Chapter XII: Monte-Carlo, September 20

Consequently we left. Diogenes was in very good spirits and I a trifle out of countenance by such a rapid decision, for he had hardly obtained my consent than, our affairs in order, we were on our way.

“Perhaps,” I said, “Cydalise is returning at the very moment that I leave. What will she think of me?”

But Diogenes seemed quite sure of the matter.

“Doubtless, at this very moment she is climbing the flight of stairs, she knocks at the door, no one answers her, she grows perturbed, she begins to make inquiries. This is possible since everything is possible. But Cydalise is not one of those giddy, thoughtless persons who arrive all of a sudden at the home of their lover, especially when the lover goes by the name of Satyros. Life has given such a one experience. Trust in me, my friend, and let us have no anxieties about the matter.”

As I am always sensitive to the last impression which strikes me, I easily agreed with the opinion of Diogenes and began to examine the landscape which still possessed the richness of summer. Everywhere I imagined I found once more the appearance of the Cogolin countryside and the fragrance of its orange-trees. In vain did Diogenes endeavor to put me right by informing me that we were quite remote from that spot; still I saw the woods of the last days of my liberty, and I grew enthusiastic as though they were about to return.

“Let us get off at this spot,” I would say each moment, “I feel that happiness awaits me in these rocks. A woman has come for me in this very place, she is looking for me, she believes she has spied me behind each clump of arbutus. See, she turns round hopefully and scans the autumn-hued land. Let us get off, let us get off!”

“It is a long time since you beheld the country fields, Satyros,” Diogenes answered. “Your head is turned. What would you have us do in this wild desert? It is nothing but a color, it is nothing but imagination.”

The train slackened its speed and Diogenes had to stop me as I was about to hurl myself through the carriage door. It opened at the same moment and two women entered our compartment where we had been alone up till now. Diogenes now knew that he need no longer watch me. From his pocket he drew a newspaper and began to read tranquilly, confident that I would not try to escape. In fact, I was quite at ease, quite satisfied with the turn of affairs. Although the new arrivals afforded no pleasure to my eyes, they were capable of occupying my imagination. I recognized their coiffure. How many similar heads had I not pursued in days of yore among the shadows of descending night, on the skirt of the vineyards! They were not absolutely ugly and their eyes had even a certain beauty; but what heaviness of outline, what disgracefulness of forms! Certainly I had loved more than one with less comeliness. And these were the types of conquests with which I had once been so elated, those fruits of nature which I had devoured, those earthen urns out of which I had quaffed my pleasures so boldly. These buxom daughters of Pomona carried in each arm a basket of grapes, oranges and vegetables. These they deposited near them, and as I looked at the contents of the baskets more intently than at their owners, one of them addressed me in a singing voice:

“Perhaps you would like to eat a bunch of grapes?”

I stretched my hand forward and she gracefully lifted her heavy basket toward me. She was the less coarse of the two.

“I can only offer you,” I said, “a kiss.”

Both of them commenced to laugh and the other, in an engaging manner, remarked:

“The baskets belong to the two of us.”

I kissed her on the cheek, and her companion on the corner of her lips. I had once again become a faun; my contemptuous reflections had counted for naught against the tempting odor of a market woman!

They laughed so loudly, to conceal their embarrassment, that they failed to notice the train’s arrival at Arcs. Diogenes, whom the scene had diverted from his newspaper, mentioned the fact aloud and the countrywomen hastened to dismount. As I held out their baskets to them, she whom I had touched with my desire bowed to me with a smile while the other said:

“Shall we perhaps meet again?”

I had dominated my emotion. When the train started again, Diogenes sententiously proferred these words which I was long in understanding:

“That is what one gets for having frequented the little courtesans of Toulon.”

Noticing my astonishment, he added:

“Satyros is becoming farther and farther removed from nature. Perhaps we shall be able to make something out of him.”

Diogenes’ perspicacity surprised and enchanted me at the same time. How well the two propositions reunite and how faithfully they render my own sentiment. But what could be the meaning of these words: “Perhaps we shall be able to make something out of him. Am I then nothing, nothing of consequence, nothing serious and true?”

“Diogenes,” I answered, “I understand your first thought; it answers to mine; but what do you propose to make of me? This is vague.”

“A philosopher, Satyros, nothing more and nothing less, a philosopher like myself, that is to say a man who is the dupe of nothing or who, when he is a dupe, knows and enjoys his deception. It is a very rare state of mind and surpasses even that of the Gods whom, if I am to judge by yourself, are totally ignorant and always at the mercy of the impressions of the moment. I was satisfied to notice with what an eye you studied the rustics who tried their best little tricks upon you. That is the first stage. One must know how to resist the passions. The second consists in yielding to them. To be neither above nor below human weakness, which the divine foibles greatly resemble, if once more I can judge by yourself,—here you have the ideal position. Be always at their level, always ready to respond to them.”

“Had I met them along some path, in the mountain, despite my repulsion of the first moment I would not have been able to master my desire.”

“It is thus I understand the second stage,” answered Diogenes, “but there is a third stage, which is still more advantageous. This takes place when a person loves himself sufficiently, loves himself more than the desires which make him leave his egoism. I am journeying toward that condition, which I do not believe you will ever attain, Satyros.”

“No more do I myself believe it, Diogenes. If the nature of the gods is hardly removed from that of men, it nevertheless differs in this essential point: all poetry is forthwith incorporated with its substance, effortlessly and by the very play of desire. I enrich myself where you impoverish yourself, Diogenes.”

It was his turn to meditate upon the profundity of my words. He did not know what to answer, doubtless, for on his face I read ennui and sadness and envy perhaps. Diogenes is no longer very young. I fear his philosophy is only a sort of insouciant resignation to the fatality which weighs on mankind. I perceive—books have already taught me this—that there are as many philosophies as there are ages and temperaments. He has sufficiently outlined this for me by his theory of the three stages. One desires to resist passions when they are so weak that a little attention suffices to master them. One yields to them when they are so strong that a struggle is grievous. One scorns them on the day they become nerveless, when one no longer dare regret the time of their heydey for fear of appearing in the attitude of a vanquished person. That is the moment of virtue. According as young or old men, the feeble or the strong govern society, the one or the other spirit dominates the world. And I really believe that this applies to all human inclinations. States fluctuate according as action or thought and dream are held in higher repute. Ah! I understand why they laugh in Olympus.

ANTIPHILOS,
_Satyr._

XIII

THE UNKNOWN WOMAN