25
To catch a glimpse of this strange problem of the preexistence of
the future, as it shows itself to each of us, let us essay more
humbly to translate it into tangible images, to place it as it
were upon the stage. I am writing these lines sitting on a stone,
in the shade of some tall beeches that overlook a little Norman
village. It is one of those lovely summer days when the sweetness
of life is almost visible in the azure vase of earth and sky. In
the distance stretches the immense, fertile valley of the Seine,
with its green meadows planted with restful trees, between which
the river flows like a long path of gladness leading to the misty
hills of the estuary. I am looking down on the village-square,
with its ring of young lime-trees. A procession leaves the church
and, amid prayers and chanting, they carry the statue of the
Virgin around the sacred pile. I am conscious of all the details
of the ceremony: the sly old cure perfunctorily bearing a small
reliquary; four choirmen opening their mouths to bawl forth
vacantly the Latin words which convey nothing to them; two
mischievous serving-boys in frayed cassocks; a score of little
girls, young girls and old maids in white, all starched and
flounced, followed by six or seven village notables in baggy
frockcoats. The pageant disappears behind the trees, comes into
sight again at the bend of the road and hurries back into the
church.
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