The landscape was one
vast splendor; the woods were deep and mysterious, the roses full blown;
all around me were butterflies--a noise of wings--the murmur of birds. I
caught glimpses through the trees of distant mists, of soaring
mountains, of the tender blue of the lake.... A little conjunction of
things struck me. Two ladies were tending and watering a grave; two
nurses were suckling their children. This double protest against death
had something touching and poetical in it. "Sleep, you who are dead; we,
the living, are thinking of you, or at least carrying on the pilgrimage
of the race!" such seemed to me the words in my ear. It was clear to me
that the Oasis of Clarens is the spot in which I should like to rest.
Here I am surrounded with memories; here death is like a sleep--a sleep
instinct with hope.
* * * * *
Hope is not forbidden us, but peace and submission are the essentials.
September 1, 1874. (_Clarens_).--On waking it seemed to me that I was
staring into the future with wide startled eyes. Is it indeed to _me_
that these things apply. [Footnote: Amiel had just received at the hands
of his doctor the medical verdict, which was his _arret de mort_.]
Incessant and growing humiliation, my slavery becoming heavier, my
circle of action steadily narrower!.
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