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THE GOLD SICKLE
Or
Hena, The Virgin of The Isle of Sen
A Tale of Druid Gaul
by
EUGENE SUE
Translated from the Original French by Daniel De Leon
New York Labor News Company, 1904
Copyright, 1904, by the
New York Labor News Company
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
_The Gold Sickle; or, Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_, is the
initial story of the series that Eugene Sue wrote under the collective
title of _The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian
Family Across the Ages_.
The scheme of this great work of Sue's was stupendously ambitious--and
the author did not fall below the ideal that he pursued. His was the
purpose of producing a comprehensive "universal history," dating from
the beginning of the present era down to his own days. But the history
that he proposed to sketch was not to be a work for closet study. It was
to be a companion in the stream of actual, every-day life and struggle,
with an eye especially to the successive struggles of the successively
ruled with the successively ruling classes. In the execution of his
design, Sue conceived a plan that was as brilliant as it was
poetic--withal profoundly philosophic. One family, the descendants of a
Gallic chief named Joel, typifies the oppressed; one family, the
descendants of a Frankish chief and conqueror named Neroweg, typifies
the oppressor; and across and adown the ages, the successive struggles
between oppressors and oppressed--the history of civilization--is thus
represented in a majestic allegory. In the execution of this superb plan
a thread was necessary to connect the several epochs with one another,
to preserve the continuity requisite for historic accuracy, and, above
all, to give unity and point to the silent lesson taught by the
unfolding drama. Sue solved the problem by an ingenious scheme--a series
of stories, supposedly written from age to age, sometimes at shorter,
other times at longer intervals, by the descendants of the ancestral
type of the oppressed, narrating their special experience and handing
the supplemented chronicle down to their successors from generation to
generation, always accompanied with some emblematic relic, that
constitutes the first name of each story. The series, accordingly,
though a work presented in the garb of "fiction," is the best universal
history extant: Better than any work, avowedly on history, it
graphically traces the special features of class-rule as they have
succeeded one another from epoch to epoch, together with the special
character of the struggle between the contending classes. The "Law,"
"Order," "Patriotism," "Religion," "Family," etc., etc., that each
successive tyrant class, despite its change of form, fraudulently sought
refuge in to justify its criminal existence whenever threatened; the
varying economic causes of the oppression of the toilers; the mistakes
incurred by these in their struggles for redress; the varying fortunes
of the conflict;--all these social dramas are therein reproduced in a
majestic series of "novels" covering leading and successive episodes in
the history of the race--an inestimable gift, above all to our own
generation, above all to the American working class, the short history
of whose country deprives it of historic back-ground.
It is not until the fifth story is reached--the period of the Frankish
conquest of Gaul, 486 of the present era--that the two distinct streams
of the typical oppressed and typical oppressor meet. But the four
preceding ones are necessary, and preparatory for the main drama, that
starts with the fifth story and that, although carried down to the
revolution of 1848 which overthrew Louis Philippe in France, reaches its
grand climax in _The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French
Republic_, that is, the French Revolution. These stories are nineteen in
number, and their chronological order is the following:
1. The Gold Sickle; or, Hena, the Virgin of the Isle of Sen;
2. The Brass Bell; or, The Chariot of Death;
3. The Iron Collar; or, Faustine and Syomara;
4. The Silver Cross; or, The Carpenter of Nazareth;
5. The Casque's Lark; or, Victoria, The Mother of the Fields;
6. The Poniard's Hilt; or, Karadeucq and Ronan;
7. The Branding Needle; or, The Monastery of Charolles;
8. The Abbatial Crosier; or, Bonaik and Septimine;
9. Carlovingian Coins; or, The Daughters of Charlemagne;
10. The Iron Arrow-Head; or, The Maid of the Buckler;
11. The Infant's Skull; or, The End of the World;
12. The Pilgrim's Shell; or, Fergan the Quarryman;
13. The Iron Pincers; or, Mylio and Karvel;
14. The Iron Trevet; or, Jocelyn the Champion;
15. The Executioner's Knife; or, Joan of Arc;
16. The Pocket Bible; or, Christian the Printer;
17. The Blacksmith's Hammer; or, The Peasant-Code;
18. The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic;
19. The Galley-Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn.
Long and effectually has the influence of the usurping class in the
English-speaking world succeeded in keeping this brilliant torch that
Eugene Sue lighted, from casting its rays across the path of the
English-speaking peoples. Several English translations were attempted
before this, in England and this country, some fifty years ago. They
were all fractional: they are all out of print now: most of them are not
to be found even in public libraries of either England or America, not a
wrack being left to them, little more than a faint tradition. Only two
of the translations are not wholly obliterated. One of them was
published by Truebner & Co. jointly with David Nutt, both of London, in
1863; the other was published by Clark, 448 Broome street, New York, in
1867. The former was anonymous, the translator's identity being
indicated only with the initials "K. R. H. M." It contains only eight of
the nineteen stories of the original, and even these are avowedly
abridgments. The latter was translated by Mary L. Booth, and it broke
off before well under way--extinguished as if snuffed off by a gale.
Even these two luckier fragmentary translations, now surviving only as
curios in a few libraries, attest the vehemence and concertedness of the
effort to suppress this great gift of Sue's intellect to the human race.
It will be thus no longer. _The Mysteries of the People; or, History of
a Proletarian Family Across the Ages_ will henceforth enlighten the
English-speaking toiling masses as well.
DANIEL DE LEON.
New York, May 1, 1904.
INDEX.
Translator's Preface iii
Chapter 1. The Guest 1
Chapter 2. A Gallic Homestead 11
Chapter 3. Armel and Julyan 20
Chapter 4. The Story of Albrege 27
Chapter 5. The Story of Syomara 33
Chapter 6. The Story of Gaul 39
Chapter 7. "War! War! War!" 45
Chapter 8. "Farewell!" 53
Chapter 9. The Forest of Karnak 66
CHAPTER I.
THE GUEST.
He who writes this account is called Joel, the brenn[A] of the tribe of
Karnak; he is the son of Marik, who was the son of Kirio, the son of
Tiras, the son of Gomer, the son of Vorr, the son of Glenan, the son of
Erer, the son of Roderik chosen chief of the Gallic army that, now two
hundred and seventy-seven years ago, levied tribute upon Rome.
[A] Gallic word for chief.
Joel (why should I not say so?) feared the gods, he was of a right
heart, a steady courage and a cheerful mind. He loved to laugh, to tell
stories, and above all to hear them told, like the genuine Gaul that he
was.
At the time when Caesar invaded Gaul (may his name be accursed!), Joel
lived two leagues from Alre, not far from the sea and the isle of
Roswallan, near the edge of the forest of Karnak, the most celebrated
forest of Breton Gaul.
One evening towards nightfall--the evening before the anniversary of the
day when Hena, his daughter, his well-beloved daughter was born unto
him--it is now eighteen years ago--Joel and his eldest son Guilhern were
returning home in a chariot drawn by four of those fine little Breton
oxen whose horns are smaller than their ears. Joel and his son had been
laying marl on their lands, as is usually done in the autumn, so that
the lands may be in good condition for seed-time in the spring. The
chariot was slowly climbing up the hill of Craig'h at a place where that
mountainous road is narrowed between two rocks, and from where the sea
is seen at a distance, and still farther away the Isle of Sen--the
mysterious and sacred isle.
"Father," Guilhern said to Joel, "look down there below on the flank of
the hill. There is a rider coming this way. Despite the steepness of the
descent, he has put his horse to a gallop."
"As sure as the good Elldud invented the plow, that man will break his
neck."
"Where can he be riding to in such a hurry? The sun is going down; the
wind blows high and threatens a storm; and that road that leads to the
desert strand--"
"Son, that man is not of Breton Gaul. He wears a furred cap and a shaggy
coat, and his tanned-skin hose are fastened with red bands."
"A short axe hangs at his right and he has a long knife in a sheath at
his left."
"His large black horse does not seem to stumble in the descent.... Where
can he be going in such a hurry?"
"Father, the man must have lost his way."
"Oh, my son, may Teutates hear you! We shall tender our hospitality to
the rider. His dress tells he is a stranger. What beautiful stories will
he not be able to tell us of his country and his travels!"
"May the divine Ogmi, whose words bind men in golden chains, be
propitious to us, father! It is long since any strange story-teller has
sat at our hearth."
"Besides, we have had no news of what is going on elsewhere in Gaul."
"Unfortunately so!"
"Oh, my son, if I were all-powerful as Hesus, I would have a new
story-teller every evening at supper."
"I would send men traveling everywhere, and have them return and tell
their adventures."
"And if I had the power of Hesus, what wonderful adventures would I not
provide for my travelers so as to increase the interest in their stories
on their return."
"Father, the rider is coming close to us!"
"Yes, he reins in because the road is here narrow, and we bar his
passage with our chariot. Come, Guilhern, the moment is favorable; the
passenger must have lost his way; let us offer him hospitality for
to-night. We shall then keep him to-morrow, and perhaps several other
days. We shall have done him a good turn, and he will give us the news
from Gaul and of the other countries that he has visited."
"Besides, it will be a great joy to my sister Hena who is to come home
to-morrow for the feast of her birthday."
"Oh, Guilhern, I never thought of the pleasure that my beloved daughter
will have listening to the stranger! He must be our guest!"
"That he shall be, father! Indeed, he shall!" answered Guilhern
resolutely.
Joel and his son alighted from the chariot, and advanced towards the
rider. Once close to him, both were struck with the majesty of the
stranger's looks. Nothing haughtier than his eyes, more masculine than
his face, more worthy than his bearing. On his forehead and on one cheek
were visible the traces of two wounds only freshly healed. To judge by
his dauntless appearance, the rider must have been one of those chiefs
whom the tribes elect from time to time to lead them in battle. Joel and
his son were all the more anxious to have him accept their hospitality.
"Friend traveler," said Joel, "night is upon us; you have lost your way;
the road you are on leads nowhere but to the desert strands; the tide
will soon be washing over them because the wind is blowing high. To keep
on your route by night would be dangerous. Come to my house. You may
resume your journey to-morrow."
"I have not lost my way; I know where I am going to; and I am in a
hurry. Turn your oxen aside; make room for me to pass," was the brusque
answer of the rider, whose forehead was wet with perspiration from the
hurry of his course. By his accent he seemed to be from central Gaul,
towards the Loire. After having thus addressed Joel, he struck his
large black horse with both heels in the flanks and tried to draw still
nearer to the oxen that now completely barred his passage.
"Friend traveler, did you not hear me?" rejoined Joel. "I told you that
this road led only to the seashore, that night was on, and that I offer
you my house."
The stranger, however, beginning to wax angry, replied: "I do not need
your hospitality.... Draw your oxen aside.... Do you not see that the
rocks leave me no passage either way?... Hurry up; I am in haste--"
"Friend," said Joel, "you are a stranger; I am of this country; it is my
duty to prevent you from going astray.... I shall do my duty--"
"By Ritha-Gaur, who made himself a blouse out of the beard of the kings
he shaved!" cried the stranger, now in towering rage. "I have traveled a
deal since my beard began to grow, have seen many countries, many
peoples and many strange customs, but never yet have I come across two
fools like these!"
Learning from the mouth of the stranger himself that he had seen many
countries, many peoples and many strange customs, Joel and his son, both
of whom were passionately fond of hearing stories, concluded that many
and charming must be the ones the stranger could tell, and they felt all
the more desirous of securing such a guest. Accordingly, so far from
turning the chariot aside, Joel advanced close to the rider, and said to
him with the sweetest voice that he could master, his natural voice
being rather rough:
"Friend, you shall go no further! I wish to be respectful to the gods,
above all to Teutates, the god of travelers, and shall therefore keep
you from going astray by making you spend a good night under a good
roof, instead of allowing you to wander about the strand, where you
would run the risk of being drowned in the rising tide."
"Take care!" replied the unknown rider carrying his hand to the axe that
hung from his belt. "Take care!... If you do not forthwith turn your
oxen aside, I shall make a sacrifice to the gods, and shall join you to
the offering!"
"The gods cannot choose but protect such a worshipper as yourself,"
answered Joel, who, smiling, had passed a few words in a low voice to
his son. "The gods will prevent you from spending the night on the
strand.... You'll see--"
Father and son precipitated themselves unexpectedly upon the traveler.
Each took him by a leg, and both being large and robust men, raised him
erect over his saddle, giving at the same time a thump with their knees
to his horse's belly. The animal ran ahead, and Joel and Guilhern
respectfully lowered the rider on his feet to the ground. Now in a wild
rage, the traveler tried to resist, but before he could draw his knife
he was held fast by Joel and Guilhern, one of whom produced a strong
rope with which they firmly tied the stranger's feet and hands--all of
which was done with great mildness and affability on the part of the
story-greedy father and son, who despite the furious wrestling of the
stranger, deposited him on the chariot with increasing respect and
politeness, seeing they were increasingly struck by the virile dignity
of his face.
Guilhern then mounted the traveler's horse and followed the chariot that
Joel led, urging on the oxen with his goad. They were in earnest haste
to reach the shelter of their house: the gale increased; the roar of the
waves was heard dashing upon the rocks along the coast; streaks of
lightning glistened through the darkening clouds; all the signs
portended a stormy night.
All these threatening signs notwithstanding, the unknown rider seemed
nowise thankful for the hospitality that Joel and his son had pressed
upon him. Extended on the bottom of the chariot he was pale with rage.
He ground his teeth and puffed at his mouth. But keeping his anger to
himself he said not a word. Joel (it must be admitted) passionately
loved a story, but he also passionately loved to talk. He turned to the
stranger:
"My guest, for such you are now, I give thanks to Teutates, the god of
travelers, for having sent me a guest. You should know who I am. Yes, I
must tell you who I am, seeing you are to sit down at my hearth;" and
unaffected by the stranger's gesture of anger, which seemed to say he
cared not to know who Joel was, the latter proceeded:
"My name is Joel ... I am the son of Marik, who was the son of Kirio ...
Kirio was the son of Tiras ... Tiras was the son of Gomer ... Gomer was
the son of Vorr ... Vorr was the son of Glenan ... Glenan, son of Erer,
who was the son of Roderik, chosen brenn of the confederated Gallic
army, who two hundred and seventy-six years ago levied tribute upon Rome
in order to punish the Romans for their treachery. I have been chosen
brenn of my tribe, which is the tribe of Karnak. From father to son we
have been peasants; we cultivate our fields as best we can, following
the example left by Coll to our ancestors.... We sow more wheat and
barley than rye and oats."
The stranger continued nursing his rage rather than paying any attention
to these details. Joel continued imperturbably:
"Thirty-two years ago, I married Margarid, the daughter of Dorlern. I
have from her three sons and a daughter. The elder boy is there behind
us, leading your good black horse, friend guest ... his name is
Guilhern. He and several other relatives help me in the cultivation of
our field. I raise a good many black sheep that pasture on our meadows,
as well as half-wild hogs, as vicious as wolves and who never sleep
under a roof.... We have some fine meadows in this valley of Alre.... I
also raise horses, colts of my spirited stallion Tom-Bras.[B] My son
amuses himself raising war and hunting dogs. The hunting dogs are of the
breed of a greyhound named Tyntammar; the ones destined for war are the
whelps of a large mastiff named Deber-Trud.[C] Our horses and our dogs
are so renowned that people come more than twenty leagues from here to
buy them. So you see, my guest, that you might have fallen into a worse
house."
[B] Ardent.
[C] Man-eater.
The stranger emitted a sigh of suppressed rage, bit what he could reach
of his long blonde mustache and raised his eyes to heaven.
Joel proceeded while pricking his oxen:
"Mikael, my second son, is an armorer at Alre, four leagues from
here.... He does not fashion war implements only, but also plow-coulters
and long Gallic scythes and axes that are highly prized, because he
draws his iron from the mountains of Arres.... But there is more, friend
traveler.... Mikael does other things besides. Before establishing
himself at Alre, he was at Bourges and worked with one of our parents
who is a descendant of the first artisan who ever conceived the idea of
alloying iron and copper with block-tin, a composition in which the
artisans of Bourges excel.... Thus my son Mikael came away a worthy
pupil of his masters. Oh, if you only saw the things he turns out! You
would think the horse's bits, the chariot ornaments, the superb casques
of war that Mikael manufactures to be of silver! He has just finished a
casque the point of which represents an elk's head with its horns....
There is nothing more magnificent!"
"O!" murmured the stranger between his teeth, "how true is the saying:
'The Sword of a Gaul kills but once, his tongue massacres you without
end!'"
"Friend guest, so far I can bestow no praise upon your tongue, which is
as silent as a fish's. But I shall await your leisure, when it will be
your turn to tell me who you are, whence you come, where you are going
to, what you have seen in your travels, what wonderful people you have
met, and the latest news from the sections of Gaul that you have
traversed. While waiting for your narratives, I shall finish informing
you about myself and family."
At this threat the stranger contorted his members in an effort to snap
his bonds; he failed; the rope was staunch, and Joel as well as his son
made perfect knots.
"I have not yet spoken to you of my third son Albinik the sailor,"
continued Joel. "He traffics with the island of Great Britanny, as well
as all the ports of Gaul, and he goes as far as Spain carrying Gascony
wines and salted provisions from Aquitaine.... Unfortunately he has been
at sea a long time with his lovely wife Meroe; so you will not see them
this evening at my house. I told you that besides three sons I had a
daughter ... as to her! Oh, as to her!... See here," added Joel with an
air that was at once boastful and tender, "she is the pearl of the
family.... It is not I only who say so, my wife also, my sons, my whole
tribe says the same thing. There is but one voice to sing the praises of
Hena, the daughter of Joel ... of Hena, one of the virgins of the Isle
of Sen."
"What!" cried the traveler sitting up with a start, the only motion
allowed to him by his bonds, that held his feet tied and his arms
pinioned behind him. "What? Your daughter? Is she one of the virgins of
the Isle of Sen?"
"That seems to astonish and somewhat mollify you, friend guest!"
"Your daughter?" the stranger proceeded, as if unable to believe what he
heard. "Your daughter?... Is she one of the nine druid priestesses of
the Isle of Sen?"
"As true as that to-morrow it will be eighteen years since she was born!
We have been preparing to celebrate her birthday, and you may attend the
feast. The guest seated at our hearth is of our family.... You will see
my daughter. She is the most beautiful, the sweetest, the wisest of her
companions, without thereby detracting from any of them."
"Very well, then," brusquely replied the unknown, "I shall pardon you
the violence you committed upon me."
"Hospitable violence, friend."
"Hospitable, or not, you prevented me by force from proceeding to the
wharf of Erer, where a boat awaited me until sunset, to take me to the
Isle of Sen."
At these words Joel broke out laughing.
"What are you laughing about?" asked the stranger.
"If you were to tell me that a boat with the head of a dog, the wings of
a bird and the tail of a fish was waiting for you to take you to the
sun, I would laugh as loud, and for the same reason. You are my guest; I
shall not insult you by telling you that you lie. But I will tell you,
friend, you are joking when you talk of a boat that is to take you to
the Isle of Sen. No man, excepting the very oldest druids, have ever or
ever will set foot on the Isle of Sen."
"And when you go there to see your daughter?"
"I do not step on the isle. I stop at the little island of Kellor. There
I wait for my daughter, and she goes there to meet me."
"Friend Joel," said the traveler, "you have so willed it that I be your
guest; I am that, and, as such, I ask a service of you. Take me
to-morrow in your boat to the little island of Kellor."
"Do you know that the ewaghs watch day and night?"
"I know it. It was one of them who was to come for me this evening at
the wharf of Erer to conduct me to Talyessin the oldest of the druids,
who, at this hour, is at the Isle of Sen with his wife Auria."
"That is true!" exclaimed Joel much surprised. "The last time my
daughter came home she said that Talyessin was on the isle since the new
year, and that the wife of Talyessin tendered her a mother's care."
"You see, you may believe me, friend Joel. Take me to-morrow to the
island of Kellor; I shall see one of the ewaghs."
"I consent. I shall take you to the island of Kellor."
"And now you may loosen my bonds. I swear by Hesus that I shall not seek
to elude your hospitality."
"Very well," responded Joel, loosening the stranger's bonds; "I trust my
guest's promise."
While this conversation proceeded it had grown pitch dark. But the
darkness notwithstanding and the difficulties of the road, the chariot,
conducted by the sure hand of Joel, rolled up before his house. His son,
Guilhern, who, mounted on the stranger's horse, had followed the van,
took an ox-horn that was opened at both ends, and using it for a trumpet
blew three times. The signal was speedily answered by a great barking of
dogs.
"Here we are at home!" said Joel to the stranger. "Be not alarmed at the
barking of the dogs. Listen! That loud voice that dominates all the
others is Deber-Trud's, from whom descends the valiant breed of war dogs
that you will see to-morrow. My son Guilhern will take your horse to the
stable. The animal will find a good shelter and plenty of provender."
At the sound of Guilhern's trump, one of the family came out of the
house holding a resin torch. Guided by the light, Joel led his oxen and
the chariot entered the yard.