bride’s house, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest
cabbage, and this is not done very quickly, for the old people
keep consulting and disputing interminably, each one pleading for
the cabbage he thinks most suitable. They put it to vote, and when
the choice is made the gardener fastens his cord to the stalk, and
moves away as far as the size of the garden permits. The gardener’s
wife takes care that the sacred vegetable shall not be hurt in its
fall. The wits of the wedding, the hemp-dresser, the grave-digger,
the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, form a ring about the cabbage,
for men who do not till the soil, but pass their lives in other
people’s houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and
more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with a spade, a
ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on his nose a
pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of
“engineer,” walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the
workmen through his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that
everything will be spoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh
as his fancy directs, and makes the whole performance as long
and ridiculous as he can. This is an addition to the formula of
an ancient ceremony held in mockery of theorists in general, for
peasants despise them royally, or from hatred of the surveyors who
decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of the workmen employed
on bridges and causeways, who transform commons into highways, and
suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as it may,
this character in the comedy is called the “geometrician,” and does
his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling with
pickaxe and shovel.
After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties
raised in order to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the
cabbage without injury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into
the faces of the onlookers,--so much the worse for him who does not
retreat in time, for were he bishop or prince he must receive the
baptism of earth,--the “infidel” pulls the rope, the “infidel’s
wife” holds her apron, and the cabbage falls majestically amidst
the applause of the spectators. Then a basket is brought, and
the “infidel” pair plant the cabbage therein with every care and
precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, and support it with
sticks and strings, such as city florists use for their splendid
potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of the sticks,
and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; they
bedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophy
upon the stretcher with the “infidel,” whose duty it is to maintain
its equilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they
move away from the garden in good order and in marching step.
But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter
the yard of the bridegroom’s house, an imaginary obstacle blocks
the way. The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries,
retreat, advance once more, and, as though crushed by a resistless
force, they pretend to sink beneath its weight. While this is going
on, the bystanders shout loudly, exciting and steadying this human
team.
“Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be
patient! Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it’s too
narrow! A little more to the left; now to the right; on with you;
don’t be afraid; you’re almost there.”
Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded
to overflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter
the barn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong
beasts, to restrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with
skill and mighty efforts they force this mountain of riches beneath
the rustic arch of triumph. It is, above all, the last load,
called “the cart of sheaves,” which requires these precautions,
for this is a rural festival, and the last sheaf lifted from the
last furrow is placed on the top of the cart-load ornamented with
ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads of the oxen and the whip
of the driver are decorated also. The triumphant and toilsome entry
of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of the prosperity and
fruitfulness it represents.
Safe within the bridegroom’s yard, the cabbage is taken from its
stretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn.
Whether it be a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the
roof, the burden must, at any risk, be carried to the very highest
point of the building. The “infidel” accompanies it as far as this,
sets it down securely, and waters it with a great pitcher of wine,
while a salvo of pistol-shots and demonstrations of joy from the
“infidel’s wife” proclaim its inauguration.
Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again.
Another cabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is
carried with the same formalities and laid upon the roof which his
wife has deserted to follow him. These trophies remain in their
places until the wind and the rain destroy the baskets and carry
away the cabbage. Yet their lives are long enough to give some
chance of fulfilment to the prophecies which the old men and women
make with bows and courtesies.
“Beautiful cabbage,” they say, “live and flourish that our young
bride may have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die
too quickly it is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there
like an ill omen.”
The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished.
All that remains undone is to take home the godfathers and
godmothers of the newly married couple. When the so-called parents
dwell at a distance, they are accompanied by the music and the
whole wedding procession as far as the limits of the parish; there
they dance anew on the highroad, and everybody kisses them good-by.
The “infidel” and his wife are then washed and dressed decently, if
the fatigue of their parts has not already driven them away to take
a nap.
Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall
of Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain
was married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good
reason. They recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn
on the morrow. While they were regaining their dwellings, silently
and with uncertain steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to
hitch his oxen, leaving his young wife to slumber until daylight.
The lark, caroling as it mounted to the skies, seemed to him the
voice of his heart returning thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost,
sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to him the whiteness of
April flowers that comes before the budding leaves. Everything in
nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had laughed
and jumped so much the evening before that he did not come to
help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on
his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said his
morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.
Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages,
who were starting on their return home, singing again in their
hoarse voices the happy tunes of the night before.
THE END.