and then she would say: ‘Mother, put a pillow under my head, it hurts so.’
“Only the mother survived.”
We contemplated the mountain, the enormous white mountain that grew and grew, while the other one, the green one, seemed now only a dwarf at its feet.
The town had vanished in the distance.
Nothing surrounding us but the blue sea, which extended under us, and before us, while behind us rose the white Alps, the colossal Alps, in their heavy mantles of snow.
Above our heads, a light blue sky suffused by golden sunlight! What a beautiful day!
Pol resumed: “It must be a terrible death, to be buried alive under that crushing mass!”
Gently rocked by the waves, lulled by the rhythm of the oars, far from the land whose white crest was no longer visible, I thought of the poor little human beings swarming over this grain of sand lost in the magnitude of the universe; of the miserable flock of beings mowed down by disease, crushed by avalanches, shaken and terrified by earthquakes; of those poor little creatures that cannot be distinguished a mile away, and that are so vain, so quarrelsome, so foolish, and have but a few days of life. I compared the gnats that subsist a few hours, to the beasts that live a season, to the men who live a few years, to the worlds that endure a few centuries. What is it all?
Paul remarked: “I know a good snow story.”
And I asked him to tell it.
He began: “Do you remember big Radier, Jules Radier, the handsome Jules?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, you know how proud he was of his hair, his face, his physique, his strength, his mustache. All his attractions were greater than other men’s, in his eyes. And he was a heartbreaker, one of these handsome dummies that are very successful, one does not know exactly why. They are neither intelligent, nor clever, nor refined, but they possess the attributes of gallant ruffians. That is sufficient.
“Last winter, Paris was buried in snow and I went to a ball given by a demimondaine you know, the beautiful Sylvia Raymond.”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Jules Radier was there, having been brought by a friend, and I could see that our hostess liked him very well. So I thought: ‘Here is a chap who will not be greatly bothered by the snow tonight.’
“Then I turned my attention to finding a subject of attraction in the crowd of pretty girls.
“But I did not succeed. Not every man is a Jules Radier, and so I left all alone, about one o’clock in the morning.
“As I lived quite near, I thought I would walk home. Suddenly, at the corner of the street, I saw a strange sight:
“A tall black shadow, a man, was walking up and down in the snow, stamping his feet. Was he a lunatic? I approached him with caution. It was Jules. He was holding his pumps in one hand, and his socks in the other. His trousers were pulled above his knees, and he was running around in a circle, like in a riding-ring, soaking his bare feet in the icy mire, seeking the spots where the snow was clean, and white, and deep. And he was jumping around like a crazy man and executing a series of steps like a floor-polisher.
“I was bewildered.
“I muttered: ‘Gracious! Have you lost your mind?’
“Without pausing in his evolutions, he replied: ‘Not at all, I am washing my feet. Do you know that I have captured Sylvia? What luck! And I believe that I am to be favored this very night. One must strike the iron while it is hot. Of course, I had not looked forward to this, otherwise I should have taken a bath.’ ”
Pol concluded: “So you see that snow has some use after all.”
My sailor, tired out, had stopped rowing. Our boat was motionless on the smooth water.
I said to the man: “Turn back.” And he took up his oars.
As we neared the coast, the tall white mountain shrank, disappearing behind the other mountain, the green one.
The town reappeared, similar to foam, white foam edging blue water. The villas showed again between the trees. A white line of snow, composed of the mountain-tops that lost themselves to the right, toward Nice, was alone visible.
Then, a lone crest remained, a tall mountain crest fast disappearing behind the neighboring coast.
And soon nothing could be seen but the shores and the town, the white town, and the blue sea, over which my little boat, my dear little boat, glided to the rhythmic splashing of the oars.
Our Friends the English
A small leather-bound on the upholstered seat of the railway carriage. I took it up and opened it. It was a traveller’s diary, dropped by its owner.
Here are the last three pages of it copied out.
February 1st. Mentone, capital of the Consumptives, noted for its pulmonary tubercles. Quite different from the potato tubercle, which lives and grows in the earth for the purpose of nourishing and fattening men, this variety lives and grows in man for the purpose of nourishing and fattening the earth.
I got this scientific definition from a friendly doctor here, a very learned man.
Am looking for an hotel. Am directed to the Grrrrand Hotel of Russia, England, Germany, and the Netherlands. Pay homage to the landlord’s cosmopolitan intellect and book a room in this caravanserai, which looks empty, it is so big.
Walk round the town, which is pretty and admirably situated at the foot of an imposing mountain peak (see guidebook). Meet various people who look ill, being taken for a walk by others who look bored. Have observed several people wearing comforters (note this, all naturalists who may be becoming anxious at the disappearance of these garments!).
Six p.m. Return for dinner. The tables are laid in an enormous room which could shelter three hundred guests; as a matter of fact, it holds just twenty-two. They come in one after another. The first is a tall thin clean-shaven
