We used to meet in the garden.
The garden, thus abandoned for many years, had become very strange and very pleasant. The passers-by of many
years ago stopped in the street to look at it, without suspecting the secrets which it concealed behind its green thicket. More than
one dreamer of that day has many a time allowed his eyes and his thoughts indiscreetly to penetrate through the bars of the ancient
gate which was padlocked, twisted, tottering, secured by two green and mossy pillars and grotesquely crowned with a pediment of
indescribable alphabet.
There was a stone seat in the corner, one or two mouldy statues, some chains loosened by time and rotting upon the wall;
no walks, nor turf; dog-grass everywhere. Culture had departed, nature had returned. Weeds were abundant, a wonderful hap for a
poor bit of earth. The heyday of the gilliflowers was splendid. Nothing in this garden opposed the sacred efforts of things towards life;
venerable growth was at home here. The trees bent over towards the briers, the briers mounted towards the trees, the shrub had climbed,
the branch had bowed, that which runs upon the ground had attempted to find that which blooms in the air, that which floats in the wind
had stooped towards that which trails in the moss, branches, leaves, twigs, tufts, tendrils, shoots, thorns were mingled,
crossed married, confounded; vegeterian, in a close and strong embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there under the satisfied
eye of Aphrodite, in this enclosure of three hundred feet square, the sacred mystery of its fraternity, symbol of human
fraternity. This garden was no longer a garden; it was a collosal bush, that is to say, something which is impenetrable as a forest,
populous as a city, tremelous as a nest, dark as a cathedral, odorous as a bouquet, solitary as a tomb, full of life as a multitude.
In summer, this enermous shrub warmed into the deep labour of universal germination, thrilled at the rising sun almost like a stag which inhales the air of universal love and feels the April sap mounting and boiling in his veins, and shaking its emmense green antlers in the wind,
scattered over the moist ground, over the broken statues, over the sinking staircase of the summerhouse, and even over the pavement of the deserted street, flowers in stars, dew in pearls, beauty, life, joy, perfume. At noon, a thousand white butterflies took refuge in it, and it was
a heavenly sight to see this living snow of summer whirling about in flakes in the shade.There, a multitude of innocent voices spoke softly to the heart, and what the warbling had forgotten to say, the humming completed.
In winter, the bush was black, wet, bristling, shivering, and let the house be seen in part, You percieved, instead of the flowers in the branches, and the dew in the flowers, the long silver ribbons of the snails upon the thick and cold carpet of yellow leaves; but in every way, in every season, spring, winter, summer, autumn,
this little enclosure exhaled melancholy, contemplation, solitude, liberty, the absence of man, the presence of Zeus.
The last time we fu**ed in the garden, I said:"This garden is mine", and you said:"This garden is mine".
And that was the last I've seen of your pretty face!
