The Complete Short Stories of Émile Zola. Эмиль Золя
from tree to tree, guided by the sound of the instruments; then, when we had cautiously put aside the branches of the last thicket, this is the sight we saw.
In the centre of a glade, on a strip of turf surrounded by wild juniper and pistacia trees, some ten peasants of both sexes were moving backward and forward in time. The women, who were bareheaded, with throats covered up by neckerchiefs, skipped about freely, giving utterance to those peals of laughter we had heard; the men, to dance with greater ease, had thrown their jackets among their implements of labour, which glittered in the grass.
These honest folk paid little attention to the measure. A thin, raw-boned man, leaning with his back against an oak-tree, was playing the fife, whilst he struck a sharp-sounding tabour with his left hand, after the custom of Provence. He seemed to follow the hurried, noisy measure with delight. Sometimes his glance wandered to the dancers; then he pitifully shrugged his shoulders. Accredited musician of some large village, he had been stopped as he passed that way, and it was not without anger that he saw these inhabitants of the inner country thus breaking all the rules of fine dancing. Aggrieved during the quadrille at the leaping and stamping of the peasants, he blushed with indignation when, at the end of the air, they continued their paces for five long minutes, without appearing to have any idea even of the absence of the fife and tabour.
It would have been charming, no doubt, to have surprised the hobgoblins of the forest at their mysterious frolics. But, at the least breath, they would have vanished; and running to the ballroom, we would hardly have found a few blades of slightly bent grass, to indicate their passing presence. It would have been a mockery: make us hear their laughter, invite us to share their joy, then run away at our approach, without allowing us a single quadrille.
We could not have danced with sylphs, Ninette; with peasants, never was reality more engaging.
We suddenly left the thicket. Our noisy dancers showed no disposition to take to flight. It was only a long time after we had been there that they perceived our presence. They had begun capering again. The player on the fife, who had pretended to withdraw, having seen a few pieces of money shine, had just taken to his instruments again, beating and blowing afresh, whilst sighing at the thought of prostituting melody as he was doing. It seemed to me that I recognised the slow, imperceptible measure of a waltz. I was encircling your waist, watching the moment to whirl you along in my arms, when you eagerly tore yourself away to laugh and skip, just like a bold, sunburnt peasant girl. The man with the tabour, who was becoming consoled at the sight of my preparations as a fine dancer, had only to shroud his face after that, and bewail the decline of art.
I know not how it was, Ninon, that I recalled those follies last night, our long run, our dances full of freedom and laughter. Then, this vague souvenir was followed by a hundred other vague reveries. Will you pardon me if I relate them to you? Travelling along at hazard, stopping and running without any reason, I trouble myself but little about the crowd; my tales are only very faint sketches: but you told me you were fond of them.
The dance, that chastely wanton nymph, charms rather than attracts me. I, a simple spectator, love to see her jingling her little bells throughout the world; voluptuous, twisting herself into all sorts of attitudes, blowing fiery kisses, beneath the skies of Spain and Italy; gliding along amorously in a long veil, like a dream, in blond Germany; and even when walking, reserved and skilful, in the drawingrooms of France. I like to see her everywhere; on the moss in the woods as on costly carpets; at village weddings as at glittering parties.
Gracefully bending backward, with moist eyes and lips half parted, she has passed through ages, clasping and unclasping her arms above her fair head. All doors have opened at the measured sound of her footsteps; those of temples, those of joyous retreats; there perfumed with incense, here with her gown reddened with wine, she has harmoniously struck the ground; and after so many centuries she reaches us, smiling, without her supple limbs ever hastening or delaying the melodious cadence.
Let the goddess then appear. Groups are formed, the dancing-girls camber beneath the clasp of their partners. Here is the immortal. Her extended arms hold a tambourine; she smiles, then gives the signal; the couples move, follow her steps, imitate her attitudes. And I, I love to watch that nimble rotation; I endeavour to catch all the glances, all the words of love, in the corner where I am dreaming; I experience the enthusiasm of rhythm, thanking the immortal, if she has left me ignorant and clumsy, for having given me at least the sentiment of her harmonious art.
To tell the truth, Ninette, I would prefer her, the fair goddess, in her amorous nudity, unclasping and waving her white girdle without following any rule; I would prefer her far from the ballroom, fancying herself hidden from all profane eyes, tracing her most capricious steps upon the turf. There, barely veiled, softly pressing the grass with her rosy feet, she would move about in innocent liberty; she would discover the secret of the melody of movement. There, I would go, hidden in the foliage, to admire her lovely form, slim and supple, and watch the gambols of the shadow on her shoulders, according as her caprice bore it away or brought it back.
But, sometimes, I have taken to detesting her, when she appeared to me in the shape of a young coquette, well starched and foolishly decent; when I have seen her blindly obeying an orchestra, pouting, appearing weary, stifling a yawn whilst acquitting herself of her steps as of a task. I will say all: I have never admired the immortal in a ballroom without a feeling of sorrow. Her taper legs become entangled in those long skirts of our ladies of fashion; she finds herself too much clogged, she who only wants to be free and capricious; and, in trouble, she clumsily conforms to our silly curtsies, always losing her gracefulness and often becoming ridiculous.
I would like to close our doors to her. If I bear with her sometimes beneath the chandeliers, without feeling too sad, it is, thanks to her tablets of love, to her ball-program.
Do you see it in her hand, Ninon, that little book? Look; the clasp and pencil-holder are gold; never was paper more soft or more nicely perfumed; never was there binding more elegant. That is our offering to the goddess. Others have given her the wreath and girdle: we, out of kindness of heart, have made her a present of the ball-program.
She had so many adorers, the poor child, she was so pressed with invitations, that she hardly knew what to do. Each came to admire her, begging for a quadrille, and the coquette always consented. She danced, danced, lost her memory, was overwhelmed with reproaches, and made other mistakes; hence dreadful confusion and frightful jealousy. She withdrew with aching feet and her memory gone. One took pity on her and presented her with the little golden book Since then no more forgetfulness, no more confusion nor injustice. When lovers besiege her she hands them her program; each writes his name there; it is for those who are the most in love to come first. Let them be a hundred, the white pages are numerous. If all have not squeezed her slender waist when the lights of the chandeliers begin to pale, they have only to complain of their own indolence, and not of the child’s indifference.
No doubt the system was simple, Ninon. You must be surprised at my exclamations anent a few leaves of paper. But what charming leaves, exhaling a perfume of coquetry, full of sweet secrets! What a long list of handsome sweethearts, the name of each of whom is an homage, each page an entire evening of triumph and adoration! What a magic book, containing a life of tenderness, in which the profane can only spell out vain names, whilst the young girl reads offhand an account of her beauty and the admiration she excites!
Each comes in turn to make submission, each comes and signs his love-letter. Are they not, indeed, the thousand signatures to a declaration under the rose? Ought one not, if one were of good faith, to write them on the first page, those eternal phrases that are always young? But the little book is discreet; it will not make its mistress blush. It and she alone know what to dream of.
Frankly, I suspect it of being very artful. See how it dissembles, how simple and necessary it makes itself. What is it, if not an aid for memory? Quite a primitive means of doing justice, by giving each one his turn. It speak of love, it agitate young girls! You make a great mistake. Turn over the pages; you will not find the smallest “I love you.” It says truly, nothing is more innocent, more simple, more primitive than I. And, indeed, parents notice it in their daughters’ hands without alarm. Whilst the note signed with a single name is hidden in the bodice, the letter bearing a thousand signatures is