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قراءة كتاب The Double Garden
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The
Double Garden
By
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
Translated by
Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1904
Copyright, 1902,
By Harper & Brothers
Copyright, 1903,
By Harper & Brothers, the Century Co.
Copyright, 1904,
By Maurice Maeterlinck, Harper & Brothers, the Century Co.,
The Ess Ess Publishing Co., Ainslee's Magazine Co.
———
Copyright, 1904,
By Dodd, Mead and Company
———
Published May, 1904
BURR PRINTING HOUSE
NEW YORK
NOTE
Of the sixteen essays in this volume, some have appeared in London: in the International Library of Famous Literature, the Fortnightly Review, the Daily Mail and London Opinion; some in the following American Reviews: the Century Magazine, the Bookman, the Critic, the Smart Set, Ainslee's Magazine, the Metropolitan Magazine, Harper's Magazine and Harper's Bazar. The author's thanks are due to the respective proprietors of these publications for their permission to republish in the present volume.
Contents
| Page | |
| Our Friend, the Dog | 11 |
| The Temple of Chance | 47 |
| In Praise of the Sword! | 67 |
| Death and the Crown | 83 |
| Universal Suffrage | 99 |
| The Modern Drama | 115 |
| The Foretelling of the Future | 139 |
| In an Automobile | 171 |
| News of Spring | 189 |
| The Wrath of the Bee | 205 |
| Field Flowers | 219 |
| Chrysanthemums | 233 |
| Old-fashioned Flowers | 251 |
| Sincerity | 279 |
| Portrait of a Lady | 295 |
| The Leaf of Olive | 317 |
OUR FRIEND, THE DOG
THE DOUBLE GARDEN
OUR FRIEND, THE DOG
I
I have lost, within these last few days, a little bull-dog. He had just completed the sixth month of his brief existence. He had no history. His intelligent eyes opened to look out upon the world, to love mankind, then closed again on the cruel secrets of death.
The friend who presented me with him had given him, perhaps by antiphrasis, the startling name of Pelléas. Why rechristen him? For how can a poor dog, loving, devoted, faithful, disgrace the name of a man or an imaginary hero?
Pelléas had a great bulging, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates or Verlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent, a pair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a sort of massive, obstinate, pensive and three-cornered menace. He was beautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has complied strictly with the laws of its species. And what a smile of attentive obligingness, of incorruptible innocence, of affectionate submission, of boundless gratitude and total self-abandonment lit up, at the least caress, that adorable mask of ugliness! Whence exactly did that smile emanate? From the ingenuous and melting eyes? From the ears pricked up to catch the words of man? From the forehead that unwrinkled to appreciate and love, or from the stump of a tail that wriggled at the other end to testify to the intimate and impassioned joy that filled his small being, happy once more to encounter the hand or the glance of the god to whom he surrendered himself?
Pelléas was born in Paris, and I had taken him to the country. His bonny fat paws, shapeless and not yet stiffened, carried slackly through the unexplored pathways of his new existence his huge and serious head, flat-nosed and, as it were, rendered