The novels, romances, and memoirs of Alphonse Daudet (22 page)

It was a dramatic poem that bore the pompous title of the Pastoral Comedy. In the early days of his captivity in the school of Sarlande, Little

What 's-His-Name amused himself by telling his pupils fanciful little tales, full of crickets, butterflies and other insects. I had made the Pastoral Comedy with three of these short stories, arranged in the form of a dialogue, and put into verse. My poem was divided in three parts, but that evening at Pierrotte's I read them only the first part. I ask your permission to transcribe here this frag-nient from the Pastoral Comedy, not as a choice piece of literature, but only as a characteristic bit of the story of Little What 's-His-Name.

Imagine for one moment, my dear readers, that you are seated in a circle in the little yellow drawing-room and that Daniel Eyssette is reciting to you, trembling all over.

THE ADVENTURES OF A BLUE BUTTERFLY.

The scene is in the country. It is six 0^clock in the evenings and the sun is settitig. As the curtain rises, a blue Butterjiy and a yoimg Lady-bird, both of the male sex, are talki?ig, sitting astride of a spray of fern. They have met in the morning, and have passed the day together. As it is late, the Lady-bird makes a move to go.

THE BUTTERFLY.

What! Are you going home so soon?

THE LADY-BIRD.

I should have gone before: It's very late, just think of it !

THE BUTTERFLY.

Oh, wait a moment more ! It never is the least too late for turning in at night: Besides, I 'm bored to death at home, and don't you

think I 'm right? It is so dull to see a door, a window, and a wall, When, outside, one may have the sun, the falling dew

and all; And scarlet poppies blown about by soft breath of the

wind. But if the poppies should not be completely to your

mind, I should advise your saying so.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Alas ! I love them, sir.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Well, then, you simpleton, I 'm sure it's not yet time

to stir. Stay on with me ; the air is soft, it *s very pleasant, too.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Yes, but —

THE BUTTERFLY {^pushing htm itito the grass). There, gambol in the grass ; it's all for me and you.

THE LADY-BIRD {resisting). No, don't insist; upon my word, I must go without fail.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Hush ! Do you hear ?

THE LADY-BIRD {alarmed). What can it be?

THE BUTTERFLY.

That charming little quail Singing so tipsily among the fresh leaves of the vine ; Upon this lovely summer night, her ditty is divine ! Sweetly the sounds are borne to us as we are listening here.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, svi'eetly ! but —

THE BUTTERFLY.

Be silent.

THE LADY-BIRD.

What?

THE BUTTERFLY.

There come some men, I fear. \Some vteti pass."]

THE LADY-BIRD (in a low votce, after a momenfs silence). And men are very bad, are n't they ?

THE BUTTERFLY.

Oh, very bad, alas !

THE LADY-BIRD.

I always dread lest one of them should crush me as he

pass. Their feet are huge, and my poor sides such frail and

tender things.

You are not big, of course, but then, you have a pair of

wings; And that's a comfort —

THE BUTTERFLY.

If you are afraid he '11 tread you down, Climb up upon my back, dear boy, I '11 save you from the

clown : My sides are very strong and firm, my wings are not so

thin As those of delicate dragon-flies, of silken onion-skin. I '11 carry you away as far as you may wish to go, And for as long a time —

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, no ! Dear sir, I thank you, no ; I 'd never dare to mount so high.

THE BUTTERFLY.

It's very hard, you think, To climb up there ?

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, no ! indeed —

THE BUTTERFLY.

Come on, why should you shrink ?

THE LADY-BIRD.

You '11 take me back to my own house, you 're sure you

understand ? For without that —

THE BUTTERFLY.

Try, and you '11 see I 'm quite at your command.

THE LADY-BIRD {cUmbhig Upon his comrade's back). I am importunate because we 've evening prayers to say, You know —

THE BUTTERFLY.

Oh, yes ! but now look out, move back a little way. There, that's all right. Silence on board, or I will let you fall.

{They fiy away, and the dialogue is continued in the air.] My dear, it's simply marvellous, you are no weight at all.

THE LADY-BIRD (in terror).

Ah, sir! —

THE BUTTERFLY.

Well, what?

THE LADY-BIRD.

I cannot see ; my head goes round and round. ' I wish that you would kindly set me down upon the ground.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Don't be a fool! If your head spin, your eyes you need but close.

THE LADY-BIRD {shutting Ms eyes). They're shut.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Well, are you better now ?

THE LADY-BIRD {with an effort).

A little. I suppose.

THE BUTTERFLY {laughing in his shcve).

It's certain there 's no talent lost among those of your

name, For navigating in the air —

THE LADY-BIRD.

Yes —

THE BUTTERFLY.

You are not to blame If the last wrinkle in balloons has not been found so far.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, no !

THE BUTTERFLY.

But now you may get down, my Lord, for here you are. {^He alights upon a Lily.)

THE LADY-BIRD {opening his eyes). I beg your pardon, but, dear sir, it is not here I dwell.

THE BUTTERFLY.

I know : still, it's so early yet, I think it's just as well. I 've brought you to a Lily, who 's a dear old friend of

mine; We '11 cool our throats; come in with me and take a

glass of wine.

THE LADY-BIRD.

I really have no time to waste —

THE BUTTERFLY.

A minute, though, will do.

THE LADY-BIRD.

And in society I 'm not so well received as you.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Oh, come along! I 'U make believe you are my bastard

son, And you '11 be well enough received.

THE LADY-BIRD.

It's far too late for fun.

THE BUTTERFLY.

It is not late; we still can hear the cricket's carol sweet.

THE LADY BIRD {in a whisper). And then I left my purse behind.

THE BUTTERFLY {dragging him along).

This is the Lily's treat. {They enter the house of the Lily.) The curtain falls.

When the curtain rises for the second act, it is almost dark. The two comrades are seen leaving the house of the Lily. The Lady-bird is slightly tipsy.

THE BUTTERFLY {tendering his back). Let us be off.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Yes, let us go.

THE BUTTERFLY.

I wish that you would tell Me how you liked my Lily, please.

THE LADY-BIRD.

I liked him very well. He offered me his cellar while I was a stranger still.

THE BUTTERFLY {looking Up at the sky).

Oh, there is Phoebe peeping out from Heaven's window-sill! We must make haste.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, why make haste ? Can you be hurried, then ?

THE BUTTERFLY.

It seems that you no longer care for going home again ?

THE LADY-BIRD.

Oh, if I but arrive in time to say the evening prayer ! — Besides, my house is not far off; it's only over there!

THE BUTTERFLY.

li you are not pressed to return, neither, I 'm sure, am I.

THE LADY-BIRD (effusively^.

You *re such a splendid fellow, and I really don't know

why You 're not a favorite with all the creatures that exist: And yet they say : " Bohemian and Revolutionist! Poet and Mountebank !"

THE BUTTERFLY.

Dear, dear, who could say that of me ?

THE LADY-BIRD.

Good Heavens ! the Beetle said so —

THE BUTTERFLY.

What ! The great big Scarabee ? He calls me mountebank because he knows he 's grown too stout.

THE LADY-BIRD.

It is not he, alone, alas! that hates you.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Oh, get out!

THE LADY-BIRD.

The kindly creeping Snails themselves are ill-inclined

to you; The Scorpions are inimical; the httle Ants are, too.

THE BUTTERFLY.

What! Can this be ?

THE LADY-BIRD {confidefitially).

And I advise you strongly not to make Efforts to win the Spider, who abhors you —

THE BUTTERFLY.

You mistake!

THE LADY-BIRD.

Even the Caterpillars think the same of you as she.

THE BUTTERFLY.

It may be so ; but tell me now, in your society, —

For Caterpillars, after all, cannot be called your friends —

Am I of really bad repute ?

THE LADY-BIRD.

O goodness ! that depends. The younger people all stand up for you in your defense ; The old unhappily declare you have no moral sense.

THE BUTTERFLY (sadly).

It's plain, I see, their sympathies can never be with me.

THE LADY-BIRD.

Ah, no, poor dear ! in hating you the Nettles all agree. The Toad detests you; you should hear the Cricket's

crazy cry, For when he speaks of you, he says: " That cursed

Butterfly."

THE BUTTERFLY.

And do you hate me like the rest of all this foolish pack (

THE LADY-BIRD.

I ? I adore you, for I am so happy on your back. If you would only take me to the Lily's every day, Oh, what a spree ! But are n't you just a little tired,

pray? For if you are, we 'd better stop a minute here or two. You do not feel the least fatigued? I cannot think

you do.

THE BUTTERFLY.

You are a trifle over weight, but don't be worried, please.

THE LADY-BIRD {^poi?iting to somc LU'ies).

Then why not enter here at once, to rest and take your ease?

THE BUTTERFLY.

Ah, thanks! They're always Lilies, then, the hosts whom you propose?

(rakishly in a whisper^ I 'd rather go in here next door.

Oh, never, never!

THE LADY-BIRD.

To call upon the Rose ?

THE BUTTERFLY {drawing him on).

Come along, I tell you no one sees.

[They enter discreetly the house of the Rose.) The curtain falls.

In the third act —

But I would not, my dear readers, abuse your patience any longer. I know that, at the present time, verses have lost the gift of pleasing, so I cut short my quotations, and will content myself with briefly relating the rest of my poem.

In the third act, it is quite dark. The two comrades leave the house of the Rose. The Butterfly wishes to bring the Lady-bird back to his relations, but the latter refuses: he is completely drunk, cuts capers in the grass and utters seditious cries.

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The Butterfly is obliged to take him home by force. They separate on the threshold, promising soon to meet agam, and then the Butterfly goes away alone into the night. He, too, is a little tipsy, but he is sad in his cups; he recalls the Lady-bird's confidences, and asks himself bitterly why so many creatures hate him who has never done harm to anybody. There is no moon in the heavens ; the wind blows ; the country is very black. The Butterfly is cold and afraid; but he consoles himself with thinking that his comrade is safe, tucked up in a little warm bed. In the meanwhile, through the darkness may be seen large night-birds flying silently by. The lightning flashes. Malignant creatures, lying in wait under the stones, laugh in scorn as they point to the Butterfly. " We have him," they say. And, as the poor thing flies right and left in terror, a Thistle on the path gives him a great stab, a Scorpion rends him with his claws, a huge hairy Spider tears off a fold of his blue satin mantle, and to add the finishing stroke, a Bat breaks his back with a blow of his wing. The Butterfly falls, mortally wounded, and while he gasps out his last breath on the grass, the Nettles rejoice, and the Toads say: "It is well."

At dawn, the Ants, going to their work, find his body beside the road. They scarcely glance at him, and pursue their way, without the least desire of burying him. Ants do not work for nothing. Happily a brotherhood of Necrophori happens to pass in that direction, and these are, as you know.

little black insects who have made a vow to bury the dead. They harness themselves piously to the dead Butterfly, and drag him toward the cemetery. A curious crowd presses upon them, as they go, and everybody makes reflections aloud. The little brown Crickets, seated before their doors in the sunshine, say gravely: "He was too fond of flowers! " " He was out too much at night," add the Snails, and the fat Beetles waddle along in their gold liveries, muttering: " Too much of a Bohemian; too much of a Bohemian ! " In all the crowd there is no word of regret for the poor dead creature; only, in the neighboring plains, the tall lilies have closed, and the cicalas sing no more.

The last scene is laid in the cemetery of the Butterflies. After the Necrophori have accomplished their task, a solemn May-bug which has followed the procession, approaches the grave, and turning upon his back, begins the praise of the dead. Sad to say, his memory fails him ; he stays there with his legs in the air, gesticulating for an hour, entangling himself in his periods. When the orator has finished, everybody goes, and then, in the empty cemetery, the Lady-bird of the earlier acts is seen crawling out from behind a tomb. All in tears, he kneels upon the fresh earth of the grave, and says a touching prayer for his poor little comrade who lies underneath.

CHAPTER IX.

YOU MUST SELL CHINA.

At the last verse of my poem, Jacques rose in an ecstasy to cry bravo; but he stopped short on seeing the bewildered appearance of the good people there.

In truth, I believe that if the fiery horse of the Apocalypse had burst into the midst of the little yellow drawing-room, he would not have caused more amazement than my blue butterfly. Passajon and Fougeroux, all bristling with what they had just heard, looked at me with round wide-open eyes; the two Ferrouillats made signs to each other. No one said a word. You may think how much at ease I was.