This
tear was made by a hazel tree under Jaman--that by the buckle of a strap
on the Frohnalp--that, again, by a bramble at Charnex; and each time
fairy needles have repaired the injury.
"Mon vieux manteau, que je vous remercie
Car c'est a vous que je dois ces plaisirs!"
And has it not been to me a friend in suffering, a companion in good and
evil fortune? It reminds me of that centaur's tunic which could not be
torn off without carrying away the flesh and blood of its wearer. I am
unwilling to give it up; whatever gratitude for the past, and whatever
piety toward my vanished youth is in me, seem to forbid it. The warp of
this rag is woven out of Alpine joys, and its woof out of human
affections. It also says to me in its own way:
"Pauvre bouquet, fleurs aujourd'hui fanees!"
And the appeal is one of those which move the heart, although profane
ears neither hear it nor understand it.
What a stab there is in those words, _thou hast been_! when the sense of
them becomes absolutely clear to us. One feels one's self sinking
gradually into one's grave, and the past tense sounds the knell of our
illusions as to ourselves. What is past is past: gray hairs will never
become black curls again; the forces, the gifts, the attractions of
youth, have vanished with our young days.
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