at the foot of a tempest-stricken oak, a young Indian widow mingles her sighs with the roar of the storm. The arms of her warrior husband hang over her head, and the mournful noise they make, as they clash together, recalls to her heart the memory of her happiness. Meanwhile, the thunder rends the clouds, and the vivid flashes of lightning are reflected in her fixed eyes. And whilst the funeral pile, on which she must be burnt, is being raised, in the depth of despair, she awaits a horrible death, which a dire prejudice bids her prefer to life itself.

What sweet, yet melancholy pleasure would not a man of feeling experience in drawing near to console this wretched woman? While I am seated on the grass beside her, trying to dissuade her from the horrible sacrifice; while I am mingling my sighs and tears with her own, and endeavouring to dispel her grief, all the town is rushing to the house of Mme. A⁠⸺, whose husband has recently died from a stroke of apoplexy. Equally resolved not to survive her loss, insensible to the tears and prayers of her friends, she lets herself die of hunger; and from the day they imprudently told her the news, the wretched creature has only eaten a biscuit and drunk a small glass of Malaga wine. I can only bestow on this bereaved woman such slight attention as is necessary, while not infringing the laws of my universal system. Meanwhile I leave her side as soon as possible, for I am by nature of a jealous disposition, and I wish to avoid compromising myself before a crowd of consolers, as well as with those who are too easily consoled.

Beauty in distress has a particular claim on my heart, but the tribute of sympathy I owe to it, does not diminish the interest I take in those who are free from sorrow. This taste gives infinite variety to my pleasures, and enables me to pass, in turn, from the melancholy to the gay, and from sentimental meditation to hilarity.

And while reading ancient history I often fancy myself the hero of its amorous intrigues, and I thereby efface whole pages in those old chronicles of fate. Many a time have I stayed the murderous hand of Virginius, and saved the life of his unhappy daughter, a victim alike to extremes of crime and virtue. This event fills me with horror when I think of it; and I am not surprised that it was the cause of a revolution.

I hope that intelligent people, as well as compassionate souls, will give me heartfelt thanks for having arranged this matter amicably; and everyone, who knows a little of the world, will think as I do, that, if they had let the decemvir alone, that infatuated man would not have failed to do justice to the virtue of Virginia; the parents would have interfered; further, Virginius, in the end, would have been appeased; and, the marriage would have been celebrated with all legal ceremonies.

But what would have become of the unfortunate deserted lover? Well, what did he gain by this murder? but, since you insist on bemoaning his fate, I must inform you, my dear Marie, that six months after the death of Virginia, he was not only consoled, but most happily married; after having had several children he lost his wife, and six months after, he was married again to a tribune’s widow. These facts, hitherto unknown, have been discovered and deciphered from a palimpsest MS. in the Ambrosian library by a learned Italian antiquary. Unfortunately, they will add another page to the hateful, and already too lengthy history of the Roman Republic.

XXIV

After rescuing the engaging Virginia, I modestly slipped away to escape her thanks; and always anxious to render assistance to the fair, I took advantage of the darkness of a rainy night, and set off secretly to open the tomb of a young vestal virgin, whom the Roman Senate had barbarously caused to be buried alive for having permitted the sacred fire of Vesta to go out, or, perhaps, because she had slightly burnt herself thereat. I walked silently through the winding streets of Rome with the inward pleasure which precedes good actions, especially when they are not without danger. I carefully avoided the Capitol for fear of awakening the geese, and, slipping by the guards at the Colline gate, I arrived safely at the tomb without being discovered.

At the noise I made in raising the stone which covered it, the wretched girl raised her dishevelled head from the damp soil of the vault; by the light of the sepulchral lamp I saw her look wildly round; in her delirium the wretched victim believed she was already on the banks of Cocytus.

“Oh, Minos!” she cried, “Oh, inexorable judge! I loved on earth, it is true, contrary to the severe laws of Vesta. If the Gods be as cruel as men, open at once for me the abyss of Tartarus! I loved, and I still love.”

“No, no you are not yet in the kingdom of the dead, come unfortunate young lady, come back to earth, to life, and love.” I seized her hand, already icy cold; I raised her in my arms, I pressed her to my heart, and snatched her from that horrible place all trembling with fear and gratitude.

Above all, Madam, do not imagine that any personal motive was the cause of that good action. The hope of kindling some tender feelings towards myself in the beautiful ex-vestal did not influence me in the least in what I did for her; for, in that case, I should be employing my old method of lovemaking. I assure you, on the honour of a traveller, that during the whole of our walk from the Colline Gate to the place where the tomb of the Scipios is situated, in spite of the inky darkness, and even at the moment when her weakness compelled me to hold her in my arms, I never ceased to treat her with the regard and respect which were due to her misfortunes, and I conscientiously handed her over to her lover, who was waiting for her on the road.

XXV

On another occasion, led by my imagination, I was present at the carrying off of the Sabine women, and I saw, with much surprise, that the Sabines took the affair in quite a different manner to that recorded in history. Totally misunderstanding the true nature of the tumult, I offered my protection to a woman who was escaping, and, as I accompanied her, could not help laughing when I heard a furious Sabine exclaim, in accents of despair, “Ye Immortal Gods! would that I also had brought my wife to this fête!”

XXVI

Besides that, half of the human race, for whom I have such a lively affection, you will, perhaps, hardly believe me when I tell you that my heart is endowed with such a capacity for tenderness, that all things, animate and inanimate, have a goodly share of it. I love the trees, which afford me shade, and the birds, which warble in the foliage, the nocturnal cry of the screech-owl, and the roar of torrents. I love them all⁠—I even love the moon! You laugh, Mademoiselle, but it is easy to ridicule the feelings one cannot experience, and these hearts which beat with mine will not fail to understand.

Yes, I have a veritable love for everything around me. I love the roads I walk on, the fountain at which I drink, and I can scarcely part with a stick I have plucked by chance from a hedge. I look after it still when I have thrown it away, for we had already begun to know one another. I regret the falling leaves, and even the passing breeze. Where now is that breeze which stirred your dark locks, Eliza, when, seated beside me on the banks of the Doire, on the eve of our eternal separation, you gazed at me in sad silence? Where is that glove? Where is that sorrowful but precious moment? Oh, Time! oh, terrible Divinity! Thy cruel scythe hath no terrors for me; but I dread thy hideous children, Indifference and Oblivion, which turn three parts of our existence into a lingering death.

Alas! that breeze, that glance, that smile, are now as far away as the adventures of Ariadne. In the depths of my soul there remain nought but regrets and vain remembrances, on which sad medley the bark of my existence still floats, just as a vessel, wrecked by the storm, floats for some time on the troubled waters!

XXVII

Until, the sea trickling in, little by little, between the broken planks, the unfortunate vessel disappears in the abyss⁠—the waves close over it⁠—the tempest lulls⁠—and the sea-swallow skims over the lonely and tranquil ocean.

XXVIII

Here I find myself obliged to finish my dissertation on my new method of lovemaking; it seems to me that it is becoming rather obscure, and so a little more explanation of the nature of this discovery will not be out of place, seeing that it does not become everybody at all times of life.

For instance, I would not recommend it to anybody under twenty. The inventor himself did not practice it at that period of his life. To make full use of the invention one must have experienced all the sorrows of life without being disheartened, and all its pleasures without being surfeited. The difficulty lies in this, that it is especially useful at that period of life when reason counsels us to abandon the habits of youth, and it can then transition or intermediary step between the age of pleasure and the age of wisdom⁠—a step (as all moralists have observed) fraught with immense difficulties. Few, indeed, have the courage to take the leap boldly; and often, after having taken it, they feel bored to death on the other side; and, shamefaced, and with snowy locks, they are compelled to re-cross the ditch. And this is exactly what they will be spared by adopting my new method of lovemaking. The greatest number of our pleasures in reality being nothing but the play of the imagination, it is essential to offer it an innocent field, in order to divert it from the objects we ought to renounce, almost in the same way as one offers playthings to children when one refuses them sweetmeats.

In this way we gain time to obtain a firm footing on the threshold of wisdom, without being too forcibly reminded that we have reached this stage of life; and, moreover, the circumstance that one attains to it by the path of folly, will greatly facilitate its access to most people.

I really believe that I was not deceived in the hope of being useful, when I seized my pen, and it only remains for me to defend myself against the promptings of self-esteem, which I might lawfully feel at having revealed truths like these to mankind.

XXIX

Amidst all these confidences, my dear Sophie, I hope that you have not forgotten the uncomfortable position in which I was left at my window. The emotion that the sight of my neighbour’s pretty foot had inspired still remained, and I was more than ever in the thrall of the dangerous influence of that slipper, when an unforeseen event rescued me frorn the danger I was in, of precipitating myself from the fifth story into the street below. A bat, which was flitting round and round the house, seeing me motionless for such a length of time, mistook me, apparently, for a chimney, and suddenly bore right down upon me, and laid hold of my ear. I felt on my cheek the horrible coldness of its damp wings. The loud cry I uttered, in spite of myself, awoke all the echoes of Turin. The sentinel shouted, “Who goes there?” and I heard the hurried march of the patrol in the street. The balcony having no further attraction for me, I turned from it without much difficulty. The chill night air had seized me, a slight shudder ran over me from head to foot, and as I wrapped myself closely in my dressing gown to get warm, I perceived, to my great regret, that, that sensation of cold, added to the insult of the bat, had been sufficient to divert anew the course of my thoughts. At that moment the magical slipper would have had no more influence over me than the hair of Berenice, or any other constellation. I at once considered how unreasonable it was to pass the night exposed to the chilly air instead of following the ordinary course of nature, which ordains sleep for us. At this moment, reason, which alone influenced me, made me see that as clearly as one of Euclid’s propositions. In a word, I was suddenly deprived of all imagination and enthusiasm, and hopelessly abandoned to painful reality. What a deplorable existence! One might just as well be a withered tree in a forest, or even an obelisk in the middle of a square. “What extraordinary machines are the head and the heart of man!” I exclaimed, “carried away, in turn, in contrary directions by these two regulators of his actions, the last one that he has obeyed always seems the best!” “O folly of enthusiasm and sentiment!” says cold reason. “O weakness and uncertainty of reason!” exclaims sentiment. Who would dare to decide between their rival claims?

I thought it would be well to settle this point and then and there to decide once for all to which of these two guides I ought to entrust myself for the remainder of my life.

In future, shall I follow my head or my heart? Let us consider the question.

XXX

Whilst speaking thus I felt a dull pain in that foot, which was resting on the step. I was, moreover, very tired with the uncomfortable attitude which I had maintained up to this time. I carefully bent down a little, in order to sit down, and, letting my legs dangle on either side of the window, I began my travels on horseback.

I have always preferred this mode of travelling to any other, and I am passionately fond of horses; but of all those I have ever seen or heard of, the one I should most eagerly have desired to possess is the wooden horse mentioned in the Arabian Nights, on which one could ride through the air, and which went like a flash of lightning, if you only turned a little peg, which was fixed between his ears.

Now you will probably say that my mount very much resembled this horse of the Arabian Nights. On the one side, the rider on his windowsill is in direct communication with the sky, and he enjoys the imposing spectacle of Nature; the meteors and stars lie before him; on the other side, the sight of his dwelling and of the objects it contains, brings him back to this world and compels him to think of himself. A mere turn of the head acts in the same way as the magic peg; it can produce a change in the soul of the traveller, as rapid as it is wonderful. Dwelling on the earth and in the sky by turns, his mind and soul run through all the delights which man can experience. I had a foretaste of all the benefits I could derive from my mount. When I felt myself firm in the saddle and quite comfortable, free from all fear of robbers, or from my horse stumbling, I felt that this was a most favourable opportunity to go thoroughly into the problem I had before me as to the preeminence of the heart over the head. But the very first reflection I made on this subject brought me to a standstill. “Is it for me to set myself up as a judge in such a matter as this?” said I, in an undertone. “Has not my conscience already decided in favour of the heart?” But, on the other hand, if I exclude those whose hearts are stronger than their heads, whom am I to consult⁠—the geometricians? Bah! those folks are bondslaves to reason. In order to decide this point, we must find a man who has received from nature an equal portion of reason and sentiment, and in whom, at the very moment of decision, these two faculties are in perfect equilibrium. Impossible! It would be an easier task to place a republic in equilibrium!

The only competent judge, then, will be he who has nothing in common with either the one or the other; in short, a man without head or heart.

My reason shrank back in disgust from this strange conclusion, and, as for my heart, it protested that it had had no voice in the matter. But, it seemed to me that I had reasoned quite correctly, and I should inevitably have thought very ill of my intellectual faculties, if I had not remembered, that in abstruse metaphysical speculations, like the one before me, some of the first philosophers had often been led by logical deductions to most shocking conclusions, which sometimes overwhelmed the happiness of human society.

I consoled myself then by thinking that, at all events, my speculations would harm nobody. I left the question undecided, and resolved, for the future, to follow alternately my head and my heart, just as each of these two should have the upper hand, and, after all, I think, this is the best plan. I must, in truth, confess it has not done much for me hitherto. What matter? I descend the steep decline of life without fear, without aims, laughing and weeping by turns, and often at the same time, or even whistling some old tune to drive away dull care as I journey on. At other times I pluck a daisy from the hedgerow and pull the petals off one after another, saying, “She loves me a little⁠—very much⁠—passionately⁠—not at all!” The last petal generally is “not at all,”⁠—in truth, Eliza loves me no more.

While I am thus engaged, an entire generation of living creatures passes by: like an immense wave, it advances rapidly, taking me with it, to break on the shore of Eternity; and, as if the storm of life was not sufficiently fierce, as if it impelled us too slowly towards the limits of our lives, the nations everywhere cut each other’s throats and anticipate the day of doom ordained by nature. Even Great Conquerors, dragged along by the rapid whirlwind of the time, amuse themselves by forming thousands of soldiers into squares. What think you of this? But stay, after all, these fine fellows would very shortly have died in the ordinary course of nature. Don’t you see the advancing wave, whose crest is already foaming on the shore? Wait but another moment and you, your enemies, myself, and the daisies will all have vanished! Then how can we marvel enough at such madness? For my part I have resolved in future not to pull to pieces any more daisies!

XXXI

But having fixed on a prudent line of conduct for the future, by means of the clear chain of logic, which has been evolved in the last few chapters, the very important point remained of deciding on the course of the journey I was about to undertake. It is by no means sufficient to get into a carriage or to mount a horse, we must also know where we want to go.

I was so tired out by the metaphysical enquiries which had lately engaged me, that, before deciding on any particular quarter of the globe, I wished to rest for some time and think of nothing. This manner of living is also of my own invention, and I have often benefitted greatly from it; but it is not given to everybody to use it to advantage, for though it is easy to think profoundly by concentrating one’s mind on any given subject, it is not easy to cut short the train of one’s thoughts just as we stop the pendulum of a clock. Molière has most wrongly ridiculed a man who amused himself by making circles on a pond. For my part, I am very much inclined to believe that that man was a philosopher who had the power to stay the working of his mind in order to rest it, one of the most difficult feats the human mind can perform.

I know that some people who have received this faculty without any effort on their own part, and who generally think of nothing at all, will call me a plagiarist and claim priority of invention; but the state of intellectual immobility, which I am now considering, is totally different from that they enjoy, and for which M. Necker15 has already written an apology. Mine is always produced by an effort of the will and can only be momentary. To enjoy it in full perfection, I shut my eyes and placed my two hands on the windowsill, like a tired horseman leaning on the pommel of his saddle, and immediately the recollection of the past, the feeling of the present, and the anticipation of the future, all vanished from my soul.

As this method is very conducive to sleep, after a few short moments of delight, I felt my head fall forward on my chest: immediately I opened my eyes and my thoughts resumed their course. This circumstance clearly proves that this kind of voluntary lethargy is very different from sleep, since the very act of sleep brings me back to consciousness⁠—an accident which has certainly never happened to anyone before.

On raising my eyes to the sky, I saw the pole star right over the top of the house, and that seemed to me a very good omen at the very time I was about to set out on a long journey. During the short period of repose I had just enjoyed, my imagination had recovered all its power, and my heart was again ready to receive the most gentle impressions; to such a degree is its energy increased by a transient annihilation of thought. The gloomy despondency, which usually haunts me on account of our precarious tenure of life, was succeeded by a lively sentiment of hope and courage, and I felt myself able to face life and all the changes of misfortune, or of happiness, she brings in her train.

“Brilliant star,” I exclaimed in my ecstatic rapture, “incomprehensible creation of the Eternal mind. Thou, who, alone constant in the heavens, watchest since the dawn of Creation over one half of the earth. Thou, who guidest the sailor on desert seas, and whose rays have oft times restored life and hope to the tempest-tossed mariner. Whenever the riven clouds have shown me the face of the heavens, have not I always sought thee out from among thy peers? Aid me, Celestial Star! Earth abandons me, but be Thou today my counseller and guide, tell me to what quarter of the globe I should wend my way.”

During this invocation the star appeared to twinkle more brightly than ever, and to rejoice in the Heavens, and thus to invite me to place myself under its protection. I do not believe in presentiments, but I believe in a divine Providence, which leads men by unknown paths. Each moment of our life is a new creation, an act of the all-powerful will. The ever-changing order, which is always producing the new shapes and the unaccountable phenomena of the clouds, is regulated every moment, even in the smallest drop of water, of which they are composed. The events of our life can have no other origin, and to attribute them to chance would be the height of folly. I can even declare that sometimes I have been able to see the imperceptible threads by which Providence sets the greatest men in motion, just like marionettes, whilst they themselves think they are managing the affairs of the universe. A slight wave of pride, with which Providence agitates their breast, is sufficient to cause the destruction of whole armies, and to cast a whole nation into complete disorder.

Be that as it may, I believed so strongly in the invocation I had received from the pole star that I made up my mind to go northward, and although I had no particular place in view, and no object at all in going to those far off lands, still, when I set out the following day from Turin, I left by the Palace gate, which is in the north of the City, firmly convinced that the pole star would not forsake me.

XXXII

I had got thus far on my journey when I was obliged to dismount hastily. I should not have drawn attention to this incident if I were not conscientiously bound to inform those people who might like to adopt this mode of travelling, of the little inconveniences connected with it, after having dilated so much on its immense advantages.

Most windows not having been originally invented for the novel purpose to which I have put them, architects fail to give to them the comfortable shape and turn of an English saddle. No furthur explanation will, I hope, be needed to enable the intelligent reader to understand the painful reason which compelled me to dismount. I got off my horse somewhat painfully, and walked round my room several times in order to restore the circulation, and in the meanwhile I reflected on the strange medley of pains and pleasures which strew the path of life, and on the fatality which makes man the slave of the most trivial circumstances.

I hastened to remount my horse, having first provided myself with a cushion of eiderdown. I should not have dared to have done such a thing a few days before for fear of being hooted at by the horse soldiers, but, the night before, having met at the gates of Turin a party of Cossacks, who came in from the borders of Lake Méotides and the Caspian Sea mounted on similar cushions, I thought I might safely adopt the custom without offending against the laws of horsemanship, for which I have the greatest regard. Freed from the painful sensation which I have left to the reader’s imagination, I was able to abandon myself entirely, and without fear of disturbance, to the thoughts of my journey.

One of the difficulties which worried me most, because it touched my conscience, was to decide whether I should be doing right or wrong in leaving my Fatherland, half of which had itself already abandoned me.16 This step appeared to me to be too important to be decided hastily. While reflecting on that word “Fatherland,” I perceived that I had no very clear idea as to its meaning⁠—of what does my Fatherland consist? Is it a collection of houses, of fields, and rivers? I can hardly believe this! Perhaps my family or my friends constitute my Fatherland; but they on the other hand have already left it. I have it! It is the government⁠—but that also is changed. Good Heavens! where then is my Fatherland?

I passed my hand over my brow, in a state of inexplicable perturbation of mind, so ardent is the love of one’s country within us! The regret I felt at the bare thought of leaving mine, brought home its reality to me so strongly that I would have remained on horseback all my life sooner than have given up, before having got to the bottom of the difficulty.

I soon perceived that love of one’s country is made up of various combined factors, such as the attachment from childhood to persons, locality, and forms of government. It only now remains to consider how these three elements, each in its own way, make up the idea of a Fatherland.

The love of our fellow-countrymen generally depends on the government, and is simply the feeling of the power and happiness which it gives us in common; for real affection is limited to the family, and to the small number of individuals by whom we are immediately surrounded. Everything which interferes with custom or facility of intercourse turns men into enemies. The dwellers on either side of a mountain range cherish unfriendly thoughts towards each other; the inhabitants on the right bank of a river fancy themselves much superior to those on the left bank, and the latter, in their turn, feel contempt for their neighbours. We see this disposition even in large towns intersected by rivers, in spite of the bridges which join their banks. Difference of language further widens the breach between men under the same government: the very family in which our tenderest affections are centred is often scattered over the Fatherland, and continually suffers change in its constitution and number, and it may even seek a home in foreign lands. And thus we may conclude that the love of Fatherland dwells exclusively neither amongst our fellow-countrymen nor in our family.

Locality also contributes its full share to the attachment we feel for our native land. Here we come across a very interesting point. It has been always noticed that of all peoples, those who dwell in mountainous countries are most attached to their homes, and that wandering nations generally live in large plains. What is the reason of this difference in the attachment of these peoples to their homes? If I mistake not, it lies in this: that mountainous scenery possesses strongly marked features, which are totally absent in a level country. The latter resembles a plain woman, whom we cannot love in spite of all her good qualities. What remains, indeed, of his countryside to an inhabitant of a village in a forest, when, after the passage of an enemy, the village is burnt and the trees cut down? In vain the wretched man scans the long straight line of the horizon for some well-known landmark as a souvenir⁠—there is none. Every point of the compass offers the same uniform aspect, the same features. That man is of necessity a wanderer, unless the government restrains him; but his dwelling place has a restraining influence over him; his country will be anywhere where the power of government extends, and he can never have more than half a Fatherland. The dweller in the mountains is attached to the objects which he has beheld from infancy, and which have palpable and indestructible forms: from all points in the valley he sees and recognises his field on the mountain side. The noise of the torrent, as it rushes seething among the rocks, never ceases; the footpath, which leads to the village, winds round a block of changeless granite. In his dreams he beholds the outlines of the mountains which are imprinted on his heart, just as, after looking for some time at a window, one still sees it when one’s eyes are shut; the picture engraved on his memory becomes part of himself and is never effaced. In short, remembrance attaches itself to locality, but it must have an object of prehistoric origin and of apparently infinite durability. Old buildings and bridges, everything that bears the appearance of grandeur and antiquity can in a measure take the place of mountains in one’s affection for locality; but, nevertheless, the heart is most deeply moved by the monuments of nature. In order to give Rome a name worthy of her, did not the Romans call her the City on the Seven Hills? Habits once formed can never be destroyed. The aged mountaineer has no affection for the streets and squares of a large town, and the inhabitant of a town can never become a mountaineer. This accounts for one of the greatest authors of our time, who had most cleverly described the deserts of America, finding the Alps insignificant and Mt. Blanc much too small.

The share of the government is clear⁠—it is the basis of our Fatherland, and produces reciprocal attachment among men and strengthens the love of locality. Government alone by the recollection of good fortune or past glory can attach men to their native land. If the government is good, then the Fatherland is strong; if it becomes unjust, the Fatherland sickens; if it changes, the Fatherland dies. Then we have a new Fatherland, and each is free to adopt it or to choose another.

When all the population of Athens left that city trusting to the word of Themistocles, did the Athenians abandon their country? did they not rather carry it with them to their ships?

When Coriolanus⁠ ⁠… Good Heavens! what a discussion I am engaged in; I forget that I am on horseback at my window.

XXXIII

I had had an elderly relative of great wit and readiness of speech whose conversation was most interesting, but her memory, fertile and uncertain at the same time, led her from one episode to another, and from digression to digression to such an extent, that she was often obliged to apply to her hearers for help. “What was I going to say?” she would ask, and often her hearers had also totally forgotten, and then everybody was in a most awkward position.

Now it may well be said that a similar accident often happens to me in the course of my narratives, and in truth I must confess that the plan and order of my tour are traced exactly like my aunt’s conversation; but I ask no assistance from anyone, because I have found that my subject returns of its own accord and at the very moment when I least expect it.

XXXIV

I ought to warn those people who may not like my dissertation on the Fatherland that sleep was gradually overcoming me, in spite of all my efforts to shake it off; but I am not very sure now whether I actually fell into a sound sleep, and whether the extraordinary matters I am about to relate were the creation of a dream or of a supernatural vision.

I saw a bright cloud fall from the sky and gradually come nearer to me, and it formed a sort of transparent veil over a young girl of some twenty-two or twenty-three years age. Vainly should I seek for suitable words to describe the feelings with which her appearance inspired me. Her countenance, radiant with goodness and kindness, had the charming illusion of youth, and was sweet as a dream of the future; her expression, her quiet smile, in a word, all her features, appeared to me to be the realization of that ideal being my heart had so long sought for, and whom I had despaired of ever meeting.

Whilst I was gazing at her in a delicious ecstasy, I saw the pole star shining between her dark curls, through which the north wind was playing, and at the same moment I heard these comforting words, nay they were not words, it was the mysterious expression of heavenly thought revealing the future to my soul, whilst my senses were wrapped in slumber; it was a prophetic message from that friendly star which I had lately invoked, and the meaning of which I shall now essay to embody in human language.

“Your confidence in me is not misplaced,” exclaimed a voice in tones like those of an Aolian Harp. “Behold the country I have kept for you; behold the blessings for which those aspire in vain who imagine happiness to be a matter of calculation, and who ask on Earth for things only attainable in Heaven.” At these words the meteor melted away in the darkness of the heavens, and the fair divinity was lost to sight in the mists of the far distance; but as she departed she gave me a look which filled my heart with confidence and hope.

Immediately, burning to follow her, I dug both heels into my horse, and as I had forgotten to put on my spurs, I struck my right heel against the corner of a tile with such violence that the pain woke me up with a start.

XXXV

This accident was after all a great benefit to the geological department of my journey, because it taught me the exact height of my room above the alluvial deposits on which the City of Turin is built. My heart beat violently, and I counted quite three beats and a half from the moment when I spurred my horse till I heard the noise made by my slipper, which had fallen into the street, and having calculated the time which heavy bodies take to fall, and that which the waves of sound required in coming from the street to my ear, I fixed the height of my window at eighty-four feet three inches and nine-tenths of an inch above the pavement of Turin, on the supposition that my heart, excited by the dream, beat 120 times in a minute, which cannot be far out. It is only as a pure matter of science, after having dilated so much on my fair neighbour’s interesting slipper, that I could venture to speak of my own also, and I foresee that this chapter will after all please none but philosophers.

XXXVI

The splendid vision I had just enjoyed made me feel all the more acutely on awaking, all the horror of my isolated situation. I looked all round and saw nothing but the roofs and the chimneys. Alas! suspended on the fifth story, between heaven and earth, surrounded by a sea of troubles, aspirations, and anxieties, I was attached to life solely by a faint glimmer of hope, a treacherous support, whose fragility I had often experienced. Doubt soon returned to my desolate heart, in which the wounds caused by the troubles of life were still far from healed, and I quite believed that the pole star had been mocking me. Unjust and wicked suspicion! for which she has punished me with ten years of waiting. Oh! if I could then have foreseen that all these promises would be fulfilled, and that one day I should find on earth the adorable being whose image I had seen in the heavens.

Dear Sophie, if I had known that my good fortunes would even surpass all my hopes! But I must not anticipate events. I return to my subject, unwilling to depart from the severe and methodical order to which I have bound myself in the compilation of my travels.

XXXVII

The clock of St. Philip’s Church slowly struck twelve. I counted, one after another, every stroke of the bell, and at the last one I heaved a sigh. “There,” said I, “is another day of my life gone, and while the dying tones of the brazen bell are still vibrating in my ears, that part of my journey which preceded midnight is already quite as far from me as the voyages of Ulysses or Jason. In that abyss of the past, moments and ages are of the same duration, and even the future is no less unreal and inconceivable.” Between these two states of nonexistence I stand in equilibrium, as it were, on the edge of a blade.

In truth, Time seems to me something so inconceivable that I should be inclined to believe that it has no existence at all, and that what we call Time is nought but a fiction which we have invented to punish us. I was rejoicing at having found this definition of Time, though obscure as even Time itself, when another clock struck twelve, and this caused me an unpleasant sensation.

I am always rather irritable when engaged in an insoluble problem, and this second warning of the clock was very discomposing to a philosopher like myself, but I was plunged into the depths of despair a few seconds afterwards, when I heard, far away, a third clock, that of the Convent of the Capuchins, on the other side of the river, also strike twelve, as if to spite me.

When my aunt used, somewhat roughly, to summon an ancient retainer, of whom, however, she was very fond, in her impatience she was not content with ringing once, but kept on pulling the bell without stopping till the servant came. “Come at once, Mlle. Branchet,” and the latter, annoyed at being thus hurried, used to come very leisurely, and answer very sarcastically, before she got into the room, “Coming, Madame, coming.” Such also was my frame of mind when I heard that inane clock of the Capuchins strike twelve, for the third time. “I am quite aware of it,” I exclaimed, stretching out my hands in the direction of the clock, “Yes, I know it⁠—I know it is midnight⁠—I know it only too well.” Doubtless it was at the insidious prompting of an evil spirit that man made the division of the days at this hour. Shut up at home, they sleep or amuse themselves whilst this hour cuts off a thread of their existence, and next morning they get up gaily, in the foolish conceit that they have gained another day of life. Vainly does the prophetic voice of the bell warn them of the approach of Eternity. In vain it sadly reminds them of each passing hour, they hear not, or if they do, they do not heed. Oh terrible hour of midnight! I am not superstitious, but that hour always inspires me with a sort of fear, and I have a presentiment that if ever I do die it will be at midnight. Must I die, someday? I die⁠—I, who speak, think, and feel, shall I really die? I have some difficulty in believing it. Nothing is more natural than that other folks should die; it is our daily experience, they pass away, we are used to it; but to die oneself⁠ ⁠… oneself⁠ ⁠… one can hardly believe that. And you sir who think that these reflections are nonsense, learn that all the world thinks in this way, and so do you yourself. No one thinks that he must die. If there were a race of immortal men, the idea of death could not alarm them less than it does us.

There is something in this that I cannot understand. How is it that men, disturbed eternally by hopes and dreams of the future, trouble themselves so little about that which the future presents to them with absolute certainty? May it not be that beneficent nature herself has given us this happy unconsciousness, so that we can fulfil our destiny in peace? In truth, I believe that one may still be a very good man without adding to the real evils of life, that turn of mind which broods on melancholy thoughts, or without troubling one’s imagination with gloomy apprehensions, so I think we may venture to laugh, or at least to smile, whenever there is an innocent provocation for so doing.

Thus ended the meditation which the clock of St. Philip’s had inspired. I should have pursued it further if I had not felt some scruples as to the correctness of the code of morality which I had set up; but being unwilling to search deeper into this doubtful question, I whistled the air of the “Follies of Spain,” which has the property of being able to change the current of my ideas when they take a gloomy turn. The effect was so instantaneous that, on the spot, I put an end to my ride on horseback.

XXXVIII

Before reentering my room I cast a glance on the dark city and the country round Turin, which I was about to quit, perhaps forever, and I bade them my last farewell. Never had night seemed to me beautiful, or the spectacle beneath my gaze so intensely fascinating. After saluting the mountain and church of the Superga, I took leave of the towers, the steeples, and of all the well-known objects, at leaving which I felt so great but so unexpected a regret; also of the air, the sky, and the river, whose dull murmur seemed to answer responsive to my farewells.

Oh! could I but describe the feelings, tender and cruel at the same time, which filled my heart, and all the memories of the sweetest half of my past life, which, like hobgoblins, thronged round me, to keep me in Turin. But, alas! the recollections of past pleasures are the wrinkles on the face of the soul. When we are unhappy we ought to drive them from our thoughts like mocking phantoms which come to triumph over our present situation. It is better then, a thousand times, to give oneself up to the illusions of hope, and above all to put a good face on it when the game is going against us, and to be very careful not to let anyone into the secret of our misfortunes. I have observed, in my experience of the world and mankind, that those who are always complaining of their woes are, in the end, held up to ridicule.

In these terrible moments, a very good course to adopt is to try the new mode of travelling I have just described. For myself I gave it a decisive trial, and not only did I succeed in forgetting the past, but was enabled to face the present troubles with a brave heart. “Time will bear them away,” I said to myself by way of consolation, “it takes everything and overlooks nothing as it goes by, and even if we wished to stop it or urge it on, our efforts would be all in vain, for nothing can alter its inevitable course.”

Although usually I take no thought about the rapidity of its flight, there are certain circumstances and chains of thought which bring it most strikingly before me. When men are silent and the demon of noise is at rest in the midst of his temple, in a sleeping town wrapped in slumber, then it is that Time lifts up his voice and makes himself heard in my soul. Silence and darkness become his interpreters and reveal to me his mysterious progress, then he ceases to be a being which my mind can barely grasp, and he becomes perceptible even to the senses themselves. I behold Time in the heavens driving before him the stars towards the West; there he is urging on the rivers to the ocean, and rolling the mist along the mountains! I hear the wind moaning beneath the stroke of his rapid wings, and the distant clock quivers at his lightning flight.

“Let us take advantage,” I exclaim, “of his rapid fight; let me not waste the moments I shall so shortly lose forever.” Wishing to make the most of this good resolve, at that instant I leaned forward so as to throw myself courageously into the breach, and I made that clacking noise, which has been used from time immemorial to urge on horses, but which it is quite impossible to describe in writing according to the rules of orthography.

gh! gh! gh!

and so I finished my ride with a gallop.

XXXIX

I was lifting my right foot, in order to get off, when I felt myself rather roughly struck on the shoulder. It would be untrue to say that I was not frightened by this accident, and this is a good opportunity to explain and prove to the reader, without incurring the reproach of vanity, how very difficult it would be for anybody but myself to undertake a journey like mine. Even if another traveller had a thousand times the means and power of observation that I have, could he reasonably expect to meet with adventures as striking and as numerous as those which happened to me in the space of four hours, and in which the finger of destiny was so clearly visible? If anyone doubts this, let him try and guess who it was that struck me.

In my first distress, not reflecting on my real position, I fancied that my horse had kicked me or crushed me against a tree. Heaven knows how many dismal thoughts passed through my mind in the short space of time occupied in turning my head so as to look into my room. As often happens when things seem most extraordinary the cause of my alarm was a very natural one. The same gust of wind which at the beginning of my journey had blown open my window and banged too my door as it passed, and part of which rustled amongst the curtains of my bed, had just reentered my room, making a mighty bustle. It rudely flung open the door and rushed out of the window, pushing the casement against my shoulder, and that it was which gave me the alarm of which I have just spoken.

You will remember that it was that same gust of wind which invited me to leave my bed. The blow I now received was clearly an invitation to return thither, and I found myself at once compelled to accede to it.

How grand it is to be on a familiar footing with the night, the heavens, and the meteors, and to be in a position to benefit by their influence! Alas, the relations we are compelled to hold with men are much more dangerous.

How often have I been duped by my trust in them? Here I was about to say something on this point, in a note which I have suppressed, because it was longer than all the text put together, and would have ruined the just proportions of my journey, whose brevity is its greatest merit.