The thought came upon me that it was the soul of my mother calling to me—­my mother, whose voice was soft and very musical.

“I am caring for thee,” said the voice.  “I am caring for thee; I can see thee,” it said, “I can see thee.  I love thee!  I love thee!”

“Reveal thyself!” I called back.  “Oh, mother, reveal thyself!” And I strove feverishly to catch sight of her, following the voice as it swept around in circles; and seeing nothing, I burst into tears.

Suddenly I was seized roughly by the ear.

“What are you doing here, you young rascal?  Are you mad?  The wind is blowing right on to my bed.  Five hundred lines!”

The usher, in nightdress and slippers, was rolling his angry eyes on me.

“Yes, sir; certainly, sir!  But don’t you hear her?”

“Who is it?”

“My mother.”

He looked to see whether I were awake; cocked his head to one side and listened; then shut the window angrily and went off shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s only the plovers flying about the moon,” said he.  “Five hundred lines!”

I did my five hundred lines.  They taught me that dreaming was illegal and dangerous, but they neither convinced nor cured me.

I still believe that there are scattered up and down in nature voices that speak, but which few hear; just as there are millions of flowers that bloom unseen by man.  It is sad for those who catch a hint of it.  Perforce they come back and seek the hidden springs.  They waste their youth and vigor upon empty dreams, and in return for the fleeting glimpses they have enjoyed, for the perfect phrase half caught and lost again, will have given up the intercourse of their kind, and even friendship itself.  Yes, it is sad for the schoolboys who open their windows to gaze at the moon, and never drop the habit!  They will find themselves, all too soon, solitaries in the midst of life, desolate as I am desolate tonight, beside my dead fire.

No friend will come to knock at my door; not one.  I have a few comrades to whom I give that name.  We do not loathe one another.  At need they would help me.  But we seldom meet.  What should they do here?  Dreamers make no confidences; they shrivel up into themselves and are caught away on the four winds of heaven.  Politics drive them mad; gossip fails to interest them; the sorrows they create have no remedy save the joys that they invent; they are natural only when alone, and talk well only to themselves.

The only man who can put up with this moody contrariety of mine is Sylvestre Lampron.  He is nearly twenty years older than I. That explains his forbearance.  Besides, between an artist like him and a dreamer like myself there is only the difference of handiwork.  He translates his dreams.  I waste mine; but both dream.  Dear old Lampron!  Kindly, stalwart heart!  He has withstood that hardening of the moral and physical fibre which comes over so many men as they near their fortieth year.  He shows a brave front to work and to life.  He is cheerful, with the manly cheerfulness of a noble heart resigned to life’s disillusions.