And then, suddenly, you are aware that you are really
alone in the world, always and everywhere, and that
in places which we know, the familiar jostlings give
us the illusion only of human fraternity. At such
moments of self-abandonment and sombre isolation in
distant cities one thinks broadly, clearly and profoundly.
Then one suddenly sees the whole of life outside the
vision of eternal hope, apart from the deceptions of
our innate habits, and of our expectations of happiness,
which we indulge in dreams never to be realized.
It is only by going a long distance from home that
we can fully understand how short-lived and empty
everything near at hand is; by searching for the unknown,
we perceive how commonplace and evanescent everything
is; only by wandering over the face of the earth can
we understand how small the world is, and how very
much alike it is everywhere.
How well I know, and how I hate and almost fear, those
haphazard walks through unknown streets; and this
was the reason why, as nothing would induce me to
undertake a tour in Italy by myself, I made up my mind
to accompany my friend Paul Pavilly.
You know Paul, and how he idealizes women. To
him the earth is habitable only because they are there;
the sun gives light and is warm because it shines
upon them; the air is soft and balmy because it blows
upon their skin and ruffles the soft hair on their
temples; and the moon is charming because it makes
them dream and imparts a languorous charm to love.
Every act and action of Paul’s has woman for
its motive; all his thoughts, all his efforts and
hopes are centered in them.
When I mentioned Italy to Paul he at first absolutely
refused to leave Paris. I, however, began to
tell him of the adventures I had on my travels.
I assured him that all Italian women are charming,
and I made him hope for the most refined pleasures
at Naples, thanks to certain letters of introduction
which I had; and so at last he allowed himself to
be persuaded.
We took the express one Thursday evening, Paul and
I. Hardly anyone goes south at that time of the year,
so that we had the carriages to ourselves, and both
of us were in a bad temper on leaving Paris, sorry
for having yielded to the temptation of this journey,
and regretting Marly, the Seine, and our lazy boating
excursions, and all those pleasures in and near Paris
which are so dear to every true Parisian.
As soon as the train started Paul stuck himself in
his corner, and said, “It is most idiotic to
go all that distance,” and as it was too late
for him to change his mind then, I said, “Well,
you should not have come.”
He made no answer, and I felt very much inclined to
laugh when I saw how furious he looked. He is
certainly always rather like a squirrel, but then
every one of us has retained the type of some animal
or other as the mark of his primitive origin.
How many people have jaws like a bulldog, or heads
like goats, rabbits, foxes, horses, or oxen. Paul
is a squirrel turned into a man. He has its bright,
quick eyes, its hair, its pointed nose, its small,
fine, supple, active body, and a certain mysterious
resemblance in his general bearing; in fact, a similarity
of movement, of gesture, and of bearing which might
almost be taken for a recollection.
