Romance of the Rabbit | Page 3

a cloud of mosquitoes quivering like a road in the sun.
Then at dusk he made two bounds forward softly and two more to the
left and to the right.
It was the beginning of the night. He went forward toward the river
where on the spindles of the reeds hung in the moonlight a weave of
silver mists.
Rabbit sat down in the midst of the blossoming grass. He was happy
that at that hour all sounds were harmonious, and that one hardly knew
whether the calls were those of quails or of crystal springs.
Were all human beings dead? There was one watching at some distance;
he was making movements above the water, and noiselessly
withdrawing his dripping and shimmering net. But only the heart of the
waters was troubled, Rabbit's remained calm.
And, lo, between the angelicas something that looked like a ball bit by
bit came into view. It was his best-beloved approaching. Rabbit ran
toward her until they met deep in the blue aftercrop of grass. Their little
noses touched. And for a moment in the midst of the wild sorrel, they
exchanged kisses. They played. Then slowly, side by side, guided by
hunger, they set out for a small farm lying low in the shadow. In the
poor vegetable garden into which they penetrated there were crisp
cabbages and spicy thyme. Nearby the stable was breathing; the pig
protruded its mobile snout, sniffing, under the door of its sty.
Thus the night passed in eating and amatory sport. Little by little the
darkness stirred beneath the dawn. Shining spots appeared in the

distance. Everything began to quiver. An absurd cock, perched on the
chicken-house, rent the silence. He crowed as if possessed, and clapped
applause for himself with the stumps of his wings.
Rabbit and his wife went their separate ways at the threshold of the
hedge of thorns and roses. Crystal-like, as it were, a village emerged
from the mist, and in a field dogs with their tails as stiff as cables were
busy trying to disentangle the loops so skillfully described by the
charming couple amid the mint and blades of grass.
* * * * *
Rabbit took refuge in a marl-pit over which mulberries arched, and
there he stayed crouching with his eyes wide-open until evening. Here
he sat like a king beneath the ogive of the branches; a shower of rain
had adorned them with pale-blue pearls. There he finally fell asleep.
But his dream was unquiet, not like that which should come from the
calm sleep of the sultry summer's afternoon. His was not the profound
sleep of the lizard which hardly stirs when dreaming the dream of
ancient walls; his was not the comfortable noonday sleep of the badger
who sits in his dark earthen burrow and enjoys the coolness.
The slightest sound spoke to him of danger, the danger that lies in all
things whether they move or fall or strike. A shadow moved
unexpectedly. Was it an enemy approaching? He knew that happiness
can be found in a place of refuge only when everything remains exactly
the same this moment, as it was the moment before. Hence came his
love of order, that is to say his immobility.
Why should a leaf stir on the eglantine in the blue calm of an idle day?
When the shadows of a copse move so slowly, that it seems they are
trying to stop the passage of the hours, why should they suddenly stir?
Why was there this crowd of men who, not far from his retreat, were
gathering the ears of maize in which the sun threaded pale beads of
light? His eyelids had no lashes, and so could not bear the palpitating
and dazzling light of noondays. And this alone was sufficient reason
why he knew that danger lurked if he should approach those who
unblinded could look into the white flames of husbandry.
There was nothing outside to lure him before the time came when he
would go out of his own accord. His wisdom was in harmony with
things. His life was a work of music to him, and each discordant note
warned him to be cautious. He did not confuse the voice of the pack of

hounds with the distant sound of bells, or the gesture of a man with that
of a waving tree, or the detonation of a gun with a clap of thunder, or
the latter with the rumbling of carts, or the cry of the hawk with the
steam-whistle of threshing-machines. Thus there was an entire
language, whose words he knew to be his enemies.
Who can say from what source Rabbit obtained this prudence and this
wisdom? No one can explain these things, or tell whence or how they
have