This jumble of wind and antibacterial ointment



In the garden, in the little woods, through the countryside, the wind puts a mad and useless ardor to disperse the bursts of the sun, to chase them by furiously waving the branches of the coppice where they had first slaughtered, until in the sparkling thicket where they shudder now, all thrilling. The trees, the drying cloths, the tail of the peacock wheel cut into the transparent air of the extraordinarily sharp blue shadows that fly at all the winds without leaving the ground like a kite badly launched. This jumble of wind and light makes this corner of Champagne look like a landscape on the edge of the sea. At the top of this path, which shines with light and breathlessness, rises in full sun, towards a bare sky. Is it not the sea that we will see white with sun and foam? As each morning you had come, hands full of flowers and soft feathers that the flight of a wood, a swallow or a jay, had let fall in the alley. The feathers tremble in my hat, the poppy is torn from my buttonhole, let’s go home quickly.

The house cries under the wind like a boat, invisible sails are heard to be swarmed, invisible flags flapping out. Keep this tuft of fresh roses on your knees and let my heart cry between your closed hands.

I returned in the morning and I cautiously lay down, shivering with melancholy and icy delirium. Just now, in your room, your friends of the day before, your plans for the next day-as many enemies, so many plots against me-thoughts of the hour-as many vague and impassable leagues, -Me separated from you. Now that I am far from you, this imperfect presence, a fleeting mask of the eternal absence that kisses raise very quickly, would be enough, it seems to me, to show me your true face and to fulfill the aspirations of my love. It was necessary to leave; how sad and cold I’m staying away from you! But by what sudden enchantment do the familiar dreams of our happiness begin to rise, thick smoke on a clear and burning flame, to ride happily and continuously in my head? In my hand, warmed under the covers, woke up the smell of the pink cigarettes you had made me smoke. I long draw my mouth glued to my hand perfume which, in the heat of memory, exhales thick gusts of tenderness, happiness and “you”. Ah! my little beloved, at the moment when I can do without you, where I swim happily in your memory-which now fills the room-without having to fight against your insurmountable body, I tell you absurdly, I’ll tell you say irresistibly, I can not do without you. It is your presence that gives my life that fine, melancholy and warm color like pearls that spend the night on your body. Like them, I live and sadly nuance your heat, and like them,

“It is said that Death beautifies those whom it strikes, and exaggerates their virtues, but it is rather generally life that hurts them. Death, that pious and irreproachable witness, teaches us, according to the truth, according to charity, that in every man there is ordinarily more good than evil. “What Michelet says here about death is perhaps still more true of this death following a great unhappy love. The being who after having made us suffer so much is nothing to us, is it enough to say, according to the popular expression, that he is “dead for us”. The dead, we mourn them, we still love them, we suffer for a long time the irresistible attraction of the charm which survives them and which often brings us back near the tombs. On the contrary, the being who made us feel everything and the the essence of which we are saturated can no longer pass over us even the shadow of pain or joy. He is more than dead for us. After having considered it the only precious thing in this world, after having cursed it, after having despised it, it is impossible for us to judge it, the features of its figure are still more precise in front of the eyes of our memory, exhausted from having been too long fixed on them. But this judgment on the beloved, a judgment which has varied so much, sometimes torturing our blind heart with its clairvoyance, sometimes blinding also to put an end to this cruel disagreement, must make a final oscillation. Like these landscapes that we discover only summits, from the heights of forgiveness appears in its true worth the one that was more than dead for us after being our life itself. We only knew that she did not give us back our love, we now understand that she had a real friendship for us. It is not the memory that embellishes it, it is the love that made it wrong. For the one who wants everything, and to whom everything, if he got it, would not be enough, to receive a little seems only an absurd cruelty. Now we understand that it was a generous gift from the one our despair, our irony, our perpetual tyranny had not discouraged. She was always sweet. Several remarks today reported seem to us of an indulgent and charming fairness, several remarks of she that we thought we could not understand because she did not love us. We, on the contrary, have spoken of her with so much unjust selfishness and severity. Do not we owe him a lot elsewhere? If this great tide of love has receded forever, yet when we walk in ourselves we can pick up strange and charming seashells and, by bringing them to the ear, hear with a melancholy pleasure and without no longer suffer the vast rumor of former times. Then we think with tenderness to the one whose misfortune she wished she was more beloved than she loved. She is “only dead” for us. She is a dead person who is fondly remembered. Justice wants us to right the idea we had of her.

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We loved each other in a lost village of Engadine with a twice sweet name: the dream of German sounds was dying there in the voluptuousness of Italian syllables. Around it, three lakes of an unknown green bathed fir forests. Glaciers and peaks closed the horizon. In the evening, the diversity of the plans multiplied the softness of the lighting. Will we ever forget the walks by the lake of Sils-Maria, when the afternoon ended at six o’clock? The larches of such serene serenity as they adjoin the dazzling snow tended towards the pale blue, almost mauve water, their branches of a suave and brilliant green. One evening the hour was particularly favorable; in a few moments, the sun sinking, made the water pass through all the nuances and our soul by all the voluptuousness. Suddenly we made a movement, we had just seen a little pink butterfly, then two, then five, leave the flowers of our shore and flit over the lake. Soon they seemed an impalpable rose dust carried off, then they approached the flowers on the other bank, came back and gently began again the adventurous crossing, sometimes stopping as tempted above this lake preciously nuanced then as a large flower that fades. It was too much and our eyes filled with tears. These little butterflies, crossing the lake, passed and repassed on our soul, on our soul all tense with emotion before so many beauties, ready to vibrate, passed and repassed like a voluptuous bow. The light movement of their flight did not touch the waters, but caressed our eyes, our hearts, and with each stroke of their little pink wings we failed to faint. When we saw them coming back from the other bank, thus discovering that they were playing and freely wandering about the waters, a delicious harmony reverberated for us; they, however, returned slowly, with a thousand capricious twists, which varied the primitive harmony, and drew a melody of an enchanting fantasy. Our soul, which had become sonorous, listened in their silent flight to a music of charm and freedom, and all the sweet, intense harmonies of the lake, the woods, the sky, and our own life accompanied it with a magical sweetness that made us burst into tears. they played and freely walked on the water, a delightful harmony echoed for us; they, however, returned slowly, with a thousand capricious twists, which varied the primitive harmony, and drew a melody of an enchanting fantasy. Our soul, which had become sonorous, listened in their silent flight to a music of charm and freedom, and all the sweet, intense harmonies of the lake, the woods, the sky, and our own life accompanied it with a magical sweetness that made us burst into tears. they played and freely walked on the water, a delightful harmony echoed for us; they, however, returned slowly, with a thousand capricious twists, which varied the primitive harmony, and drew a melody of an enchanting fantasy. Our soul, which had become sonorous, listened in their silent flight to a music of charm and freedom, and all the sweet, intense harmonies of the lake, the woods, the sky, and our own life accompanied it with a magical sweetness that made us burst into tears.

I had never spoken to you and you were even away from my eyes that year. But that we loved each other then in Engadine! I never had enough of you, I never left you at home. You accompanied me on my walks, ate at my table, slept in my bed, dreamed in my soul. One day-is it possible that a sure instinct, mysterious messenger, did not warn you of those childishnesses in which you were so closely intertwined, that you lived, yes, really lived, so much did you have in me a “real presence “One day (we had never seen either Italy), we were as dazzled by the word we are told about the Alpgrun:” From there we see Italy. “We left for the Alpgrun, imagining that in the spectacle stretched out in front of the peak, where Italy would begin, the real and hard landscape would suddenly cease, and a blue valley would open in a dreamy background. On the way we remembered that a frontier does not change the soil, and that even if it changed it would be too insensitive for us to notice it all at once. A little disappointed we laughed yet to have been so small children earlier.

But when we reached the top, we were dazzled. Our childish imagination was before our eyes realized. Beside us, glaciers sparkled. At our feet torrents crisscrossed a wild Engadine country of a dark green. Then a hill a little mysterious; and after the mauve slopes opened and closed in turn a real blue country, a sparkling avenue towards Italy. The names were no longer the same, they immediately harmonized with this new sweetness. We were shown Lake Poschiavo, the pizzo di Verona, the Viola Valley. Afterwards we went to an extraordinarily wild and solitary place, where the desolation of nature and the certainty that it was inaccessible to all, and also invisible, invincible, would have increased to delirium the pleasure of loving there. I then felt really sadness about not having you with me under your material species, other than under the dress of my regret, in the reality of my desire. I went down a little to the still very high place where the travelers came to watch. We have in a remote inn a book where they write their names. I wrote mine and by the side a combination of letters which was an allusion to yours, because it was impossible then not to give me a material proof of the reality of your spiritual neighborhood. By putting a little of you on this book it seemed to me that I relieved myself all the obsessing weight of which you were stifling my soul. And then, I had the immense hope to lead you there one day, to read this line; then you would go up with me still higher to avenge me of all this sadness. Without my having anything to say to you, you would have understood everything, or rather everything you would have remembered; and you would abandon yourself as you go up, weigh a little on me to make me feel better that this time you were there; and between your lips, which keep a light perfume of your Oriental cigarettes, I would find all the forgetfulness. We would say very foolish words for the glory of shouting without anyone else hearing us; short grass, with light breath of heights, would shudder alone. The climb would make you slow down, a little blow and my face would approach to feel your breath: we would be crazy. We would also go where a white lake is next to a soft black lake like a white pearl next to a black pearl. That we would have loved each other in a lost village of Engadine! We would have let only mountain guides come near us, these tall men whose eyes reflect something other than the eyes of other men, are also like another “water”. But I do not care about you anymore. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. That we would have loved each other in a lost village of Engadine! We would have let only mountain guides come near us, these tall men whose eyes reflect something other than the eyes of other men, are also like another “water”. But I do not care about you anymore. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. That we would have loved each other in a lost village of Engadine! We would have let only mountain guides come near us, these tall men whose eyes reflect something other than the eyes of other men, are also like another “water”. But I do not care about you anymore. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. We would have let us know that mountain guides, these tall men whose eyes reflect something other than the eyes of other men, are like another “water”. But I do not care about you anymore. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. We would have let us know that mountain guides, these tall men whose eyes reflect something other than the eyes of other men, are like another “water”. But I do not care about you anymore. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola. Satiety came before possession. Platonic love itself has its saturation. I would rather not take you to this country than, without understanding it and even knowing it, you evoke me with so touching fidelity. Your sight only keeps me a charm, that of suddenly recalling me these names of a strange gentleness, German and Italian: Sils Maria, Silva Plana, Crestalta, Samaden, Celerina, Juliers, Val de Viola.

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Like nature, intelligence has its shows. Never the sunrises, never the moonlight that so often made me rage to tears, surpassed for me in passionate emotion, this vast melancholy burning that, during the walks at the end of the day, nuance then as many waves in our soul as the sun when it goes to actually shine on the sea. Then we rush our steps in the night. More than a rider whom the growing speed of a beaten beast dizzies and intoxicates, we surrender with trembling confidence and joy to the tumultuous thoughts to which, the better we possess and direct them, we feel to belong more and more irresistibly . C ‘ is with affectionate emotion that we traverse the obscure country and salute the oaks full of night, like the solemn field, like the epic witnesses of the impetus that draws us and makes us gray. Looking up into the sky, we can not recognize without exaltation, in the interval of the clouds still moved by the farewell of the sun, the mysterious reflection of our thoughts: we sink deeper and faster into the countryside, and the the dog that follows us, the horse that carries us or the friend who is silent, even less sometimes when no living being is near us, the flower in our buttonhole or the cane that turns happily in our febrile hands, receives in glances and tears the melancholy tribute of our delirium. impetus that drives us and makes us gray. Looking up into the sky, we can not recognize without exaltation, in the interval of the clouds still moved by the farewell of the sun, the mysterious reflection of our thoughts: we sink deeper and faster into the countryside, and the the dog that follows us, the horse that carries us or the friend who is silent, even less sometimes when no living being is near us, the flower in our buttonhole or the cane that turns happily in our febrile hands, receives in glances and tears the melancholy tribute of our delirium. impetus that drives us and makes us gray. Looking up into the sky, we can not recognize without exaltation, in the interval of the clouds still moved by the farewell of the sun, the mysterious reflection of our thoughts: we sink deeper and faster into the countryside, and the the dog that follows us, the horse that carries us or the friend who is silent, even less sometimes when no living being is near us, the flower in our buttonhole or the cane that turns happily in our febrile hands, receives in glances and tears the melancholy tribute of our delirium.

Night had come, I went to my room, anxious to stay now in the dark without seeing the sky, the fields and the sea shine under the sun. But when I opened the door, I found the room illuminated as at sunset. Through the window I saw the house, the fields, the sky and the sea, or rather it seemed to me to see them again in a dream; the sweet moon reminded me of them rather than showing them to me, spreading on their silhouette a pale splendor that did not dispel the darkness, thickened like an oversight on their form. And I spent hours watching in the yard the mute, vague, enchanted and pale memory of things that during the day had made me happy or hurt me, with their shouts, their voices or their buzzing .