CHAPTER VIII.
Someone has advanced the theory that those persons endowed with a gift
for painting (either with color or with words) probably belong to a
half-blind species; accustomed to living in a partial light, in a sort
of misty grayness, they turn their gaze inward; and when by chance
they do look out their impressions are ten times more vivid than are
those of ordinary people.
To me that seems a little paradoxical.
But it is true that sometimes an enveloping darkness aids one to
clearer vision; as in a panorama building, for example, where the
obscurity about the entrance prepares one better for the climax, and
gives the scene depicted a more real and vivid appearance.
In the course of my life I would without doubt have been less
impressed by the ever shifting phantasmagoria of existence had I not
begun my journey in a place almost without distinctive color, in a
tranquil corner of the most commonplace little town, receiving an
education austerely pious; and where my longest journey was bounded by
the forests of Limoise (as wonderful to me as a primeval forest) and
by the shores of the island of Oleron, that seemed very immense when I
went to it to visit my aged aunts.
But after all is said, it was in the yard about our house that I
passed the happiest of my summers--it seemed to me that that was my
particular kingdom, and I adored it.
It was in truth a beautiful yard, much more sunny and airy than the
majority of city gardens. Its long avenue of green and flowery
branches, that overtopped the heads of the neighboring fruit trees,
was bordered on the south by a low and ancient wall over which grew
roses and honeysuckles. The long leafy avenue gave the impression of
great depth, and its perspective melted into a bower of vines and
jasmine bushes that in turn became a great verdant place, which came
to an end at a storehouse of ancient construction, whose gray stones
were hidden under ivy vines.
Ah! How I loved that garden, and how much I still love it!
I believe the keenest, earliest memories are of the beautiful long
summer evenings. Oh! the return from a walk during those long, clear
twilights that certainly were more delicious than are those of to-day.
What joy to re-enter that yard which the thorn-apples and the
honeysuckles filled with the sweetest odor, to enter and see from the
gate all the long avenue of tangled greenness. Through an opening in a
bower of Virginia Creeper I could see the rosy splendor of the setting
sun; and somewhat removed in the gathering shadows of the foliage,
there were distinguishable three or four persons. The persons, it is
true, were very quiet and they were dressed in black, but they were
nevertheless very reassuring to me, very familiar and very much
beloved: they were the forms of mother, grandmother and aunts. Then I
would run to them hastily and throw myself upon their laps, and that
was always one of the happiest moments of my day.
