13 November 1889

The cold is setting in. We can feel it, we can see it, nature is falling into the cozy lethargy of the indolent man who shuffles from his bed to the window and from the window to his bed. I am myself as if numb and content myself with minor disruptions for my amusement. This morning, our gardener came to fetch me as the cold room had been invaded by two ferocious greenfinches, these small greenish birds with large beaks that stuff themselves with grains. I am still laughing about it. Armed with nets and baskets, we struggled in vain before we were finally able to capture the birds and set them loose outdoors. Our cold room is closed by two doors separated by a corridor. I wonder how they managed to enter into our reserves of ice. Walking back to the castle, this event, which brought together birds, confinement and darkness, took me back many years, back to when I was young. When I would accompany my uncle (peace be upon his soul!) to one of his collieries, I remember being struck by the blackened faces of the miners, but also by the cages they took with them on their descents into hell. The frail canaries in these cages were meant to warn them, in the event that these birds died, of a toxic gas leak. In this war that we are waging on the underground, we are sending not only human soldiers, but also winged scouts, thus writing new myths for our age of machines and lights.