Little Poems in Prose

XXX THE ROPE TO EDOUARD MANET ILLUSIONS, my friend was saying, are per- haps as innumerable as the relations of men between themselves or those of men with things; and when illusion disappears, that is to say, when we see the being or the fact as it exists outside ourselves, we experience a curi- ous sentiment; complex, half of regret for the vanished phantom, half of pleased surprise at the novelty before the actual fact. If there be one evident, trivial phenomenon invariably like itself, and about whose nature it is impossible to make a mistake, it is maternal love. It is as difficult to suppose a mother without maternal love as light without heat; is it not then per- fectly legitimate to attribute to maternal love all those words and actions which a mother says or does in the matter of her child? And yet, listen to this little story; where I was strangely mystified by the most natural illusion possible.