I came upon a place, cramped and dark, but perfumed with the sad scent of smothered violets. And there was no way of avoiding this place, which was like a long passageway. And, feeling blindly about me, I touched a little body, curled up sleeping as before, and I brushed over hair, and I passed my hand over a face I knew, and it seemed to me that the little face was frowning under my fingers, and it became clear that I had found Monelle, sleeping alone in this dark place.
I cried out in surprise, and I said to her, for she neither wept nor laughed:
“O Monelle! Have you come here to sleep far away from us, like a jerboa waiting patiently in a furrow ?”
And she opened her eyes wide and half-opened her lips, as she did in the past when she did not understand and sought an explanation from the one she loved.
“O Monelle,” I said again, “all the children are crying in the empty house; and the toys are covered in dust, and the little lamp has gone out, and all the laughter in the corners of the rooms has gone away, and the world has returned to work. But we thought you were somewhere else. We thought you were playing far away, in a place we cannot reach. And here you are, sleeping, nestled up like a little wild animal under the snow that you used to love for its whiteness.”
Then she spoke, and her voice was the same as ever, a strange thing, in this dark place, and I could not help but weep, and she dried my tears with her hair, for she was bereft.
“O my dear,” she said, “there is no use in crying; so long as there is work to be had, you need your eyes for your work, and the time is yet to come. And you must not stay in this cold and dark place.”
And I sobbed, and said to her:
“O Monelle, but did you not fear the shadows ?”
“I fear them no longer,” she said.
“O Monelle, but were you not afraid of the cold as if it were a dead hand?”
“I am afraid of the cold no longer,” she said.
“And now you are alone here, all alone, a child, and you used to weep when you were alone.”
“I am not alone,” she said. “For I am waiting.”
“O Monelle, whom are you waiting for, sleeping, rolled up in this dark place?”
“I do not know,” she said, “but I am waiting. And I am in the company of my waiting.”
And I saw then that her whole little face was poised toward a great hope.
“You must not stay here,” she said again, “in this cold and dark place, my love; return to your friends.”
“Do you not want to guide me, Monelle, and teach me, so that I could have the patience of your waiting? I am so alone.”
“O my love,” she said, “I am not ready to teach you like before, when I was, as you said, a little bug; these are things you will find by means of long and difficult reflection, though I see them in a flash while I sleep.”
“Do you nest here like this, Monelle, with no memory of the life you once lived ? Or do you still remember us ?”
“How could I forget you, my love? For you are in my waiting, against which I sleep, but I cannot explain it to you. You remember, I loved the soil so much, and I would dig up the flowers, just to be able to plant them again; you remember, I often said: ‘If I were a little bird, you would put me in your pocket when you go.’ O my love, I am here in the good soil like a black seed, and I am waiting to be a little bird.”
“O Monelle, you are sleeping before you fly away from us.”
“No, my love, I do not know if I will fly away, for I know nothing. But I am rolled up in what I once loved, and I sleep against my waiting. And before going to sleep, I was a little bug, like you said, for I was like a naked worm. One day we found a white cocoon of pure silk, and without a single hole. You opened it, naughty man, and it was empty. Do you think the little winged bug had not broken free? But no one can know how. And it had been sleeping a long time. And before sleeping, it had been a naked, little worm; and little worms are blind. Imagine, my love (it is not true, but it is often how I think), that I wove my little cocoon with everything I loved: the soil, the toys, the flowers, the children, the little words, and the memory of you, my love; it is a white and silken nest, and it does not seem cold or dark to me. But perhaps, it is not so for anyone else. And I know very well that it will never open, and that it will stay closed like the cocoon we once found together. But I will not be inside it anymore, my love. For in my waiting I expect to move on like the little winged bug; no one can know how. And of where I want to go, I know nothing; but it is what I am waiting for. And the children, too, and you, my love, and the day when we will no longer work upon this earth—for these things I wait. I am still a little bug, my love; I do not know how to explain it any better than that.”
“You must,” I said, “you must leave this dark place with me, Monelle; for I know you do not believe these things; and you have hidden yourself away to weep; and now that I have found you sleeping here, all alone, waiting here, come with me, come away with me from this dark and cramped place.”
“You cannot stay, O my love,” said Monelle, “for you would suffer so much; and I cannot leave with you, for the home I have woven is entirely sealed, and this is not the way I am supposed to leave it.”
Then Monelle put her arms around my neck, and her kiss, strangely, was the same as those we once shared, and that is why I wept again, and she dried my tears with her hair.
“You must not weep,” she said, “unless you wish to distress me in my waiting; and perhaps I will not be waiting long. So do not be sorry anymore. I bless you for having helped me to sleep in my little silken nest, of which the finest white silk is made of you, and where I sleep now, rolled up upon myself.”
And as before, in her sleep, Monelle nestled up against the invisible and said: “I am sleeping, my love.”
Thus I found her, but how can I be sure that I will find her again in that cramped and dark place?