by Gustave Kahn
There was no road through the great forest. There were thousands of little paths that ran like the streams to the river—the river that descends to the sea. The little paths ran, ran into flowers and then wound around to seek a better route; they ran into the rots of giant trees and then fled to find a better route; and sometimes, they hid themselves beneath dense thickets where only hares could follow them, and then they ran to nestle in the reeds on the edge of springs, and divide in two and follow one another. There were a thousand little paths in the shade of the great forest.
There were a thousand mirrors of the shade of the great forest: round mirrors, in which water awaited the delicate flight of butterflies and the ablutions of small birds; long mirrors, in which one could see oneself while walking, for the entire length of a confession, a speech or a song; unexpected mirrors, increasing in size under the long grass. There were a thousand mirrors on the floor of the great forest, but no one knew about them, for there was no road under so much shade, and only a thousand little paths led there, which it was necessary to know by heart, and which it was necessary to have loved before going in there, for the people of the neighboring lands stopped at the narrow edge. What good is there in going where no road leads?
There was a madman in the great forest; he watched out for the dawn there; he knew the moonlight there. He gamboled around and whistled his trills beside the hermit who listened to the talking bird. What did it matter to him what the beautiful bird said? He was agile, he was joyful, he danced all day long; although he could not fly, he could climb into the treetops. What did the pious hermit matter to him? The madman had scarcely more concern for thought than the agile birds; he always picked up their most magnificent feathers with which to adorn himself, and his crown was always woven from the freshest and rarest flowers.
The madman was not without some knowledge; he could find his way along all the little paths; he knew all the hedges; he called the wary roe-deer, and they followed him; he charmed little birds, which hopped on to his shoulder. He knew that the plain at the edge of the forest was bare, and that the frightful towers of stone in the distance were much less beautiful than the shade of the forest. He knew all the slopes by which the forest descended toward the sea and he lay down for hours on end watching the little clouds putting on new dresses, or watching the white hem of foam as the growling anger of the waves broke, and he laughed and he laughed, and then, with a bound, came back to pester the hermit or sing in the forest.
And as the hermit, absorbed in meditation, scarcely ever left the tree-hut from which he could just perceive a clearing, so absorbed in himself that he did not watch the animals playing, nor the beautiful sunsets inundating the foliage with gold, unaware of the numerous mirrors and the thousand little paths, the madman was the king of the great forest. The madman was the child of the great forest, for he did not know where he came from and did not worry about it. The forest clothed him with leaves, nourished him with fruits and berries; he slept there between two branches. He was perhaps fifteen years old, perhaps twenty, and did not care either way. Life in the great forest was good to him.
One day, from high above the sea, the madman saw a beautiful, rapidly-moving ship, spick and span with white sails and glorious with scarlet ones, and the men on the masts were so sumptuously dressed that one might have taken them for statues of light—statues of sunlight, the color of noon.
The ship came toward the shore, and men got down from it, so numerous that the madman took fright. At any rate, when they arrived he jumped into a thicket, from which he watched them. Nimble hinds, also curious, were grazing not far away. He saw one of them suddenly fall down, its mouth flecked with foam and blood, and only jut had time to run away, for the men from the ship came running.
When he came back to spy on them, he saw some of them, armed with axes, clearing the green thicket. Their fires, fed with twigs, were blazing beneath great copper bowls; he saw that the hind, and other animals too, had been butchered. He fled, and that day, the madman was sad in his forest.
For many days, the forest resounded with loud noises; the trees bled, the roe-deer fled. Other ships came racing over the sea, and a large manor was gradually constructed, with walls and living hedges—and the axes of armed men scintillated at the gates. The poor madman was sad in his forest; he withdrew to the darkest ravines, where he was afraid that he might be taken by surprise and afraid that people might come to chase him away.
He consulted the talking bird, the beautiful bird with the vermilion, saffron and azure plumage and the white throat with the silky feathers.
“Beautiful bird, tell me what our danger is?”
But the bird was proud.
“You disdained me when you were king of the forest; you whistled when I talked to the hermit. You disdained me; you shall know nothing. I shall go to the castle; I shall be given a fine welcome there. I shall perch on the shoulder of the lady and I shall talk and talk to her! She already knows that there is a wicked madman in the forest.”
And the madman addressed himself to the wise hermit.
“Oh, poor madman, you know the path to my hut of branches well; for a long time you have been coming to disturb my prayers and my contemplation with your hare-like races and your fawn-like bounding. However, I shall tell you this: never go to the strangers’ manor; your heart will bleed later in consequence.”
Whereupon the madman went there at top speed.
Through a hedge of rose-bushes, he saw a young woman dressed in white, with long hair the color of autumn clouds, amid the yellow leaves. She was throwing scraps to large greyhounds with white pelts, dancing before her ring-laden hands. It was the first time the madman had seen such a spectacle, and his heart was rent by a thousand cuts in consequence, and swelled with impatience at not being able to see her at closer range. But a young man came who was carrying a golden crown, wearing a long sword, and approached in order to kiss the lady’s lips—and the madman could not bear it, and fled at top speed.
But he came back; strong is the glue of a beautiful gaze.
And the beauty said: “Stay with me, Prince; I’m so lonely when you leave; my hours drain way so slowly then, and everything bores and irritates me. Put off your annoying duties and stay. We can go into the trees over there, to see behind their shady curtain what marvels they reveal, or—don’t be annoyed—we can stay in your palace of marble and fountains, and count the roses at the same time as our kisses.”
“Yes, Glyphtis, I’ll stay one more day, but the shadow of evening will remind me of the dawn that will one day take me away from you, from your arms. However, although I must go away for a little while, since I’m constrained by the summons of my sovereign, I’ll come back to you soon.”
“Alas, Prince, those who go over the sea do not know when they will return.”
“The route is marked for me over the sea.”
“But what about the pilots? What about the sirens?”
“My ship is solid.”
“And the reefs hard.”
“But it isn’t far!”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“When the force of Eros brought us here, our sails were inflated by all the powers of the Earth and the sea. Our ship floated at the slightest movement of the oarsmen.”
“But when you leave…and what if you never return?”
“What if I never return? You’re joking. What would you do?”
“I’d go to find the madman, the madman in the forest.”
And the queen laughed, with pearly youth; she laughed so prettily that the madman’s feelings were hurt again, for the prince also laughed, and his love was further augmented.
From the crown of a cedar, the poor madman saw the ship with large scarlet sails leave one day. And as that made him joyful, he heard the talking bird.
“Ah! Look at the handsome lover with his festival crown and his luxurious loincloth. Ah! Won’t he have a lovely belt of new bark, some day? That will really suit someone who pretends
to the wealth of a king’s son. Ha ha ha!”
And as he got down from the cedar, he saw the hermit, who said to him: “King’s son, where are you going to war, then?”
“Why king’s son?” replied the poor madman.
“You’re scarcely a king’s son, but might become one, to your great misfortune.”
When the madman came to the palace, he slipped into the hedges, in order to avoid the gaze of the archers. When he was close to the large garden, and perceived his Lady, the madman started trembling, and large tears ran down his cheeks. The queen had raised her pure snow-white face toward him—but her eyes were cold and staring, and her body was like a statue, expectant. The queen’s soul had gone away, doubtless over the sea, with the ship with the large sails.
Then the madman took up his flute and launched into his song, copied from the dawn chorus—and the queen, believing that some bird was nearby, raised her eyes toward the tall trees, and then lowered them toward the shadow at her feet and looked into the hedges—but she did not see the madman of the forest.
When he approached her, however, pale-faced and emotional, she perceived him, and fled, laughing. She had become light-hearted and cheerful again, and full of smiles.
She went back into the palace and went up to a turret, and then to another, and then to another—and the poor madman ran back and forth. On each turret she displayed her laughing teeth and inflated bosom, and the poor madman ran back and forth; then so quickly did he show herself, laughing, on each turret, that the poor bewildered madman fled. He fled into the forest, and from all the turrets pale women laughed, with harsh gaiety.
Oh, how he wept, the poor madman—but when he came back to the rose-bush in which he suffered, he saw ships with scarlet sails appear, and ships with white ails. And the prince who loved the lovely Glyphtis got down—but the other ship disembarked men-at-arms and a king’s son. So the two princes fought, and the first was killed.
All the horror of bloodshed, which he saw for the first time, pierced the madman, but not as much as the welcome Glyphtis gave to the victor, for she came to him and gave him her heart: her heart, with a confident gesture of her two hands; one might have thought them doves in the hands of a butcher; her heart, with her neck inclined on the shoulder of the newcomer and her forehead offered to his lips; her heart, with her eyes, which filled with a languid auroral mist while she looked at that face for the first time, beneath the helmet; her heart, with her figure, which bent back supply, and her knees, which became unsteady beneath her white dress and her plaited hair, which she untied.
And as they both headed for the castle, she noticed the horrified madman. Then clinging closely to the captain to whom her soul had gone, she favored him one again with her puerile rippling laughter.
She had laughed at him and the manor was closed. New men-at-arms were guarding its walls.
“Madam, madman,” said the talking bird, “you must make yourself a helmet out of the flower-bells that grow in the forest, and make arrows from reeds, and fashion a large bow out of a long rush and a good archer out of a poor madman. Ha ha ha!”
“Son of a king,” said the hermit, “why are you so sad? You don’t sing; you don’t whistle. Are there no more ripe berries in the forest?”
“To be a king’s son would be no cure for my unhappiness. Tell me, Hermit, what is that great manor over there, near the sea, where the beauty scintillates who had rendered me madder than before? Do you know her? Her face is as profound as the mirrors of the forest, but how much whiter and more delicate. All the clouds in the sky pass around her eyes. Their pupils are tranquil stars, her neck is the stem of a milk-filled reed. She passes among the flowers and laughs on the turrets of the great new manor that was recently built, and the galleys come to her, drawn by sails, from far out to sea, like sea-birds.”
“And the madman of the land, like a timid child,” screeched the talking bird. “The madman of the forest, as toward the birds’ nests…oh, wretched madman, who does not know what he is saying!”
Then the songbirds—the nightingales, the beautiful birds that only knew how to sing their breath in a few notes, the breath that is their entire being—came flocking around the poor madman from everywhere and, in order to console him, sang like his flute, which summarized their songs of love at dawn.
The madman picked up his flute, and the fawns and hinds came to lick his hands, and vigorous birds that the madman had never seen made as if to hurl themselves at the talking bird, which was obliged to fly off at top speed to the castle—and for one sweet hour the madman told the forest and the timid couriers of its feathered tribe the mystery of his soul, parallel to theirs; and the forest was in religious celebration, all those petty souls adoring Tenderness.
“Poor madman with the warm heart of a little bird,” said the hermit, “beware of the manor with the beautiful smiles. Listen: this is not the first time that a tower has been constructed for Glyphtis. For a long time there has been talk of the golden hemp of her hair, and of her beautiful eyes, in which all forests and all rivers are painted, and of all her beauty, so new, O poor madman, to you.
“She was born many years ago—so uncertain in number that no one knows whether she emerged from the world’s first spring—and since that time, she is the one who seeks out young princes with pointed beards, the one who mourns the old discrowned kings in their deserted palaces.
“There was one very old king, so old, so white and so tremulous that he was carried every morning to a large glass window from which he could gaze at the horizon. His horizons were the green hills of the sea’s wrath or the calm carpet of its indolence, and the old king never spoke. He had lost his sons, whom he had sent on difficult journeys to consult the oracle, and what he demanded of the gods was whether he would ever again see Glyphtis, who had been the loving wrath of his youth. He sent away his daughters, because he did not want any feminine image to trouble the image that he retained beneath his eyelids. And the very old king died in despair.
“There was a young shepherd who saw Glyphtis in a splendid court, the most ardent knights seeking to obtain her smiles, her husband the king ruling the elite of cities. He loved her and she loved him, for her fate is to love incessantly. He took her to his home town, and his home town burned for a long time, for the king and his knights came to capture it after a long siege, and the shepherd’s entire race sank into the dark past.
“Glyphtis comes, sees and disappears; the gods steal her away in a storm, and then send her back to us more beautiful than before, and that beauty is the mask of their wrath. She descends from thrones to follow pirates; she leaves the pirate for the triumphant admiral, and the admiral for the young princes who hide in lost lands—but what land remains unknown that she lights up? Madman, madman, hope that armed ships will come to take her away from here. Flee into the depths of the forest, far from the castle, far from her smile, and sing or dance or weep—but flee.”
“I can’t,” the madman replied.
One day, however, the beautiful manor was attacked by foul and hairy enemies who had also come to conquer the youthful, smiling face, and their vigor overcame the last handsome prince and his loyal servants; and the manor was set ablaze like a resin torch, and it black smoke rose up into the Heavens, as strange and twisted as an angry ripe, like a charred arm still imploring, like the first clouds of the eternal night over the blaze of the last dusk of the Sun.
Glyphtis fled through the hedges of rose-bushes, utterly terrified. She perceived the eyes of the kneeling madman, shining like embers, and his hands, trembling with emotion, reaching toward her own face and hands. As she was no longer laughing, he took her in his arms and bounded into the green thickets.
“Madman, madman,” said the talking bird, “your retreat will soon be discovered. Oh, the handsome ardent madman, the hurdles and whips are ready for you. Ha ha ha!”
But Glyphtis implored, so tenderly: “Let my friend hide me close to his pools, in his castle of leaves and his squirrels’ tu
rrets.”
And the bird followed them without saying any more, and the hermit, seeing them pass by, gave them his bread.
Then they wandered along the thousand paths, far away, so very far! Glyphtis looked at herself in all the mirrors. The flight of hinds and fawns and the rustling of undergrowth warmed them about the approach of enemies. Then, soon wearied, the barbarians left, and the madman became the king of the forest again.
Grass and trees are growing once again beside the sea; little pathways run there, and the creepers follow them. The hedges of rose-bushes have become gigantic and closed the approach from the sea with a thick curtain. And the madman gambols beside Glyphtis in the heart of clearings. They sit down together on the shady beds of moss.
The Madman is the king’s son, since he is the victor and Glyphtis does not know how to get out of the forest. For there is no road, but only little winding paths, which escape and disappear beneath her feet when she is alone; for the talking bird does not want to tell her when ships are prowling not far from the shore, and the hermit amuses himself with his grumbling and his well-intentioned exhortations, as the worthy madman does with his flute and is whistling, and also with his muscular arms.
Furthermore, he listens to the beautiful tales she tells him, about great manors far away, kings surrounded by a thousand guardsmen, pontiffs whose gestures halt armies. She sees him suffering slightly at these tales of the great wide world, and perhaps she imagines that he will take her back one day to the civilized world—but the madman, who is becoming wiser with every passing day, leans over her.
“The forest is beautiful,” he says.
She can make no reply but: “Yes.”
Chapter Four
THEANO
