his own hands, and with his clay,
he built a furnace against the wall of his house, and he set himself to
making little pots to hold raspberries.

He became skilful at this work, and all the gardeners round about came to
him to provide themselves with these light, porous pots, of a beautiful
red hue, round and slender, wherein the raspberries could be heaped
without crushing them, and where they slept under the shelter of a green
leaf.

The leaf, the pot, the raspberries, these enchanted everybody by their
form and color; and the buyers in the city market would have no berries
save those which were sold in Jean the potter's round and slender pots.

Now more than ever the beautiful girls visited Jean's field.

Now they brought baskets of woven reeds in which they piled the empty
pots, red and fresh. But now Jean observed them without desire. His heart
was forevermore far away beyond the sea.

Still, as he deepened and broadened the ditch in his field, from which he
took the clay, he saw that his pots to hold the raspberries were variously
colored, tinted sometimes with rose, sometimes with blue or violet,
sometimes with black or green.

These shades of the clay reminded him of the loveliest things which had
gladdened his eyes: plants, flowers, ocean, sky.

Then he set himself to choose, in making his vases, shades of clay, which
he mingled delicately. And these colors, produced by centuries of
alternating lights and shadows, obeyed his will, changed in a moment
according to his desire.

Each day he modelled hundreds of these raspberry pots, moulding them upon
the wheel which turned like a sun beneath the pressure of his agile foot.
The mass of shapeless clay, turning on the center of the disk, under the
touch of his finger, suddenly raised itself like the petals of a lily,
lengthened, broadened, swelled or shrank, submissive to his will.

The creative potter loved the clay.

III

As he still dreamed of the things which he had most admired, his thought,
his remembrance, his will, descended into his fingers, where--without his
knowing how--they communicated to the clay that mysterious principle of
life which the wisest man is unable to define. The humble works of Jean
the potter had marvellous graces. In such a curve, in such a tint, he put
some memory of youth, or of an opening blossom, or the very color of the
weather, and of joy or sorrow.

In his hours of repose he walked with his eyes fixed upon the g