The Hermit of Serignan 



in the village square with gunpowder, lighted 

 torches, Chinese lanterns, and, above all, strong 

 drink. It has the simplicity of beauty and the 

 repose of strength. 



It is late; and the Cicadae are silent. Glutted 

 with light and heat, they have indulged in sym- 

 phonies all the livelong day. It is now the time 

 of the nocturnal performers. Hard by the place 

 of slaughter, in the green bushes, a delicate ear 

 perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers. It is the 

 sort of noise that a spinning-wheel makes, a very 

 unobtrusive sound, a vague rustle of dry mem- 

 branes rubbed together. Above this dull bass there 

 rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost 

 metallic clicking. There you have the air and 

 the recitative, interspersed with pauses. The rest 

 is the accompaniment. 



Despite the assistance of a bass, it is a poor con- 

 cert, very poor indeed, though there are about 

 ten executants in my immediate vicinity. The tone 

 lacks intensity. My old tympanum is not always 

 capable of perceiving these subtleties of sound. The 

 little that reaches me is extremely sweet and most 

 appropriate to the calm of twilight. Just a little 

 more breadth in your bow-stroke, my dear Green 

 Grasshopper, and your technique would be better 

 than the hoarse Cicada's, whose name and repu- 

 tation you have been made to usurp in the coun- 

 tries of the north. 



Still, you will never equal your neighbour, the 

 little bell-ringing Toad, who goes tinkling all 

 around, at the foot of the plane-trees, while you 



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