L'Invitation au Voyage (prose)

There is a wonderful country, a country of Cockaigne, they say, which
I dreamed of visiting with an old friend. It is a strange country,
lost in the mists of our North, and one might call it the East of
the West, the China of Europe, so freely does a warm and capricious
fancy flourish there, and so patiently and persistently has that fancy
illustrated it with a learned and delicate vegetation.

A real country of Cockaigne, where everything is beautiful, rich,
quiet, honest; where order is the likeness and the mirror of luxury;
where life is fat, and sweet to breathe; where disorder, tumult, and
the unexpected are shut out; where happiness is wedded to silence;
where even cooking is poetic, rich and highly flavoured at once; where
all, dear love, is made in your image.

You know that feverish sickness which comes over us in our cold
miseries, that nostalgia of unknown lands, that anguish of curiosity?
There is a country made in your image, where all is beautiful, rich,
quiet and honest; where fancy has built and decorated a western China,
where life is sweet to breathe, where happiness is wedded to silence.
It is there that we should live, it is there that we should die!

Yes, it is there that we should breathe, dream, and lengthen out
the hours by the infinity of sensations. A musician has written an
"Invitation a la Valse": who will compose the "Invitation au Voyage"
that we can offer to the beloved, to the chosen sister?

Yes, it is in this atmosphere that it would be good to live; far off,
where slower hours contain more thoughts where clocks strike happiness
with a deeper and more significant solemnity.

On shining panels, or on gilded leather of a dark richness, slumbers
the discreet life of pictures, deep, calm, and devout as the souls of
the pointers who created it. The sunsets which colour so richly the
walls of dining-room and drawing-room, are sifted through beautiful
hangings or through tall wrought windows leaded into many panes. The
pieces of furniture are large, curious, and fantastic, armed with locks
and secrets like refined souls. Mirrors, metals, hangings, goldsmith's
work and pottery, play for the eyes a mute and mysterious symphony; and
from all things, from every corner, from the cracks of drawers and from
the folds of hangings, exhales a singular odour, a "forget-me-not" of
Sumatra, which is, as it were, the soul of the abode.

A real country of Cockaigne, I assure you, where all is beautiful,
clean, and shining, like a clear conscience, like a bright array of
kitchen crockery, like splendid jewellery of gold, like many-coloured
jewellery of silver! All the treasures of the world have found their
way there, as to the house of a hard-working man who has put the
whole world in his debt. Singular country, excelling others as Art
excels Nature, where Nature is refashioned by dreams, where Nature is
corrected, embellished, remoulded.

Let the alchemists of horticulture seek and seek again, let them set
ever further and further back the limits to their happiness! Let them
offer prizes of sixty and of a hundred thousand florins to whoever will
solve their ambitious problems! For me, I have found my "black tulip"
and my "blue dahlia!"

Incomparable flower, recaptured tulip, allegoric dahlia, it is there,
is it not, in that beautiful country, so calm and so full of dreams,
that you live and flourish? There, would you not be framed within your
own analogy, and would you not see yourself again, reflected, as the
mystics say, in your own "correspondence"?

Dreams, dreams ever! and the more delicate and ambitious the soul, the
further do dreams estrange it from possible things. Every man carries
within himself his natural dose of opium, ceaselessly secreted and
renewed, and, from birth to death, how many hours can we reckon of
positive pleasure, of successful and decided action? Shall we ever live
in, shall we ever pass into, that picture which my mind has painted,
that picture made in your image?

These treasures, this furniture, this luxury, this order, these odours,
these miraculous flowers, are you. You too are the great rivers and the
quiet canals. The vast ships that drift down them, laden with riches,
from whose decks comes the sound of the monotonous songs of labouring
sailors, are my thoughts which slumber or rise and fall on your breast.
You lead them softly towards the sea, which is the infinite, mirroring
the depths of the sky in the crystal clearness of your soul; and when,
weary of the surge and heavy with the spoils of the East, they return
to the port of their birth, it is still my thoughts that come back
enriched out of the infinite to you.