June 3.


I had escorted to the Cimetiere de Marnes that day a very aged
colleague of mine who, to use the words of Goethe, had consented to
die. The great Goethe, whose own vital force was something
extraordinary, actually believed that one never dies until one really
wants to die--that is to say, when all those energies which resist
dissolution, and teh sum of which make up life itself, have been
totally destroyed. In other words, he believed that people only
die when it is no longer possible for them to live. Good! it is
merely a question of properly understanding one another; and when
fully comprehended, the magnificent idea of Goethe only brings
us quietly back to the song of La Palisse.

Well, my excellent colleague had consented to die--thanks to several
successive attacks of extremely persuasive apoplexy--the last of
which proved unanswerable. I had been very little acquainted with
him during his lifetime; but it seems that I became his friend the
moment he was dead, for our colleagues assured me in a most serious
manner, with deeply sympathetic countenances, that I should act as
one of the pall-bearers, and deliver an address over the tomb.

After having read very badly a short address I had written as well
as I could--which is not saying much for it--I started out for a
walk in the woods of Ville-d'Avray, and followed, without leaning
too much on the Captain's cane, a shaded path on which the sunlight
fell, through foliage, in little discs of gold. Never had the scent