The Life of the Fly 



family in July, or in August at latest. Every 

 morning, at nine o'clock, when the heat begins 

 to be unendurable and when, to use FavierV 

 expression, an extra log is flung on the bonfire 

 of the sun, I take the field, prepared to come 

 back with my head aching from the glare, pro- 

 vided that I bring home the solution of my 

 puzzle. A man must have the devil in him to 

 leave the shade at this time of the year. And 

 what for, pray? To write the story of a Fly ! 

 The greater the heat, the better my chance 

 of success. What causes me to suffer torture 

 fills the insect with delight; what prostrates 

 me braces the Fly. Come along! 



The road shimmers like a sheet of molten 

 steel. From the dusty and melancholy olive- 

 trees rises a mighty, throbbing hum, a great 

 andante whose executants have the whole 

 sweep of woods for their orchestra. 'Tis the 

 concert of the Cicadas, whose bellies sway and 

 rustle with increasing frenzy as the tempera- 

 ture rises. The strident scrapings of the Cicada 

 of the Ash, the Carcan of the district, lend 

 their rhythm to the one-note symphony of the 

 Common Cicada. This is the moment: come 

 along! And, for five or six weeks, oftenest 



\An ex-soldier, recurring in many of the essays, the 

 author's gardener and factotum. — Translator's Note. 



94 



