a prey to, whose black obsessiveness undoes and reduces to nothing any effort of the Will.
‘I have, on doctor’s orders, frequently but vainly dosed myself on Avicenna’s cassia brew, * or imbibed under every preparation extracts of iron, and trampling on all my pleasures, like a second Robert d’Arbrissel, * I have cooled the fiery edge of my passions down to Siberian temperatures, but nothing works!—So be it! It does indeed appear that I’m a person of morose and taciturn temperament! And yet, beneath my excitable surface, I must be made of sterner stuff, as they say, since despite this battery of treatments, I can still, equably enough, contemplate the stars.
‘On the evening in question I was back in my room, lighting a cigar by the candles on the mirror, when I noticed that I was mortally pale! So I flung myself into my great armchair, an antique done out in deep red padded velvet, in which the passage of time, during my long reveries, seems to weigh less heavily. My dejection of spirits came on oppressively, until I became almost ill. Judging it impossible to shake myself free of the shadows by going out—especially when the capital was itself assailed by dreadful problems—I resolved to try and get away from Paris altogether, into the fresh air of the country, and lose myself in vigorous exercise, like some good days hunting, to change my mood.
‘No sooner had the thought come to me, indeed
at the very instant
* I had decided on that plan of action, than there came into my mind the name of an old friend, whom I had not seen for many years, the Abbé Maucombe.
‘ “Abbé Maucombe!…” I murmured to myself.
‘My last meeting with the learned priest dated back to just before he left on a long pilgrimage to Palestine. I had since had news of his return. He lived in a humble presbytery in a little village in central Brittany.
‘Surely Maucombe disposed of a spare room or an outhouse of some kind?—Surely he must have gathered, on his travels, some ancient tomes… some curiosities from the Lebanon, perhaps? And I would lay a wager that the country houses in the neighbourhood had wild duck on their lakes… What could be more opportune!… And if I were to make the most of the last fortnight of the magical month of October, among the reddened rocks, before the cold set in; if I really wanted to see the long and resplendent autumn evenings on the wooded heights, then I would have to make haste!
‘Nine o’clock chimed.
‘I got up; I knocked the ash from my cigar. Then, like a man of purpose, I took my hat, my greatcoat, and my gloves; I took my suitcase and my shotgun; I blew the candles and went out—taking elaborate care and turning the key three times in the secret keyhole that is the pride of my door.
‘Three-quarters of an hour later, the Brittany express was transporting me towards the little village of Saint-Maur, where the Abbé Maucombe had his living; I had even found the time, at the station, to post a hastily scribbled letter in which I advised the Reverend Father of my arrival.
‘The next morning I was at R***, which is no more than around five miles from Saint-Maur.
‘Anxious to get a good night’s sleep (I wanted to be out with my shotgun at first light the following day), and judging that a siesta after lunch could possibly affect adversely my chances of getting an unbroken night’s rest, to keep me awake despite my tiredness, I spent the day visiting old schoolfriends.—At around five-thirty in the evening, having acquitted myself of these duty-calls, I had them saddle up a horse at the Soleil d’Or, where I had got off, and as twilight fell I arrived within sight of a hamlet.
‘As I rode towards it, I brought to mind the priest at whose home I had the intention of stopping for a few days. The lapse of time since our last meeting, the journeys and all the other events of life, in addition to his own reclusiveness, must have changed his appearance and his character. His
‘I have, on doctor’s orders, frequently but vainly dosed myself on Avicenna’s cassia brew, * or imbibed under every preparation extracts of iron, and trampling on all my pleasures, like a second Robert d’Arbrissel, * I have cooled the fiery edge of my passions down to Siberian temperatures, but nothing works!—So be it! It does indeed appear that I’m a person of morose and taciturn temperament! And yet, beneath my excitable surface, I must be made of sterner stuff, as they say, since despite this battery of treatments, I can still, equably enough, contemplate the stars.
‘On the evening in question I was back in my room, lighting a cigar by the candles on the mirror, when I noticed that I was mortally pale! So I flung myself into my great armchair, an antique done out in deep red padded velvet, in which the passage of time, during my long reveries, seems to weigh less heavily. My dejection of spirits came on oppressively, until I became almost ill. Judging it impossible to shake myself free of the shadows by going out—especially when the capital was itself assailed by dreadful problems—I resolved to try and get away from Paris altogether, into the fresh air of the country, and lose myself in vigorous exercise, like some good days hunting, to change my mood.
‘No sooner had the thought come to me, indeed
at the very instant
* I had decided on that plan of action, than there came into my mind the name of an old friend, whom I had not seen for many years, the Abbé Maucombe.
‘ “Abbé Maucombe!…” I murmured to myself.
‘My last meeting with the learned priest dated back to just before he left on a long pilgrimage to Palestine. I had since had news of his return. He lived in a humble presbytery in a little village in central Brittany.
‘Surely Maucombe disposed of a spare room or an outhouse of some kind?—Surely he must have gathered, on his travels, some ancient tomes… some curiosities from the Lebanon, perhaps? And I would lay a wager that the country houses in the neighbourhood had wild duck on their lakes… What could be more opportune!… And if I were to make the most of the last fortnight of the magical month of October, among the reddened rocks, before the cold set in; if I really wanted to see the long and resplendent autumn evenings on the wooded heights, then I would have to make haste!
‘Nine o’clock chimed.
‘I got up; I knocked the ash from my cigar. Then, like a man of purpose, I took my hat, my greatcoat, and my gloves; I took my suitcase and my shotgun; I blew the candles and went out—taking elaborate care and turning the key three times in the secret keyhole that is the pride of my door.
‘Three-quarters of an hour later, the Brittany express was transporting me towards the little village of Saint-Maur, where the Abbé Maucombe had his living; I had even found the time, at the station, to post a hastily scribbled letter in which I advised the Reverend Father of my arrival.
‘The next morning I was at R***, which is no more than around five miles from Saint-Maur.
‘Anxious to get a good night’s sleep (I wanted to be out with my shotgun at first light the following day), and judging that a siesta after lunch could possibly affect adversely my chances of getting an unbroken night’s rest, to keep me awake despite my tiredness, I spent the day visiting old schoolfriends.—At around five-thirty in the evening, having acquitted myself of these duty-calls, I had them saddle up a horse at the Soleil d’Or, where I had got off, and as twilight fell I arrived within sight of a hamlet.
‘As I rode towards it, I brought to mind the priest at whose home I had the intention of stopping for a few days. The lapse of time since our last meeting, the journeys and all the other events of life, in addition to his own reclusiveness, must have changed his appearance and his character. His
Similar Books
