Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 3 Foliis ac Frondibus

The garden thus left to itself for more than half a century had become extraordinary and charming. The passers-by of forty years ago halted to gaze at it, without a suspicion of the secrets which it hid in its fresh and verdant depths. More than one dreamer of that epoch often allowed his thoughts and his eyes to penetrate indiscreetly between the bars of that ancient, padlocked gate, twisted, tottering, fastened to two green and moss-covered pillars, and oddly crowned with a pediment of undecipherable arabesque.

There was a stone bench in one corner, one or two mouldy statues, several lattices which had lost their nails with time, were rotting on the wall, and there were no walks nor turf; but there was enough grass everywhere. Gardening had taken its departure,and nature had returned. Weeds abounded, which was a great piece of luck for a poor corner of land. The festival of gilliflowers was something splendid. Nothing in this garden obstructed the sacred effort of things towards life; venerable growth reigned there among them. The trees had bent over towards the nettles, the plant had sprung upward, the branch had inclined, that which crawls on the earth had gone in search of that which expands in the air, that which floats on the wind had bent over towards that which trails in the moss; trunks, boughs, leaves, fibres, clusters, tendrils, shoots, spines, thorns, had mingled, crossed, married, confounded themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep and close embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, under the well-pleased eye of the Creator, in that enclosure three hundred feet square, the holy mystery of fraternity, symbol of the human fraternity. This garden was no longer a garden, it was a colossal thicket, that is to say, something as impenetrable as a forest, as peopled as a city, quivering like a nest, sombre like a cathedral, fragrant like a bouquet, solitary as a tomb, living as a throng.

In Floreal this enormous thicket, free behind its gate and within its four walls, entered upon the secret labor of germination, quivered in the rising sun, almost like an animal which drinks in the breaths of cosmic love, and which feels the sap of April rising and boiling in its veins, and shakes to the wind its enormous wonderful green locks, sprinkled on the damp earth, on the defaced statues, on the crumbling steps of the pavilion, and even on the pavement of the deserted street, flowers like stars,dew like pearls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, perfumes. At midday, a thousand white butterflies took refuge there, and it was a divine spectacle to see that living summer snow whirling about there in flakes amid the shade. There, in those gay shadows of verdure, a throng of innocent voices spoke sweetly to the soul, and what the twittering forgot to say the humming completed. In the evening, a dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a shroud of mist, a calm and celestial sadness covered it; the intoxicating perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus poured out from every part of it, like an exquisite and subtle poison; the last appeals of the woodpeckers and the wagtails were audible as they dozed among the branches; one felt the sacred intimacy of the birds and the trees; by day the wings rejoice the leaves, by night the leaves protect the wings.

From April 19 to May 20.

In winter the thicket was black, dripping, bristling, shivering, and allowed some glimpse of the house. Instead of flowers on the branches

and dew in the flowers, the long silvery tracks of the snails were visible on the cold, thick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion, under any aspect, at all seasons, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this tiny enclosure breathed forth melancholy, contemplation, solitude, liberty, the absence of man, the presence of God; and the rusty old gate had the air of saying: "This garden belongs to me."

It was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there on every side, the classic and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varennes a couple of paces away, the dome of the Invalides close at hand, the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the carriages of the Rue de Bourgogne and of the Rue Saint-Dominique rumbled luxuriously, in vain, in the vicinity, in vain did the yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses cross each other's course at the neighboring cross-roads; the Rue Plumet was the desert; and the death of the former proprietors, the revolution which had passed over it, the crumbling away of ancient fortunes, absence, forgetfulness, forty years of abandonment and widowhood, had sufficed to restore to this privileged spot ferns, mulleins, hemlock, yarrow, tall weeds, great crimped plants, with large leaves of pale green cloth, lizards, beetles, uneasy and rapid insects; to cause to spring forth from the depths of the earth and to reappear between those four walls a certain indescribable and savage grandeur; and for nature, which disconcerts the petty arrangements of man, and which sheds herself always thoroughly where she diffuses herself at all, in the ant as well as in the eagle, to blossom out in a petty little Parisian garden with as much rude force and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World.

Nothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the profound and penetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, either to circumscribe the cause or to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these decompositions of force terminating in unity. Everything toils at everything.

Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, then, can calculate the course of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds is not determined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the reverberations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is little, the little is great; everything is balanced in necessity; alarming vision for the mind. There are marvellous relations between beings and things; in that inexhaustible whole, from the sun to the grub, nothing despises the other; all have need of each other. The light does not bear away terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths, without knowing what it is doing; the night distributes stellar essences to the sleeping flowers. All birds that fly have round their leg the thread of the infinite. Germination is complicated with the bursting forth of a meteor and with the peck of a swallow cracking its egg, and it places on one level the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two possesses the larger field of vision? Choose. A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. The same promiscuousness, and yet more unprecedented, exists between the things of the intelligence and the facts of substance. Elements and principles mingle, combine, wed, multiply with each other, to such a point that the material and the moral world are brought eventually to the same clearness. The phenomenon is perpetually returning upon itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges the universal life goes and comes in unknown quantities, rolling entirely in the invisible mystery of effluvia, employing everything, not losing a single dream, not a single slumber, sowing an animalcule here, crumbling to bits a planet there, oscillating and winding, making of light a force and of thought an element, disseminated and invisible, dissolving all, except that geometrical point, the I; bringing everything back to the soul-atom; expanding everything in God, entangling all activity, from summit to base, in the obscurity of a dizzy mechanism, attaching the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating, who knows? Were it only by the identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the firmament to the whirling of the infusoria in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, the prime motor of which is the gnat, and whose final wheel is the zodiac.

这个被弃置了半个世纪无人过问的园子是别具一番气象，令人神往的。四十年前，从这街上走过的人常会久久伫立瞻望，却谁也没有意识到隐藏在那深密葱翠的枝叶后面的秘密。一道加了扣锁的弯曲晃动的古式铁栏门，竖在两根绿霉侵渍的柱子中间，顶上有一道盘绕着离奇不可解的阿拉伯式花饰的横楣，当年不止一个好作遐想的人曾让自己的目光和思想从那些栏杆缝里穿过去。

在一个角落里有一条石凳，两个或三个生了青苔的雕像，几处贴墙的葡萄架，钉子已被时间拔落，在墙上腐烂；此外，既无路径可寻，也没有浅草地，处处是茅根。园艺已成过去，大自然又回来了。杂草丛生，在一角荒地上争荣斗胜。桂竹香的盛会在这里是美不胜收的。这园子里，绝没有什么阻扰着万物奔向生命的神圣意愿，万物在此欣欣向荣，如在家园。树梢低向青藤，青藤攀援树梢，藤蔓往上援，枝条向下垂，在地上爬的找到了那些在空中开放的，迎风招展的屈就那些在苔藓中匍匐的，主干，旁枝，叶片，纤维，花簇，卷须，嫩梢，棘刺，全都搀和、交绕、纠缠、错杂在一起了。这儿，在造物主的满意的目光下，在这三百尺见方的园地里，紧密深挚拥抱着的植物已在庆贺并完成了它们的神秘的友爱棗人类友爱的象征。这花园已不是花园，而是一片广大的榛莽地，就是说，一种象森林那样幽深，象城市那样热闹，象鸟巢那样颤动，象天主堂那样阴暗，象花束那样芬芳，象坟墓那样孤寂，象人群那样活跃的地方。

到了花开的季节，这一大片树丛草莽，在那铁栏门后四道墙中随意寻欢，暗自进行着普遍的繁殖，并且，几乎象一头从曙光中嗅到了漫山遍野求偶气息的野兽，感到暮春三月的热流在血管里急走沸腾，猛然惊起，迎风抖动头上披纷茂密的绿发，向着湿润的地面、剥蚀的雕像、楼前的破落台阶直到荒凉的街心石，遍撒着繁星似的花朵、珍珠似的露水、丰盛、美丽、生命、欢乐、芬芳。在中午，千百只白蝴蝶躲在那里，一团团有生命的六月雪在万绿丛中轻飞乱舞，望去真是一片只应天上有的景色。在那里，在那些爽心悦目、绿叶浅阴的地方，有无数天真的声音在轻轻叙诉衷肠，嘤嘤鸟语忘了说的，嗡嗡虫声在追补。傍晚时从园里升起一层梦幻似的雾气，把它笼罩起来，把它覆盖在一条烟霭织成的殓巾、一种缥缈安静的伤感下，金银花和牵牛花那使人欲醉的香味，象一种醇美沁人心脾的毒气，从园里的每一个角落里散发出来，你能听到鹪鹩和鹡鴒在枝叶下沉沉入睡前发出的最后呼唤，你能感到鸟雀和树木之间的坚贞友情，白天，鸟翅取悦树叶，黑夜，树叶护卫鸟翅。入冬以后，丛莽成了黑的，潮的，枯枝散乱，临风抖动，那栋房子便也隐约可见。人们所望见的已不是枝上的花朵和花上的露水，而是蜒蚰在那冷而厚的地毯似的层层黄叶上留下的宛延曲折的银丝带，但是，无论如何，从各个方面看，在每个季节，不论春冬夏秋，这个小小的园林，总有着一种惆怅、怨慕、幽独、悠闲、人踪绝而上帝存的味儿，那道锈了的老铁栏门仿佛是在说：“这园子是我的。”

巴黎的铺石路白白在那一带围绕，华伦街上的那些典雅富丽的府第相隔才两步路，残废军人院的圆顶近在咫尺，众议院也不远，勃艮第街上和圣多米尼克街上的那些软兜轿车白白地在那一带炫耀豪华，驶来驶去，黄色的、褐色的、白色的、红色的公共马车也都白白地在那附近的十字路口交织奔驰，卜吕梅街却但是冷清清的；旧时财主们的死亡，一次已成过去的革命，古代豪门望族的崩溃、迁徒、遗忘，四十年的抛弃和寡居，已足使这个享受过特权的地段重新生满了羊齿、锦葵、霸王鞭、蓍草、长茅草，还有那种叶子宽大、颜色灰绿、斑驳的高大植物，蜥蜴、蜣螂、种种仓皇急窜的昆虫，使那种无可言喻的蛮荒粗野的壮观从土壤深处滋长起来，再次展现在那四道围墙里，使自然界棗阻扰着人类渺小心机的、随时随地在蚂蚁身上或雄鹰身上都肆意孳息的自然界，在巴黎的一个陋劣的小小园子里，如同在新大陆的处女林中那样，既犷悍又庄严地炫耀着自己。

确也没有什么是小的，任何一个能向自然界深入观察的人都知道这一点。虽然哲学在确定原因和指明后果两个方面都同样不能得到绝对圆满的解答，但穷究事理的人总不免因自然界里种种力量都由分化复归于一的现象而陷入无止境的冥想中。一切都在为一个整体进行工作。

代数可运用于云层，日光旋惠于玫瑰，任何思想家都不敢说山楂的香气于星群无涉。谁又能计算一个分子的历程呢？我们又怎能知道星球不是由砂粒的陨坠所形成的呢？谁又能认识无限大和无限小的相互交错、原始事物在实际事物深渊中的轰鸣和宇宙形成中的坍塌现象呢？一条蛆也不容忽视，小就是大，大就是小，在需求中，一切都处于平衡状态，想象中的骇人幻象。物与物之间，存在着无从估计的联系，在这个取之不竭的整体中，从太阳到蚜虫，谁也不能藐视谁，彼此都互相依存，光不会无缘无故把地上的香气带上晴空，黑夜把天体的精华散给睡眠中的花儿。任何飞鸟的爪子都被无极的丝缕所牵。万物的化育是复杂的，有风云雷电诸天象，有破壳而出的乳燕，一条蚯蚓的出生和苏格拉底的来临同属于化育之列。在望远镜无能为力的地方显微镜开始起作用。究竟哪一种镜子的视野更为广阔呢？你去选择吧。一粒霉菌是一簇美不胜收的花朵，一撮星云是无数天体的蚁聚。思想领域和物质范畴中的种种事物也同样是错综复杂的，并且实有过之而无不及。种种元素和始因彼此互相混合、搀和、交汇、增益，以使物质世界和精神世界达到同样的光辉。现象永远隐藏着自身的真相。在宇宙广袤无边的运动中，无量数的空间活动交相往来，把一切都卷进那神秘无形的散漫中，并也利用一切，即使是任何一次睡眠中的任何一场梦也不放弃，在这儿播下一个微生物，在那里撒上一个星球，摇摆，蛇行，把一点光化为力量，把一念变成原质，散布八方而浑然一体，分解一切，而我，几何学上的这一点，独成例外；把一切都引回到原子棗灵魂，使一切都在上帝的心中放出异彩；把一切活动，从最高的到最低的，交织在一种惊心动魄的机械的黑暗中，把一只昆虫的飞行系在地球的运转上，把彗星在天空的移动附属于棗谁知道？哪怕只是由于规律的同一性棗纤毛虫在一滴水中的环行。精神构成的机体。一套无比巨大的联动齿轮，它最初的动力量小蝇，最末的轮子是黄道。

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