Souvenirs of an Old Rook. Fragments From an Album of Travels
“Non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.”—HORACE, Epistles.
Summary
Why does one travel?—An old castle.—The Duke and Duchess.—The Terrace.—An old Falcon.—The hosts of the Terrace.—Make yourself a Grand Duke.—A magic Carp.—How an Owl dies of love.—How Madame Crow ends her story.
Some pursue happiness, and the pursuit invariably ends in the grave; others flee the evil which no one escapes. The Swallows follow the sun and flit with its beams, while Marmots close their eyes on all his wintry glory and court repose, having faith that nature will again awake at Phœbus’s bidding. There are many creatures who leave their homes to face unknown dangers, but few return, for space is vast, and the insatiable ocean cries for ever, “Give! give!” Many more go to sleep and few awake, for sleepers are near to the death that broods over them. The Butterfly travels because he has wings. The Snail, rather than remain in one place, shoulders his house and moves along; the unknown is so attractive. Hunger wounds these, love woos those; for the former some happy region teems with food, for the latter with sentiment. Those alone who travel without aim are burdened with satiety. As for the Squirrel who turns in his cage, we may say, “S’agiter n’est pas avancer.”3 Unfortunately, like him, many move, but few make progress. Thus it is said that the wise ones of the world prefer peaceful misery to active happiness; they are content to live on in the spot where they were born without troubling their heads about anything beyond the limits of their horizon, and they die, if not happy, at least tranquil. But it may be that this wisdom comes from the coldness of their hearts, and the weakness and powerlessness of their wings.
No one has answered the question, Why does one travel? better than a great writer of our sex, George Sand, who said, “One travels because no one is happy here below.” It must be that motion is everywhere, nothing is perfect, therefore there is no repose. As for me, I have travelled not because I had a liking for motion, for I loved my nest and the short walks over the village green.
“What is the good of these interminable speculations and questions at the beginning of your tale?” said an old friend and neighbour, whose advice I sometimes ask, always reserving my right to do as I please. “It is not because you occupy yourself with philosophy, &c. &c., that you must bore your readers. You will be accounted a pedant. Are you going to favour us with the particulars of all you have seen and thought during the century you have been in the world? Do you intend, after the mistake of living so long, to add the folly of travelling interminably over paper? Believe me, if you really want to be thought a bold adventurous spirit, a travelling genius, write a book of travels. The century of Columbus has passed, one has no need to discover new lands, one may now set up as a traveller at less cost and no risk. Discover, if you will, the spot where you were born, your neighbours and your neighbours’ affairs, yourself, or nothing, and write about them. Relate—what does it matter how you relate, so long as you do relate something? It is the time for stories. Imitate your contemporaries, those illustrious travellers, who, in the four corners of the globe, bravely write down their impressions while reclining on the straw or down of the paternal nest. Follow their example, I say, jot down everything about yourself, your friends, your servants; the time you dine, and all about your appetite. Detail the dishes you have, and those you have not, institute a comparison between the feathers of different birds, taking care never to dip beneath the surface, confine your descriptions to dress and manners. Whenever you come across an old tale, colour it freely and serve it up as new, and I shall promise you a great success. You will fall into many grave errors. What of that? they will never be discovered till after you are dead, when it may amuse your children to defend your reputation.”
These reflections had a certain fascination for me, the advice might be good, or bad, it was at any rate easy to follow. But my conscience kept me out of harm’s way, and I replied—
“One cannot always follow one’s own inclination, as for me, I am an honourable Rook, and will do my best at all times. If what you have just said is intended for advice, it is so precious you ought to keep it to yourself.”
“Be it so,” he said, bowing gravely.
I returned the salute and again took up my pen. I am undoubtedly an old Rook. Old as I am I have no notion of concealing my age. I was once young, that I can well remember, young as the Starlings yonder, and less giddy, having a proper notion of the respect due to age. Old age, in spite of all its infirmities, would meet with greater marks of tenderness and reverence if we thought a little more of the silent grave, on whose brink the feeble steps are tottering.
As far as I can remember I was married then; yes, when I was young, that is true, it is some fifty years ago, and I seemed to grow old in a day when I lost my dear husband. How strangely the scene comes back to my poor old head. It was a dreadful day, the wind was moaning dismally through the crevices of the old tower, while the thunder, bursting in terrible peals from the dark sky, shook the foundations of the grim cathedral, making its grey stones tremble as if with fear. Chill rain fell in torrents, and for the first time menaced our nest, though it was well protected under one of the doorways of the Cathedral of Strasbourg. “I am dying!” said a feeble, yet resolute voice. That was my husband, poor dear; he made up his mind to die and he died. He was always a very determined bird. “Mind the young ones, love!” These were his last words, and I did mind them, at least I tried to, but they, all of them, died within a week.
Worst of all, I could not die myself, and a sort of consolation did steal into my widowed heart, that made me feel I would not be justified in dying.
“Travel,” said an old Stork, who had nursed my husband. “You will start inconsolable, you will return calmed if not consoled. Many griefs have been starved out and left behind on the king’s highways.” This Stork was esteemed as a very sensible creature, but the world had hardened her heart: I would sooner kill my children than stifle grief! My children, alas! where are they? A number of friendly Crows, our neighbours, lent weight to the Stork’s advice by urging me to leave the old scenes, and I did leave the place, although I almost felt certain that my husband and little ones would reappear some day.
Talk of travelling! why, I have travelled without halting almost for the last fifty years, but it did not take me a fiftieth part of that time to find out that the worldly old Stork was right.
From the moment of entering seriously on my journeys, I was reminded of this proverb by a celebrated moralist.—“One travels in order to relate one’s travels.” I determined to follow this maxim, and accordingly, armed with note book, set out to explore the world. As occasion presented itself, I related my adventures, and was fortunate in securing listeners who, however, were afraid to applaud what might prove unpopular. At last a bird (in truth no friend of mine), well-known in fashionable circles, hazarded his patronage, saying aloud with the most perfect assurance, that my tales were decidedly good. That made my fortune, not that my tales were improved by this notice, but they became sanctioned, so to speak. Soon my stories flew from beak to beak; I found them everywhere. However little one deserves praise, it is always flattering, I therefore continue.
Notes
3 S. La Valette, Fables.