Chapter 20 1906

Return to La Roque. How dangerous!How dangerous it is to do so many things at the same time!I'm completely distracted. Olga wanted to learn more, and she was accompanied by Em to the Louvre. She stopped in front of the great works, faced Miro's "Venus" and said: "It's a pity, she has no arms!" "Apollo of Thoroktorus," she said she especially admired the lizard. Head tired.Only by writing can I get rest, regardless of the harvest, the game... I am far from it.In my head every thought assumes a brooding look; I've become this ugly thing: A busy man.

Being silly yesterday, I missed the general rehearsal of Gürer's new play, and Copp gave us two seats for nothing. We finished reading Madame de d'Epinay's Memoirs aloud.The book would have been better without Grimm.From time to time I came across some attractive passages, and I transcribed several of them.The best part is the first half of the first book. We tried to read The Knight of Detoush, but at page twenty the book fell from my hands.I want to continue reading in a low voice.I find it equally beneficial to cultivate my hatred or my love.What this man writes is nothing but rhetoric and rhetoric from beginning to end.

We spent two evenings reading Princess de Montbancier.I'm too tired to make any comments.Weird times when good writing is confused with politeness.Customs rule the mind. The sun is shining brightly this morning.Air dry.I don't know my own mind, and I don't feel my age. We are going to the Val d'Olnay (with the Schellenbergs) to choose a thuja for our garden in Auteuil at the Crewe's. Yesterday Coppel saw a performance of The Death of Dandajiller in the box of the von Reiselbergers. (I didn't go to watch it.) Kebo burst into tears. He said: "It has become my sickness. I can't stop crying when I go to the theater." Mrs. Theo asked him what he thought of the performance, and he said that Hui Hui replied: "Everyone cares too much about the little ones." He paused, and then said: "This is also the shortcoming of this script."

Last night I was afraid I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I went out before going to bed.It is no longer the boulevard that attracts me, but the surroundings of the Odeon Theater-there are always disturbances on the boulevard.I was about to leave Rue Raspail and flee to the other side of Paris when I found the Latin Quarter. Behind the Collège de France, along the Saint-Louis Lyceum, was a vague, shapeless street, barely lit, with a palisade in places broken; it was into this street that the boy I was following entered.Neither his smile nor my curiosity made me decide to follow him again.

Style: Neither so far-sighted nor so prudent; cautious; infinitely cautious. Art, while perfectly interpreted, still retains the unexpected. It rained for three more days.My head was tired, my mind was restless, and my personality was blurred.All sorts of chores made any real writing impossible, and real writing alone gave me rest.I dare not pick up my novel again, lest my passion and enthusiasm should be greatly weakened.I started practicing piano again, out of mental hygiene, but not in a step-by-step manner.What I wrote turned ugly.Sleep is restless, often trembling and startling, like the sleep of prey.

Strange evening at Charmva's house on Friday.The studio was filled with gigantic statues, and some twenty or so skillfully placed candles were reflected in fantastic scenes: candles here and there, some in the corners of the turntables, others in the folds of the angel's cloak , while these gigantic angels held Beethoven—in this studio heated by a small iron stove, the Josés and I, we waited for the Princesse de Broy and Mademoiselle Barnay. At about ten o'clock, the sound of the princess's car came, and it appeared in the night-filled doorway in a short while.The princess was wearing a ermine coat, which she took off casually and was caught by Sharmwa with both hands.A half-short black velvet dress revealed a large expanse of pearly skin; jet-black straps held the bodice.Her face was petite and tired; her almost-virgin hairstyle hardly made her look young.However, there are no wrinkles on the face, but it is indeed exhausted.

As soon as she came in, she looked at me through her glasses.Her spectacles had gold handles, and the chains on the gold handles were fastened to a delicate ruby ​​bracelet. Her intention to seduce is blatant. A leather covering was draped over the back of a straw chair, and she found it "not very comfortable" to sit on; a soup pot was placed on the floor to warm her slender feet, still wrapped in a shawl.Miss Barney was behind her, hiding in persuasive silence, allowing the other to flaunt. On January 18, Gide left for Vienna to watch the performance of his play "King Candor" translated into German.When he returned home by train, he described the scenery of the Moselle River.

I love this view: the dip of the earth across the grass in shades of ocher.The uniform flow of a river is like a train.A little upstream, a little far from us, there is a canal with a fiber boat floating on the water.Beyond the canal, the ground rises; the winter fallow is bare; a rocky outcrop; beyond that, a sky with dark clouds hanging low.Trees line the banks of the canal.The low-lying meadows were submerged by half-thawed snow and river water, and there were patches of indefinable white between the rushes, which were the reflection of the pale sky. There was a very interesting Tahiti newsletter in the Mission, for which I brought up Darwin's and read Em his wonderful account of his stay on the Oceanic island.

I'm still reading on my own. I am hungry and thirsty, and I haven't read in such a healthy way for a long time.In reading, each new thought presented itself to me, and immediately penetrated into my heart and assimilated it, as if I had been waiting for it and arranged a place for it. I remember some reading materials in my childhood, so pleasantly refreshing, I feel that sentences are material things.Tonight I had this wonderful feeling again... I stayed in the garden until five o'clock, and Marius and I pruned my roses against the strong wind, and returned to the house, frozen all over, but still intoxicated by nature.How beautiful this gray and blue slate sky is above the brown-red hills and leafless avenue trees!

In the conservatory, a thick-spotted iris gave me a delicate, green-blackened flower.In the garden, almost all plants of the genus Chopsticks are in flower. The misery in Germany continued.I resisted with all my might, and yet it did a vile wound to my heart. I'll leave the hateful diatribes to their own devices; if I answer, I'll just touch on this little point, which is the point that the barking people don't understand: "Mr. An Ji certainly didn't know Hebel's script; we'd love to believe it. Otherwise, he wouldn't have written it, or written it differently."

What exactly does this mean? ? ? I finished reading Memories of Two Wives.The book is vague and sloppy; yet, the whole book has the outlines of a masterpiece.A peculiar way to squeeze the subject matter.Balzac...he had the genius to tie all his clues suddenly; for example, the first sentence of this book can only be conceived by a mind with a high IQ. A genius who is not good at criticism. (See the preface to Eve's Daughter; judge the novels of the countries of Europe.) The von Reiselbergers, the Johann Schellenbergers, Gaion and I, we left the Scola Music School ("Orfeo" was very mediocre) and stopped at the Lilac Garden Café After a while, I saw a table in the back, the remnants of the magazine, surrounded by Paul Fore and his wife, Breard and some strangers.We shook hands.Breard began to flatter me greatly: "I thank you, Gide .Should be avoided.Because he insisted on giving me an example: "I don't know how to put this huge toad in my words..." I suddenly interjected: "But I am very happy that it is placed in your mouth." I blurted out the words . For three days I packed my books with the energy of a Vandal.As the bookcase gradually emptied, I felt my mind clear.I experienced at the same time a predatory intoxication, and an intoxication in arranging the books accurately, carefully, and skillfully in the basket. Finally, I face the work again, and nothing can separate me from the work.Duplicated my letter yesterday and this morning.Started practicing the piano again.Received manuscript paper.Received sample booklet of Amantas. My time hasn't been spent yet.Too much free time, I face a little dizzy.To set markers.This evening, I read Hugo's Welmann to Paul. Went to read to Cobb last night what I had written.I dined at his house; in the afternoon I went to the Little George Gallery to send Copper my Amantas, then to the swimming pool, and to the Hermitage.The weather is perfect, and I'm well-equipped. After supper, first Copp read some passages of "Amantas" to his wife; then I took the book from him, and read the passage on the flute, Dro, and so on. Mrs. Copper said goodbye, and I took the manuscript out of the bag.It reads okay at first, then sinks into a swamp of boredom.It was a sad impression; perhaps not chiefly on Coppel, but on myself; and, besides, he knew almost the whole thing.I even blamed myself for being so unlucky, and turned to him for help before I made more progress.How much work still has to be done!The whole thing must be refurbished.Excellent payout for this evening.Copp is a good doctor, not cruel at all, even overly tolerant, but it can strengthen my impression of him.Of course, I knew him well enough to not be very ashamed to come to see him without being a little dressed. The stupid thing I did this afternoon was to go to see Blanche.The indignation I feel against him really makes me believe that life is eternal.After I came back, I couldn't work, and I couldn't even practice the piano.Had to go out for a change of air.None of my thoughts fought against it. Skilled at spoiling the happiness of others—with no malice, simply ignorant of any other form of happiness except that which his fortune allows him to enjoy—and he himself is incapable of pursuing it.It is conceivable that the happiness he seeks is mainly reflected in the convenience of using things, rather than freely dominating himself; he is a very dependent person.He is especially prone to pity the happiness of others.He said, or said clearly: "Oh! God! How can you be happy with this? If it were me, I would..." He was not pitying, but exhorting. I derive a calm health from the excellent Poussin (by Paul de Jardin). — For some days, Paul and I, we got up at six o'clock (he went to work in the factory at seven-thirty); Bach replaced Chopin, Pascal replaced Montaigne.My "Amantas" arrived almost three times.My novels are slowly being revised in my head, not so much about expressing emotion very subtly, but about accumulating details that "build" character. I thought I knew Pascal, but every day I discover something new in it. Em returned from Couverville yesterday.At eleven o'clock I met her at Gare Saint-Lazare, and took the ring train, which arrived here at midnight. The key to the mirrored wardrobe was nowhere to be found. Em must have been in the basket she brought, on top of four dozen eggs.The egg was shaking all the way, but the key was heavier, so it naturally slipped under the basket.We groped cautiously for fear of breaking the eggs, and brought out gloves, short veils, scissors, handkerchiefs, and who knows what else?There are ten boxes of matches!Just missing the key.So I decided to take out the eggs one by one.Each egg is wrapped in paper, and a layer of paper is removed, and the fresh egg is in the hand, very clean, showing a matte milky white.Eugène Roire's checkered plate forms a wonderful still life with bright blue and green plates.It's one o'clock in the morning, the baskets are empty, the plates are full, and we admire the still life.However, the key has never been seen. The best thing I could do with Paul was to try to get him to give me advice and teach me the best way to work.For this he had to do it himself.In this way, the two of us get up at six o'clock.With him, I'll admit that the chores-first lifestyle sucks.This way of life is an excuse to wait until the mind is completely clear before working, so I write late letters, read newspapers, and organize things.In fact, we must start with our work.You must go straight to the point, without hesitation, start immediately, and devote the greatest and fullest energy in the morning to work. Received an excellent letter from Claudel this morning.Also received a nice and touching letter from Maucleur.I want to reply right away. Paul - a man without morals.Then there must be more talent. Slowly, as slowly as possible, I read through Paul de Jardin's instructive book by Poussin, excerpting quite a few passages.I sent for his book: The Method of the Classical Writers, which was recommended to me by Maurice Deney (he lunched with us on Monday). —Wish Maurice Deney was more difficult to satisfy himself.However, I was a little worried, because I was afraid that it would greatly damage his body. He talked about Henri Matisse, and said that Matisse showed Rodin his paintings and was furious when he left the master's sculpture room, because Rodin might have said to him: "Draw slowly stroke by stroke, stroke by stroke." Draw slowly. After you draw slowly for half a month, you can show me this picture." Coutar came for lunch.Slightly bloated, resembling an "America Returns" guy.I will not assist Paul to get rid of him.Things just take their course.If I manipulated secretly, some of Paul's vanity behavior would lose some interest to me. After lunch, I rushed to the Monet exhibition and joined Gaion again.We went to the new company to see Kebo together. (A marvelous bust of Rodin.) At the Maison des Independence we pass through the crowd and see Garnier, Murray, Guérin, Roirard again; In the arms of a young man who held him, he called my name loudly from across the hall and said, "I'm a little bit drunk." Then burped your nose.Verlaine was drunk.When Rhett was drunk, he seemed even more insignificant; it was simply repulsive; we ignored it. All you see is vulgarity.How can one listen when caught up in such an ignorant mob?How can I pay attention to it honestly? —The Walkersell articles peddled at the door are insane. Lunch at Mrs. Browndon's with Casimir and his mother.It was quite embarrassing to hear the young man call me "you".Mrs. Brownon was excellent.However, with her, you have to put your pride in your pocket.Why should my book be presented to her?I really can't tell myself.Maybe out of "graciousness".This kind of "attentiveness" has to be changed. I can't help but go to the Louvre today.This need has been restrained for a week.I blame myself because, at first glance, Poussin's paintings seem bleak.It was only after walking around the exhibition hall and looking at it again that the paintings became brighter.I appreciate this simplicity and bulkiness.No technique was employed, no talent was exercised; perhaps no artist's mind has ever commanded such a craft from such a high level. In The Defense of Raymond de Seppander, I walked patiently forward. There is no doubt that the hidden purpose of mythology is to prevent the development of science. Poor Jew, immoral Protestant, worthless. I will never allow anything to harm me; on the contrary, I will allow everything to work for me.I mean, turn everything into something beneficial. Inside Pavel's head—clear, resonant and cold—it was like a room without furniture and fire... This morning, there is not a dizzy gap between my pen and my head. Little Paul lives here, and I have learned almost everything I can learn now.He stayed by my side for so long that I was afraid I would become a Christian again.I feel that it is too obvious how useful some of the aphorisms in the "Gospel" are to him, and I can't help but hate seeing him squandering the spiritual legacy accumulated for him through the struggle of many generations without aesthetic feeling. (This line seems to have been taken from an essay by Clarty; really, once I set out to write "beautifully," I was done.) He was so pretentious to the extreme that he had become sickly, like a tumor, which should be cured, but perhaps there was not much hope for a cure.Perhaps it was in his nature that he valued the pleasures of vanity above all else.He is troubled. He claims he's better now; I'm afraid he really thinks so.In fact, it is not the case, he himself will not be fooled and believe in this appearance.Indeed, after an hour or two of quiet work, he returned to that clear complexion which I sometimes thought was lost forever... An hour later, his cheeks burned again to a hideous brick-red color, his eyes Heaviness, eyelids closed... So, what's the difference between him and any other idler?He was in close association with them; that was, in fact, his social circle; even his pretensions brought him close to the people where, and only there, his surviving securities were still in circulation. Re-reading my old letters to Em, all of which I brought from Couverville.I try to find nourishment for my novel, but in vain.But I can also see nakedly all the flaws in my thinking.None of them didn't annoy me. Paul—he has his virtues; he had his virtues before, and I liked many things about him then. Why should I care for gifts in people who don't know how to mature them? I watched with interest the slow change in my image in his mind. It is very comfortable to start working in the morning. All my jobs require this, whether it is practicing the piano, learning dead languages, reading, writing letters, or keeping a diary in this book. Divided into extremely precious moments. Heredia's collection and part of Verhaeren's collection, auctioned for a week.One day I go to the previous auction, and the next day I go to the second auction.Between book purchases, I caught a bad cold and couldn't go out. In the bookstore, Potts, Arnotto and I bid for a few books. (I'll keep detailed notes on my book purchases in another journal.) Most of the books are well over their original cost.Everyone gets wrapped up in chasing books that are half-desired or not wanted at all. I am going to acquire a volume of poetry by Debord Valmor; I hope to give it to Marie de Rainier.I still remember one day, alone with me in her father's office, reciting "The Rose of Saadi" to me. The cold dragged me home. Two hours' delay in going to Auteuil for ten minutes of adulterated excitement.I'm not used to such mediocre fun.The chief cause of my low spirits was that, wandering about on the grass, I did not meet a single person with whom I longed to talk or sleep. Before Paul left for the south (he traveled by car with Pierre-Espina for three days), I had another conversation with him, hoping that he would disarm me with a few words and make me feel that I was still alive. All the tenderness she involuntarily reserved for him. As I have already said, he is (especially to me) a connoisseur of sycophants.Let me explain: For all the sublime feelings I arouse in the face of him, I am always indebted to myself.Yes, every time Paul makes me play the prettiest part.Unfortunately, this kind of drama doesn't make much sense. After dinner last night, Gaion came to pull me out again.I walked the main road with him and didn't return to Auteuil until two o'clock in the morning.I woke up today feeling a little tired, but my mind was clear, sharp, and very happy to be active. After reading Saint-Beuve's unremarkable essay on Grimm, and writing a few words about Barres, he went out by the gate of the woods with Montaigne's writings and Flaubert's letter to his niece.When I saw an empty chair, I sat down and wrote these few lines.The sky is clear and the air is bright, and the breathing is very free. The blue sky has lasted for three days.The air is still cooler.I diligently enjoy everything. Went to see Jacques Blanche yesterday. "What a beautiful day!" I couldn't help saying as soon as I entered the house.And he immediately said: "Oh! How can you say such a thing? The weather is very bad. The 'good day' you call is the only weather I can't stand." Such words are like blasphemy. I was furious.I can only pick a rainy day to visit Blanche. He likes to be with him, everything around him is gloomy. Excellent letter from Raymond Bonnaire in reply to a letter I wrote to Carrière on the occasion of his death.In the postscript this disturbing line: "I have received a letter from Francis Jamm that will become the sorrow of my life." At each critical juncture, Yam's lack of true kindness reappeared. Nevertheless, yesterday I received two volumes of his poems ("The Church in the Leaves" and "Thoughts in the Garden"), full of wonderful passages. I read a few more pages of Anatole France... I would have liked Franz a little more relaxed and natural, if some rash person hadn't tried to make him a great writer.So I asked myself, afraid that I would be unfair.I went back to "Literary Life", especially "The Garden of Epicurus", where his thoughts are expressed most directly.I saw this sentence and applauded it: "There is one thing above all that gives charm to the mind: it is the emotion of restlessness. A mind that has no sense of restlessness annoys and disgusts me." I think of the words of Goethe: "To tremble (das schauern) is the best part of man." Alas!Exactly so... No matter how much I concentrate, it's useless... I can't feel France's trembling at all; I don't tremble when I read France. He was eloquent, shrewd, and elegant.He embodies the triumph of euphemism.However, he has always lacked uneasy emotions, and others can see through him at a glance.I don't particularly believe that the works of those who let everyone reach a consensus can last for a long time.I also very much doubt that people of our grandchildren will be able to find more and better readable things than us when we open his book in the future.I know that in my case, I never felt that he was ahead of my thoughts.In any case, he was only explaining the thought.Readers thank him for that.France flattered them.Every reader can think to himself: "This is beautiful. After all, I'm not so stupid: I thought of that, too." He was a good companion, that is to say, he was always thinking of others.Maybe he doesn't value what he can't show them.Also, judging by the shrinkage of what he showed us, I also suspect that his experience is not very rich.He is fully present in the dialogue, in the paraphrase. Those who visited him thanked him for introducing them into the drawing room, into the studio; these were rooms on the same level; the rest of the house was of little importance.However, I'd be uncomfortable without being suspicious, suspecting that a crime was happening in the next room and that sex was going on in the other. Paul Laurent, who came to lunch and stayed with me all afternoon, told me again the sad words of Abel: "Oh! how hard it is to lose the dream of youth!" In Blanche's studio, there are works that he will send to the exhibition.A woman with her clothes off was sitting on a sofa bed.There were gorgeous piles of cloth all around; in a corner stood an orange (if I recall correctly), and nearer to her was a green plush wolf.Gorgeousness takes the place of sensuality.As I was silent before this scene, Jacques-Emile said to me: "Well! I know that these are not of much interest to the public. But a real painter will like them." Precisely this is the least favorite of real painters. The number is increasing... I can think about this kind of thing myself, and I can talk about it a little bit, but I must never let others talk about it.For example, the beginning of the book is badly written. Yesterday morning, just after nine o'clock, I couldn't work, I couldn't even be alone for a while, and I was exhausted by the end of the day. A sense of trepidation runs through my work this morning: How did Jacques Kopp come home last Saturday night?On Sundays I went to the Little George Gallery to inquire about the return.Copper was away, and I left him a note asking eagerly... Later, .I'm going again tonight. What a joy it was to go out yesterday with Elie Allegra's four children.Domi and I took them to the Animal Taming Garden.Along the way, little John and little Andrei stayed close to me.After a while, someone suddenly held my hand excitedly.I breathed their intimacy, as if smelling a fragrance.John took my right hand, little Andrea took my left. ——The weather is fine.We saw a balloon go up into the sky. Little John.His uneasy look focused on every time I paid for money (buying train tickets, paying carriage fares, buying tickets, eating snacks). Johann's brother Eric made a very interesting remark, and I tried to relay it to Jana, but when I met Johann's disturbed eyes, I stopped abruptly.No doubt he had never heard any of their speeches mentioned by his parents (and thanks to this, the children all spoke so naturally and beautifully), so he could not believe that I mentioned them because they were interesting; he was worried about them. The words are out of proportion. Already a great shepherd boy - "guide of the flock" - no regard for his own pleasure - always preoccupied with clinging to his little brothers and keeping one from going away; if not seeing them all at the same time Man, he's going to panic. I cling to work, but I am troubled by distractions, and I can't help but seek entertainment. After reading Paul de Jardin's excellent book, it has been a long time since I have read a work of literary criticism that satisfies me so much. After his "Poussin", I read his "Corneille", and I was not in any hurry to finish it. reread.The difficulties that Flaubert determined for himself to overcome were all on the same level, and he always used the same common denominator to eliminate them. Since yesterday, we have adopted a little black dog who has been wandering outside the gate for three days, half dead from starvation.Its fur has been felted, and it is covered with thick limestone from sleeping in a house built nearby.At two o'clock in the morning, Em asked me to go downstairs to see if the dog was barking and we locked it in the cellar.I don't think it's very intelligent, but it has a gentle temperament. In my bathtub, I soaped the poor pup up and gave it a bath, hoping that once it was clean it would add some shine to its coat color!Now, it looks more and more like a dog guiding the blind.As for me, I was planning to get a "pure breed" dog, but now I can't change it! ——It doesn't matter.It should also be known here that events that choose me are more popular than events that I might choose myself. Jam wrote me a curate-like letter on sky-blue letterhead, reminding the doctor that he wanted to convince Pulsenia that he was ill.Maybe I was on the threshold of heaven, but not through the gate as he thought. "It seems that your mood is restless," he said, "like a cork in the water." I can't work hard without feeling restless. (I look at the draft of my letter to him.) Went out at about two o'clock yesterday afternoon.to Albert's. It was his wife who opened the door for me, calling from the bottom of the stairs leading to the studio: "Father, here comes Andrei." Then she went up with me, sat down to participate in our conversation, and hindered us. Unable to communicate, she stayed there for two hours without leaving for a moment.Every time I went to see Albert, it was all like this.With her or without her, it was almost all those topics...but the way of talking was different. I felt that Albert had had enough.I don't know what excuse he found, he sent me to the hall and then to the corridor in fear, leaned over and whispered to me: "I can't be alone anymore." I saw two old tears falling down, and he quickly wiped them away. . When the couple came to Auteuil, with Em accompanying his wife, I was able to spend a longer time alone with him.At such times he repeated to me the sad words at the end of his father's will: "My dear children, you must not have ambitions." Albert added in a sombre tone: "He Just know we don’t have that kind of power.” I can't help thinking that Albert's father, on his deathbed, had to shrink back so greatly, weeping silently that night with his back to the light, while his wife read newspapers or embroidered by his side, and Albert, out of respect for his father, Pretend not to see anything. A way, I can't impose it on myself too much, it's not that I don't want to follow, but my body has been resisting my mind's suggestion. Of what value is my determination to get up at dawn, or to stay up when I am sleepy, if the night fails to sleep?I have to play tricks with myself, and when the time comes, I will choose what is good. Read Paul de Jardin's essay on Corneille.Very wonderful.slightly longer. Em was supposed to go to Culverville yesterday, but unexpectedly I felt very ill, so I begged her to postpone my departure for a day.After lunch, we went to the Bois de Boulogne, taking advantage of the sudden improvement in our condition, and then walked along the ramp at the site of the old city wall until we reached the Moxie and the Boulevard H. Mardin.Sit for a while with my aunt Charles.Paul enthusiastically proposed to me that he come to stay with me while Em was away.I had to tell him, as kindly as I could, that I preferred to be quiet. Go to the tram management office, meet M, who is waiting for me, and we will go to the art exhibition to see the brothers Paul and Pierre Laurent. Paul's painting is lacking: the title "This Road Is No Way" is not enough to give.What I mean is, to dominate the structure of a work; especially in a painting, to decide what line and tone to choose.It is impossible to tell whether the young women were afraid of the ram and wanted to rush past it, or if, on the contrary, they saw the ram and went up to it in order to "tease" (to quote a reporter) it. We went from one exhibition hall to another, and almost bumped into Besnal, who was busy receiving the King of Sweden with a state ceremony.Also met Jana Bodo and her mother, I wouldn't have recognized them without M. When I got home, I wanted to sleep.If there is no Bobo to disturb me, I will fall asleep.I was sleepy, and I had nothing to say to him, let alone listen to him, so I soon asked him to leave on the pretext of being extremely tired.He said he would come back next time and read his new script to me. Do a little errands before dinner. After dinner, read the beginnings of a few paragraphs to Em.The description of the garden is good, but what about the rest...? "The Secret of Princess Cadignan", we read aloud at the beginning, and then I read it in a low voice. ... I went out after dinner, from eight o'clock to ten o'clock, wandered on the main road, to be more precise, wandered - I didn't meet any really interesting, really outstanding ones, I stopped and stopped, and walked the same way for a while Returning, hesitating must look like a madman.Whenever I wandered at night, I always had to ask a friend to accompany me.For a while, I sat on the terrace of a cafe at random, facing a glass of beer; an ugly Arab from Tunisia sat down next to me, without attracting my attention, and suddenly asked me if I had been there for a long time. Altman is gone. When I got home at 10:30, I was still worried that I would not be able to fall asleep. Unexpectedly, I fell asleep until 7:00 in the morning. This is really a situation that has not happened in several months. Woke up this morning feeling very refreshed. An appointment with poor Henry just out of jail (Friday at 5pm, across from the "Chives") was arranged for John, who had some clothes for Henry, I think.Nothing could be more deplorable than this lad's life; I blame myself for leaving yesterday in too much haste: At my aunt Charles' house, the talk dragged on a bit, and I missed a spectacular sunset.As soon as I got to Bell Tower Street, I had to listen to her talk about my troubles.She was ill, but she mentioned her body occasionally, but she talked endlessly about Paul. "What happened to him yesterday? He drank six cups of coffee. He opened his law book, closed it again, and exclaimed, 'Oh! I can't do it today.' He flipped through the Two Worlds Magazine and threw it in at the table, saying: 'It's no fun at all.' Finally, as if he couldn't take it anymore, he got up and went out. Where did he go? ... Even his father, Andrei, his father who didn't pay attention to anything, didn't Said: 'Hey! What's the matter with him tonight?'" When I went to Bell Tower Street, I wanted to meet him for dinner.He was supper at Robert Burnnen's.I was eager to see him, because the day before yesterday he seemed to have thrown me into the fog again, so I refused dinner, ran away from my aunt's house, and went to look for him in the Rue Varennes. 在地铁车厢里，写了我的小说的一个场面；看了巴尔贝的《备忘录》（第二本）。令人击节，他多会运用 保尔支配别人的意志，比支配他自己的更容易，他决定我同他午夜去罗杰的包厢找科波。我提出自己累了，还有工作任务，但是说什么也没用；不过，我发现安托万剧院演出《野鸭》，不用别人催促，我也会有兴致前往，不管怎样，我还是愿意听听的，便和这些青年走在大马路上（他们离开我去看《马克西姆饭店的女郎》了）。 我原打算只在安托万剧院呆一小会儿，先把保尔、罗杰撂一边等等，但是这出奇特的剧把我吸引住，正像初读的日子。我不能走了。 乘环城火车回欧特伊。 我想，这是我有生以来第一次失约。说好午夜时分，我同保尔在“文艺复兴”剧院门前会合，上楼到罗杰包厢找科波。可是我感到累了，对演员那套把戏也不感兴趣（尤其考虑保持他们角色的统一性，从而不再给自己准备意外了），第四幕演了四分之三，我才离开安托万剧院，犹豫要不要等候保尔。见一辆开往圣拉扎尔的公共汽车便上去，又见一辆开往“文艺复兴”剧院的公共汽车又上去，重又登上一辆到圣拉扎尔，主要怕同时和保尔、罗杰吃夜宵。还担心明日工作状态不佳，既吝惜时间、精力和金钱，又感到厌烦，尤为可怕的是，看到保尔以为他能把我的意志当成玩物。 一种感情，一旦能为我所用，我就怀疑其了。正是这一点，促使我逃避雅姆的文章。这件事相当滑稽（可惜信件全部保存下来）。对我来说，这篇文章极为重要，但是却基于一种误会。我开始相信，我的自豪感还要大于我的自尊——还用恶毒的手段对付我自身。 思考这种苦行的需要。 我取了这个小开本的日记本，好能装进兜里。我喜欢带在身上，无论走到哪里，随时可以掏出来写几笔，就像今天等理发这样。另一本太大，能容得特别大的胃口。 过两天我要赶往库沃维尔。这个念头，就足以打乱我每天的安排。前天和昨天两个整天，就用来采购物品。买了这个牛津笔记本，还没有这个特小本子的时候，七日之后我就没有本子记了；当然也没有做什么值得一书的事情；我这松懈下来的思想，就飘忽不定了。我必须下决心去看看大夫。已经有三四年了，我早就该下这个决心。身体这样疲惫，品德这样减退，我容忍的时间太久了。absurd!一套生活的规定，如果能允许我多写作，严格一点儿又有什么关系！比起我可能创作出的作品，迄今为止拿出来的东西又算什么呢？四年里，我在苦苦挣扎，在原地踏步。 ... 四点钟在香葱餐馆门前，相约同可怜的亨利和若望·施伦贝格见面。我们将亨利带进一家咖啡馆，好能同他聊聊。试图抢救一下这个遇了难的可怜人。我们陪他到工会办公室，（屠夫伙计）他应当拿着登记单出来，就可以找活儿干了。我们在门口白等了一阵，最后上楼找他，从狭窄的楼梯到办公室，却不见人影。由于时间紧迫，而且我们也有他的地址，趁着还来得及，就赶往O街，我还费劲拿着给亨利的一双鞋，我们慷慨给予的其他东西等以后再说。 如果今天我能更加关心别人的话，我就会多谈谈这个可怜的亨利，也会同样善待他。他的精神垮了，比我开头以为的还要严重。他养成了懒惰的习惯。他人一点儿也不坏，我这话的意思是他并不喜欢作恶，也不大抵制善；然而，他判断人际关系的方法相当愚蠢，宁可受穷受苦，也不肯努力做点儿什么事。 （保尔最小努力的理论，势必将实践者拖向某种贫困境地——智力、精神或物质的贫困。这一真理显然十分普通，没有必要强调了。） 昨天到达库沃维尔。天气好极了，类似我童年最幸福的时刻。我是在厨房上面的大房间里写下这些文字的，温暖快乐的阳光，从我两边敞着的窗户射进来。惟独我映在桌子上方墙壁上的镜子里的倦容，妨害我的幸福发展到圆满。（我需要按部就班地重新学会幸福。这是一种体操，好似运动员的体操；） 我穿着绿色和蓝色镶边的便鞋，双脚放在阳光里。这股暖流透进我的肌肤，像生命的汁液沿着躯体上升。这一时刻，只要不拿它同过去别的时刻相比较，就能感到完全幸福——而过去那些时刻，我往往不会很好享受，只因我拿它们比较将来别的时刻。这一时刻充满了欢快，决不亚于将来或过去任何别的时刻。草坪的青草深深，如同墓地的荒草。农场园子里的苹果树，枝头开满厚厚一层花。树干涂了白灰，那白色一直延伸到地面。没有一丝风给我送来芳香，尤其紫藤的芬芳： 那紫藤靠别墅左边，正鲜花盛开，在室内就听得见那里蜜蜂的嗡鸣。一只蜜蜂飞进这个房间，就不愿飞走了。阳光就仿佛给每件物品涂上蜂蜜。 昨天日落之前，我抽空儿到花园转了一圈儿。倾向网球场的那株大苹果树，冲着夕阳的最后光芒微笑，刷刷作响，并且变成粉红色。几小时之前，一阵暴雨铺天盖地而来，扫尽了天空的乌云。树叶都变得娇嫩了。尤其那两大株紫橡的叶子，还没有发紫，而是透明，呈金黄色，宛若长发，在我的上方垂下来。我从花园后边小角门出去，又望见太阳、太阳前面山毛榉林地所构成的明亮的悬崖，觉得整个景象那么柔美，那么新鲜，简直要流下喜悦的眼泪。在我身上，眼泪并不是悲伤的特权，倒是赞赏、感动、突发而强烈的同情、过度喜悦的特权。（从我童年以来，）我不记得为个人的伤心事流过一滴泪，而我特别容易，也特别喜欢流泪；在剧院里，只要听到阿伽门农的名字就够了： 我会泪如雨下。我的激动从伴随它的这种生理现象中，得出它是真情的保证。 这种激动来得十分凶猛，仿佛将我击倒；回到室内，就感到头痛得相当厉害，吃过晚饭就困得不行，便回房睡觉了。 上床前看了阿特娜伊丝（欧多克西亚）的传记，看了几行塔西陀的作品。 午饭后，去睡了一小时（看了德尚谈费拉罗的平庸的文章），醒来只听蜜蜂的嗡鸣震耳欲聋。一群蜜蜂逃离弗雷蒙家，落入厨房的烟囱里。弗雷蒙要捉住的这群幼蜂，还不知飞往哪里，看得见在房顶变化的蜂阵，只待炉灶里烧一张纸就被熏走，落到草坪间一棵雪松的最矮枝上。马里于斯夫妇和三个不大好看的孩子、弗雷蒙和Em，都在观看，我也加入他们的行列。蜂群嗡鸣刺耳，被阳光照得晕头转向，围着树枝盘旋；一片活跃的云渐渐收缩，不大工夫，大部分蜜蜂固定下来，有些直接落到树枝上，其余的则附在已落下的蜜蜂的身上，形成一个葫芦状，眼看着就扩大，膨胀，拉长，继而，不时往草坪大滴大滴落下如滚烫的树脂。 于是，佃户弗雷蒙就去取蜂房。他回来时，马里于斯准备好了折梯；蜂群没有动窝。弗雷蒙目测好地面到那根树枝的距离，削了一根同样长的杆子，将蜂房固定上。接着，他将梯子移近，登上去，将杆子搭在那根树枝上；这时，蜜蜂稍微动起来，也就是说，蜂群表面就好像突然开始蒸发。总之，全都安排得十分妥当，树枝被杆子和蜂房的重量压得微微倾斜，全靠到梯子上稳住，蜂房像盖子似的，在上方给蜂群遮住太阳。还撑开一把伞，给整个蜂群更好地遮阴，一半搭在树枝上，一半搭在梯子上，处于微妙的平衡，刮一点儿风就会掀翻，——不过今天，空气特别平静，就连远处林荫路树木的高枝，也难得望见动一动。 我被太阳晒昏了，便离开那里，到花径里写下这些行文字——花径靠果园的部分正好避阴。我看见对面一排幽暗的月桂树上方，别墅的墙头探出已经成荫的高大杉树。我的右首，一溜儿靠墙栽植的果树，树梢接近新铺的鲜红色的房瓦；一株雪白的高大苹果树伸出一枝，在蓝天的欢乐中摇晃。 弗雷蒙等到“凉爽的时候”，又回来了，他拿着一根长杆，杆头绑了一把接骨木叶子，好像一个扫把了。接骨木叶子事先用脚踏过，又浸在水桶里，就有驱赶蜜蜂的作用：“这对蜜蜂就跟毒药似的，”他解释说。他把杆子举到蜂群下方，等了约半小时，让接骨木的气味将蜜蜂驱赶到蜂房里。这招儿也不灵。天色黑下来。要么丢下蜂群不管，要么尽快想办法。我提议截断树枝。这正是弗雷蒙想提而不好意思讲的。马里于斯去拿来一把整枝大剪。弗雷蒙登上梯子，用双手把住蜂群两边的树枝。这时，草上已经铺开一条毛巾，把蜂房放到毛巾上，但又不是平放在地面，而是翘着靠在一块木板上，以免压着已经落在上面的几只蜜蜂。马里于斯一下子就剪断树枝。这个办法最好了，弗雷蒙将蜂房起来，将带蜂群的树枝插到蜂房和毛巾之间。 可是，这一切做完之后，弗雷蒙又发现他衬衣（外衣已经脱下）上，落了一小队蜜蜂，有点气势汹汹。这件事最有趣的，我要说最有刺激性的，就是为了摆脱最后这几只蜜蜂，马里于斯和弗雷蒙一通折腾，做些怪动作；他们每人头上都罩着一块白布，在晚上这样又蹦又跳，手臂乱舞，真像是一场假面舞会，让那么多女佣和孩子好开心。幸而天黑了，蜜蜂发蒙，谁也没有挨蜇，皆大欢喜促进了每人的欢乐（或者说每人的欢喜促进了皆大欢乐——如此等等——越说越荒谬）。 我只能是个老孩子，永远也不会长大成人。我过着抒情诗人的生活，不讲求后果；可是也有两三个念头，横贯我的头脑，就像横杠一样固定不动，也把任何快乐给钉死了。无论什么想摇动我头脑的侧翼，偶然一来就会受到伤害。 给雅姆写一封非常重要的信，读蒙田。 午饭后加工我的小说。 ... 同Em喝茶，高声朗读达尔文的作品一小时。 约摸五点钟，我到克里克托集市。碌碌庶众，我避而远之，像窃贼似的在店铺后面溜来溜去，怕的是没有问候认出我的人，或者问候认不出我的人。几辆篷车上坐着十二三个孩子，都很丑陋，都非常可怜。回到家中，心里深深地悲哀。 真可怕，这一时期我老了。肯定我身上有什么东西不行了。人不可能老得这么快，也不可能发觉老得这么厉害。现在我还难以认真对待，认为这是一时疲惫的缘故。去年同一个时期，我已经感到这种可怕的衰老了。 不行，阿尔贝的身体实在让我担心。我动身了，急于去看看他。现在他只能吃鸡蛋了，今天早晨到各佃户家收集了两打。 天气冷飕飕的，雨下个不停；如果不是丢下Em和要开花的玫瑰，我离开库沃维尔是不会遗憾的。 我尽管身体相当不适，但和她一起度过的这三天，与幸福还是很相似的。 昨晚回到巴黎。 火车上读完陀思妥耶夫斯基的这本书。 今天见到夏尔姆瓦，长谈，怀着真正的极大兴趣。很高兴看到他工作了。 他说近几个月来，有时会突然脸红，在有人的场合十分难堪，他甚至不敢出门了。他就是这样被迫变得孤僻了。 “这种脸红，”他解释说，“就像刚撒了谎的人那样。同我交谈的人，忽然瞧见我脸红了，他对我能没有想法吗？上次，巴尔托洛梅谈一个问题，对我说了一句什么话，我的脸色就这样变了，立即感到十分尴尬，都不敢回答他了。就在前两年，我的胆量有多大！还有一天，在德·马克斯家，我就这样两次脸红，所有人都瞧见了……而且，说来您可能不相信，我独自一人，甚至在妻子面前也脸红。我父亲或祖父（?）就如此，后来孤僻极了，连用餐都要让人端到他的房间里。” ... 将近凌晨三点，我才睡着，不到七点就醒来——表面看来还不太累，但是无不处于脆弱的状态，动不动就。偏巧是在这样一天早晨，我收到雅姆的最伤人的一封信。还有小路易·鲁瓦尔的信，咄咄逼人（却又以极漂亮的同情为掩护），我就不得不用整整一上午写回信。（事情是这样： 他应《西方》杂志之约，写一篇论述《阿曼塔斯》的文章，在文中要说明……等等，——严重歪曲我这本书，我所有著作和我本人的意思……） 午饭后，为了歇息，我接待保尔·瓦莱里。迷人的拜访，可是人一走，我就疲惫不堪了。 花了大量时间答复路易·鲁瓦尔。他这类人，只有在粗暴的时候，才自认为是坦率的。 因为，归根结底，巴雷斯告诉我们什么呢？告诉我们人若是踏不着水底，就有溺水的危险，我们不如父辈。 我同科波吃完午餐，正要分手，又突然对他说：“唔！瞧那位老先生，就是站在马尔蓬书摊前的那位（土耳其式浴室旁边），他就是您经常听我提起的，我那位老教授拉佩鲁斯。”他站在那里一动不动，胜似一尊蜡人，那张脸也是蜡黄色；毫无疑问，他不敢碰一碰书籍。我离开科波，走到我尊敬的老师跟前。我还记得最后去看他的前一次，他对我说过的话： “我衰弱了，衰弱了很多。从前，我走路很快；现在，我费很大气力，也只能走得极慢了。我觉得还是从前的步伐，可是看到所有人都超过我；而我从前不用费力，就超过所有人……” 突然从库沃维尔启程，前往普瓦索尼埃尔，是昨天傍晚Em从克里克托取回的一封信，阿尔贝悲伤的信召唤我去的。昨天夜晚，等其他人上楼之后，我们二人在布满月光和树影的花园散步；深夜特别温煦。我们甚至没有披大衣。我温情脉脉，一颗心几欲融化。我多么希望阿尔贝不要绝望地死去。 玛德今早送我到火车站。你哟，我心爱的朋友！我在大地所爱的一切…… 勒内希望我编点什么故事，解释我的来访。在这个家庭里，怕受到伤害怕得要死！ 我到达时，阿尔贝躺在那儿等我。 “嗳！你为什么来啦？”他微笑着高声说。我觉出他因为没有病得更重而感到惭愧。我拥抱他。 “可是，我的老兄，你的信让我担心。我来看看也好放心。” 他拉起我的手，轻轻握住。 “不错，换了我也会这样做。” 同一个十七岁的流浪青年一起旅行。他是锅匠的儿子，从杜埃到勒阿弗尔来，要到船上当见习水手。不料，他被推荐做事的那艘船，一个月前就启程开往巴西。他试着上别的船，一次次遭拒绝，于是他准备返回家乡。 我十分担心他的行程到巴黎就会中止。他口袋里装有十八法郎，还有两法郎的车费，要乘车到巴黎，“去共和广场找一名军士，他父母的一位朋友”。父母并不知道他返乡。我感到他要寻开心，身带二十法郎，独自一人无拘无束到达巴黎，就说刚走一条街钱就被人偷走。直到看见他上了车，我才离开。 奇怪，真奇怪，流浪汉这种心理，我很难下定义，不过我也隐约看到这种怪癖的特性。这个人引起我强烈的兴趣（尤其比较其他几个与我有过交往的流浪汉）。我更好地把握了主要的共同特点，但是还难以说清楚。 星期二上午，在德·马克斯家，见到吕涅坡。他还是老样子，既抱怨又气势汹汹，就好像被人踩了脚似的。等他一出了屋子，德·马克斯就高声说：“巴黎这场大笑话，现在已经开起来了，我成了世间最倒霉的人。昨天晚上，X照自己的胸口开了一枪。” （从狗医院出来，）去看小路易·鲁瓦尔。 路易·鲁瓦尔赞美我的语言、我的风格，这就是相应地贬低我的思想。就好像一个可以脱离另一个，歌手无需嗓音，或者嗓音无需歌手恰当的激情——他所歌唱的，绝不是别人的，而是他的。 然而，不幸的是，我这个人如同这些不隔音的房子，在阁楼就能听见地窖里所发生的一切。 想想这件事真令人赞叹： 为罗斯唐鼓掌的这些巴黎女子，恐怕没有一个不自认为品味高雅，譬如就像伊丽莎白时代的英国女子。每部分观众，都有与他们相配的莎士比亚。