Sons of the Soil | Page 6

morphia in
glutinous tears, and all are clearly defined on the dark-blue ether.
Above the ruddy soil of the terraces flames that joyous natural punch
which intoxicates the insects and the flowers and dazzles our eyes and
browns our faces. The grape is beading, its tendrils fall in a veil of
threads whose delicacy puts to shame the lace-makers. Beside the
house blue larkspur, nasturtium, and sweet-peas are blooming. From a

distance orange-trees and tuberoses scent the air. After the poetic
exhalations of the woods (a gradual preparation) came the delectable
pastilles of this botanic seraglio.
Standing on the portico, like the queen of flowers, behold a woman
robed in white, with hair unpowdered, holding a parasol lined with
white silk, but herself whiter than the silk, whiter than the lilies at her
feet, whiter than the starry jasmine that climbed the balustrade,--a
woman, a Frenchwoman born in Russia, who said as I approached her,
"I had almost given you up." She had seen me as I left the copse. With
what perfection do all women, even the most guileless, understand the
arrangement of a scenic effect? The movements of the servants, who
were preparing to serve breakfast, showed me that the meal had been
delayed until after the arrival of the diligence. She had not ventured to
come to meet me.
Is this not our dream,--the dream of all lovers of the beautiful, under
whatsoever form it comes; the seraphic beauty that Luini put into his
Marriage of the Virgin, that noble fresco at Sarono; the beauty that
Rubens grasped in the tumult of his "Battle of the Thermodon"; the
beauty that five centuries have elaborated in the cathedrals of Seville
and Milan; the beauty of the Saracens at Granada, the beauty of Louis
XIV. at Versailles, the beauty of the Alps, and that of this Limagne in
which I stand?
Belonging to the estate, about which there is nothing too princely, nor
yet too financial, where prince and farmer-general have both lived
(which fact serves to explain it), are four thousand acres of woodland, a
park of some nine hundred acres, the mill, three leased farms, another
immense farm at Conches, and vineyards,--the whole producing a
revenue of about seventy thousand francs a year. Now you know Les
Aigues, my dear fellow; where I have been expected for the last two
weeks, and where I am at this moment, in the chintz-lined chamber
assigned to dearest friends.
Above the park, towards Conches, a dozen little brooks, clear, limpid
streams coming from the Morvan, fall into the pond, after adorning
with their silvery ribbons the valleys of the park and the magnificent

gardens around the chateau. The name of the place, Les Aigues, comes
from these charming streams of water; the estate was originally called
in the old title-deeds "Les Aigues-Vives" to distinguish it from
"Aigues-Mortes"; but the word "Vives" has now been dropped. The
pond empties into the stream, which follows the course of the avenue,
through a wide and straight canal bordered on both sides and along its
whole length by weeping willows. This canal, thus arched, produces a
delightful effect. Gliding through it, seated on a thwart of the little boat,
one could fancy one's self in the nave of some great cathedral, the choir
being formed of the main building of the house seen at the end of it.
When the setting sun casts its orange tones mingled with amber upon
the casements of the chateau, the effect is that of painted windows. At
the other end of the canal we see Blangy, the county-town, containing
about sixty houses, and the village church, which is nothing more than
a tumble-down building with a wooden clock-tower which appears to
hold up a roof of broken tiles. One comfortable house and the
parsonage are distinguishable; but the township is a large one,--about
two hundred scattered houses in all, those of the village forming as it
were the capital. The roads are lined with fruit-trees, and numerous
little gardens are strewn here and there,--true country gardens with
everything in them; flowers, onions, cabbages and grapevines, currants,
and a great deal of manure. The village has a primitive air; it is rustic,
and has that decorative simplicity which we artists are forever seeking.
In the far distance is the little town of Soulanges overhanging a vast
sheet of water, like the buildings on the lake of Thune.
When you stroll in the park, which has four gates, each superb in style,
you feel that our mythological Arcadias are flat and stale. Arcadia is in
Burgundy, not in Greece; Arcadia is at Les Aigues and nowhere else. A
river, made by scores of brooklets, crosses the park at its lower level
with a serpentine movement; giving a dewy freshness and tranquillity
to