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116 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1939
…day in, day out, we lived in great seclusion in our Rue-Herb Retreat. This hermitage stood on the edge of the Marble Cliffs, in the middle of one of those islands of rock one sees protruding from the vineyards here and there. The garden was cultivated in narrow beds won from the rock, and along the loose rock walls that edged these beds sprouted an abundance of the wild plants that flourish in fertile vineyard earth. And thus early in the spring blue pearl clusters of the grape hyacinth bloomed and in the fall we delighted in the winter cherries, their fruits gleaming like red lanterns. But in all seasons the house and garden were bordered by silvery green rue bushes, from which a muddled, swirling scent rose when the sun was high.
The Head Forester had no affection for farmsteads or poets’ haunts either, nor for any place of calm reflection. The best his territory had to offer was a breed of rude knaves who lived only for tracking and hunting, all of them, father to son, entirely devoted to the old man. These were his master huntsmen, whereas the subordinate hunters we saw at the Marina came from strange villages the old man supported deep within his forest.
Another thought weighed on us as well, one familiar to all those engaged in the work of the mind. We had devoted many a year to our plant studies, sparing no effort or lamp oil. We had also gladly sacrificed our inheritance to it. Now the first ripe fruits were falling into our laps. For here were the letters, manuscripts, commonplace books, and herbaria, the war and travel diaries, and especially our materials on language – many thousands of fragments assembled like small stones in a mosaic now far advanced.