LIGHT
BY
HENRI BARBUSSE
AUTHOR OF "UNDER FIRE" "WE OTHERS," ETC.
TRANSLATED BY
FITZWATER WRAY
1919
CONTENTS
I. MYSELF
II. OURSELVES
III. EVENING AND DAWN
IV. MARIE
V. DAY BY DAY
VI. A VOICE IN THE EVENING
VII. A SUMMARY
VIII. THE BRAWLER
IX. THE STORM
X. THE WALLS
XI. AT THE WORLD'S END
XII. THE SHADOWS
XIII. WHITHER GOEST THOU?
XIV. THE RUINS
XV. AN APPARITION
XVI. DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI
XVII. MORNING
XVIII. EYES THAT SEE
XIX. GHOSTS
XX. THE CULT
XXI. NO!
XXII. LIGHT
XXIII. FACE TO FACE
LIGHT
CHAPTER I
MYSELF
All the days of the week are alike, from their beginning to their end.
At seven in the evening one hears the clock strike gently, and then the
instant tumult of the bell. I close the desk, wipe my pen, and put it
down. I take my hat and muffler, after a glance at the mirror--a
glance which shows me the regular oval of my face, my glossy hair and
fine mustache. (It is obvious that I am rather more than a workman.)
I put out the light and descend from my little glass-partitioned
office. I cross the boiler-house, myself in the grip of the thronging,
echoing peal which has set it free. From among the dark and hurrying
crowd, which increases in the corridors and rolls down the stairways
like a cloud, some passing voices cry to me, "Good-night, Monsieur
Simon," or, with less familiarity, "Good-night, Monsieur Paulin." I
answer here and there, and allow myself to be borne away by everybody
else.
Outside, on the threshold of the porch which opens on the naked plain
and its pallid horizons, one sees the squares and triangles of the
factory, like a huge black background of the stage, and the tall
extinguished chimney, whose only crown now is the cloud of falling
night. Confusedly, the dark flood carries me away. Along the wall
which faces the porch, women are waiting, like a curtain of shadow,
which yields glimpses of their pale and expressionless faces. With nod
or word we recognize each other from the mass. Couples are formed by
the quick hooking of arms. All along the ghostly avenue one's eyes
follow the toilers' scrambling flight.
The avenue is a wan track cut across the open fields. Its course is
marked afar by lines of puny trees, sooty as snuffed candles; by
telegraph posts and their long spider-webs; by bushes or by fences,
which are like the skeletons of bushes. There are a few houses. Up
yonder a strip of sky still shows palely yellow above the meager suburb
where creeps the muddy crowd detached from the factory. The west wind
sets quivering their overalls, blue or black or khaki, excites the
woolly tails that flutter from muffled necks, scatters some evil odors,
attacks the sightless faces so deep-drowned beneath the sky.
There are taverns anon which catch the eye. Their doors are closed,
but their windows and fanlights shine like gold. Between the taverns
rise the fronts of some old houses, tenantless and hollow; others, in
ruins, cut into this gloomy valley of the homes of men with notches of
sky. The iron-shod feet all around me on the hard road sound like the
heavy rolling of drums, and then on the paved footpath like dragged
chains. It is in vain that I walk with head bent--my own footsteps are
lost in the rest, and I cannot hear them.
We hurry, as we do every evening. At that spot in the inky landscape
where a tall and twisted tree seems to writhe as if it had a soul, we
begin suddenly to descend, our feet plunging forward. Down below we
see the lights of Viviers sparkle. These men, whose day is worn out,
stride towards those earthly stars. One hope is like another in the
evening, as one weariness is like another; we are all alike. I, also.
I go towards my light, like all the others, as on every evening.
* * * * * *
When we have descended for a long time the gradient ends, the avenue
flattens out like a river, and widens as it pierces the town. Through
the latticed boughs of the old plane trees--still naked on this last
day of March--one glimpses the workmen's houses, upright in space, hazy
and fantastic chessboards, with squares of light dabbed on in places,
or like vertical cliffs in which our swarming is absorbed. Scattering
among the twilight colonnade of the trees, these people engulf
themselves in the heaped-up lodgings and rooms; they flow together in
the cavity of doors; they plunge into the houses; and there they are
vaguely turned into lights.
I continue to walk, surrounded by several companions who are foremen
and clerks, for I do not associate with the workmen. Then there are
handshakes, and I go on alone.
Some dimly seen wayfarers disappear; the sounds of sliding locks and
closing shutters are heard here and there; the houses have shut
themselves up, the night-bound town becomes a desert profound. I can
hear nothing now but my own footfall.
Viviers is divided into two parts--like many towns, no doubt. First,
the rich town, composed of the main street, where you find the Grand
Café, the elegant hotels, the sculptured houses, the church and the
castle on the hill-top. The other is the lower town, which I am now
entering. It is a system of streets reached by an extension of that
avenue which is flanked by the workmen's barracks and climbs to the
level of the factory. Such is the way which it has been my custom to
climb in the morning and to descend when the light is done, during the
six years of my clerkship with Messrs. Gozlan & Co. In this quarter I
am still rooted. Some day I should like to live yonder; but between
the two halves of the town there is a division--a sort of frontier,
which has always been and will always be.
In the Rue Verte I meet only a street lamp, and then a mouse-like
little girl who emerges from the shadows and enters them again without
seeing me, so intent is she on pressing to her heart, like a doll, the
big loaf they have sent her to buy. Here is the Rue de l'Etape, my
street. Through the semi-darkness, a luminous movement peoples the
hairdresser's shop, and takes shape on the dull screen of his window.
His transparent door, with its arched inscription, opens just as I
pass, and under the soap-dish,[1] whose jingle summons customers,
Monsieur Justin Pocard himself appears, along with a rich gust of
scented light. He is seeing a customer out, and improving the occasion
by the utterance of certain sentiments; and I had time to see that the
customer, convinced, nodded assent, and that Monsieur Pocard, the
oracle, was caressing his white and ever-new beard with his luminous
hand.
[Footnote 1: The hanging sign of a French barber.--Tr.]
I turn round the cracked walls of the former tinplate works, now bowed
and crumbling, whose windows are felted with grime or broken into black
stars. A few steps farther I think I saw the childish shadow of little
Antoinette, whose bad eyes they don't seem to be curing; but not being
certain enough to go and find her I turn into my court, as I do every
evening.
Every evening I find Monsieur Crillon at the door of his shop at the
end of the court, where all day long he is fiercely bent upon trivial
jobs, and he rises before me like a post. At sight of me the kindly
giant nods his big, shaven face, and the square cap on top, his huge
nose and vast ears. He taps the leather apron that is hard as a plank.
He sweeps me along to the side of the street, sets my back against the
porch and says to me, in a low voice, but with heated conviction, "That
Pétrarque chap, he's really a bad lot."
He takes off his cap, and while the crescendo nodding of his bristly
head seems to brush the night, he adds: "I've mended him his purse.
It had become percolated. I've put him a patch on that cost me thirty
centimes, and I've resewn the edge with braid, and all the lot.
They're expensive, them jobs. Well, when I open my mouth to talk about
that matter of his sewing-machine that I'm interested in and that he
can't use himself, he becomes congealed."
He recounts to me the mad claims of Trompson in the matter of his new
soles, and the conduct of Monsieur Becret, who, though old enough to
know better, had taken advantage of his good faith by paying for the
repair of his spout with a knife "that would cut anything it sees." He
goes on to detail for my benefit all the important matters in his life.
Then he says, "I'm not rich, I'm not, but I'm consentious. If I'm a
botcher, it's 'cos my father and my grandfather were botchers before
me. There's some that's for making a big stir in the world, there are.
I don't hold with that idea. What I does, I does."
Suddenly a sonorous tramp persists and repeats itself in the roadway,
and a shape of uncertain equilibrium emerges and advances towards us by
fits and starts; a shape that clings to itself and is impelled by a
force stronger than itself. It is Brisbille, the blacksmith, drunk, as
usual.
Espying us, Brisbille utters exclamations. When he has reached us he
hesitates, and then, smitten by a sudden idea, he comes to a
standstill, his boots clanking on the stones, as if he were a cart. He
measures the height of the curb with his eye, but clenches his fists,
swallows what he wanted to say, and goes off reeling, with an odor of
hatred and wine, and his face slashed with red patches.
"That anarchist!" said Crillon, in disgust; "loathsome notions, now,
aren't they? Ah! who'll rid us of him and his alcoholytes?" he adds,
as he offers me his hand. "Good-night. I'm always saying to the Town
Council, 'You must give 'em clink,' I says, 'that gang of Bolshevists,
for the slightest infractionment of the laws against drunkenness.'
Yes, indeed! There's that Jean Latrouille in the Town Council, eh?
They talk about keeping order, but as soon as it's a question of
a-doing of it, they seem like a cold draught."
The good fellow is angry. He raises his great fist and shakes it in
space like a medieval mace. Pointing where Brisbille has just plunged
floundering into the night, he says, "That's what Socialists are,--the
conquering people what can't stand up on their legs! I may be a
botcher in life, but I'm for peace and order. Good-night, good-night.
Is she well, Aunt Josephine? I'm for tranquillity and liberty and
order. That's why I've always kept clear of their crowd. A bit since,
I saw her trotting past, as vivacious as a young girl,--but there, I
talk and I talk!"
He enters his shop, but turns on his heel and calls me back, with a
mysterious sign. "You know they've all arrived up yonder at the
castle?" Respect has subdued his voice; a vision is absorbing him of
the lords and ladies of the manor, and as he leaves me he bows,
instinctively.
His shop is a narrow glass cage, which is added to our house, like a
family relation. Within I can just make out the strong, plebeian
framework of Crillon himself, upright beside a serrated heap of ruins,
over which a candle is enthroned. The light which falls on his
accumulated tools and on those hanging from the wall makes a decoration
obscurely golden around the picture of this wise man; this soul all
innocent of envious demands, turning again to his botching, as his
father and grandfather botched.
I have mounted the steps and pushed our door; the gray door, whose only
relief is the key. The door goes in grumblingly, and makes way for me
into the dark passage, which was formerly paved, though now the traffic
of soles has kneaded it with earth, and changed it into a footpath. My
forehead strikes the lamp, which is hooked on the wall; it is out,
oozing oil, and it stinks. One never sees that lamp, and always bangs
it.
And though I had hurried so--I don't know why--to get home, at this
moment of arrival I slow down. Every evening I have the same small and
dull disillusion.
I go into the room which serves us as kitchen and dining-room, where my
aunt is lying. This room is buried in almost complete darkness.
"Good evening, Mame."
A sigh, and then a sob arise from the bed crammed against the pale
celestial squares of the window.
Then I remember that there was a scene between my old aunt and me after
our early morning coffee. Thus it is two or three times a week. This
time it was about a dirty window-pane, and on this particular morning,
exasperated by the continuous gush of her reproaches, I flung an
offensive word, and banged the door as I went off to work. So Mame has
had to weep all the day. She has fostered and ruminated her spleen,
and sniffed up her tears, even while busy with household duties. Then,
as the day declined, she put out the lamp and went to bed, with the
object of sustaining and displaying her chagrin.
When I came in she was in the act of peeling invisible potatoes; there
are potatoes scattered over the floor, everywhere. My feet kick them
and send them rolling heavily among odds and ends of utensils and a
soft deposit of garments that are lying about. As soon as I am there
my aunt overflows with noisy tears.
Not daring to speak again, I sit down in my usual corner.
Over the bed I can make out a pointed shape, like a mounted picture,
silhouetted against the curtains, which slightly blacken the window.
It is as though the quilt were lifted from underneath by a stick, for
my Aunt Josephine is leanness itself.
Gradually she raises her voice and begins to lament. "You've no
feelings, no--you're heartless,--that dreadful word you said to
me,--you said, 'You and your jawing!' Ah! people don't know what I
have to put up with--ill-natured--cart-horse!"
In silence I hear the tear-streaming words that fall and founder in the
dark room from that obscure blot on the pillow which is her face.
I stand up. I sit down again. I risk saying, "Come now, come; that's
all done with."
She cries: "Done with? Ah! it will never be done with!"
With the sheet that night is begriming she muzzles herself, and hides
her face. She shakes her head to left and to right, violently, so as
to wipe her eyes and signify dissent at the same time.
"Never! A word like that you said to me breaks the heart forever. But
I must get up and get you something to eat. You must eat. I brought
you up when you were a little one,"--her voice capsizes--"I've given up
all for you, and you treat me as if I were an adventuress."
I hear the sound of her skinny feet as she plants them successively on
the floor, like two boxes. She is seeking her things, scattered over
the bed or slipped to the floor; she is swallowing sobs. Now she is
upright, shapeless in the shadow, but from time to time I see her
remarkable leanness outlined. She slips on a camisole and a jacket,--a
spectral vision of garments which unfold themselves about her
handle-like arms, and above the hollow framework of her shoulders.
She talks to herself while she dresses, and gradually all my
life-history, all my past comes forth from what the poor woman
says,--my only near relative on earth; as it were my mother and my
servant.
She strikes a match. The lamp emerges from the dark and zigzags about
the room like a portable fairy. My aunt is enclosed in a strong light.
Her eyes are level with her face; she has heavy and spongy eyelids and
a big mouth which stirs with ruminated sorrow. Fresh tears increase
the dimensions of her eyes, make them sparkle and varnish the points of
her cheeks. She comes and goes with undiminished spleen. Her wrinkles
form heavy moldings on her face, and the skin of chin and neck is so
folded that it looks intestinal, while the crude light tinges it all
with something like blood.
Now that the lamp is alight some items become visible of the dismal
super-chaos in which we are walled up,--the piece of bed-ticking
fastened with two nails across the bottom of the window, because of
draughts; the marble-topped chest of drawers, with its woolen cover;
and the door-lock, stopped with a protruding plug of paper.
The lamp is flaring, and as Mame does not know where to stand it among
the litter, she puts it on the floor and crouches to regulate the wick.
There rises from the medley of the old lady, vividly variegated with
vermilion and night, a jet of black smoke, which returns in parachute
form. Mame sighs, but she cannot check her continual talk.
"You, my lad, you who are so genteel when you like, and earn a hundred
and eighty francs a month,--you're genteel, but you're short of good
manners, it's that chiefly I find fault with you about. So you spat on
the window-pane; I'm certain of it. May I drop dead if you didn't.
And you're nearly twenty-four! And to revenge yourself because I'd
found out that you'd spat on the window, you told me to stop my jawing,
for that's what you said to me, after all. Ah, vulgar fellow that you
are! The factory gentlemen are too kind to you. Your poor father was
their best workman. You are more genteel than your poor father, more
English; and you preferred to go into business rather than go on
learning Latin, and everybody thought you quite right; but for hard
work you're not much good--ah, la, la! Confess that you spat on the
window.
"For your poor mother," the ghost of Mame goes on, as she crosses the
room with a wooden spoon in her hand, "one must say that she had good
taste in dress. That's no harm, no; but certainly they must have the
wherewithal. She was always a child. I remember she was twenty-six
when they carried her away. Ah, how she loved hats! But she had
handsome ways, for all that, when she said, 'Come along with us,
Josephine!' So I brought you up, I did, and sacrificed everything...."
Overcome by the mention of the past, Mame's speech and action both
cease. She chokes and wags her head and wipes her face with her
sleeve.
I risk saying, gently, "Yes, I know it well."
A sigh is my answer. She lights the fire. The coal sends out a
cushion of smoke, which expands and rolls up the stove, falls back, and
piles its muslin on the floor. Mame manipulates the stove with her
feet in the cloudy deposit; and the hazy white hair which escapes from
her black cap is also like smoke.
Then she seeks her handkerchief and pats her pockets to get the velvet
coal-dust off her fingers. Now, with her back turned, she is moving
casseroles about. "Monsieur Crillon's father," she says, "old Dominic,
had come from County Cher to settle down here in '66 or '67. He's a
sensible man, seeing he's a town councilor. (We must tell him nicely
to take his buckets away from our door.) Monsieur Bonéas is very rich,
and he speaks so well, in spite of his bad neck. You must show
yourself off to all these gentlemen. You're genteel, and you're
already getting a hundred and eighty francs a month, and it's vexing
that you haven't got some sign to show that you're on the commercial
side, and not a workman, when you're going in and out of the factory."
"That can be seen easily enough."
"I'd rather you had a badge."
Breathing damply and forcefully, she sniffs harder and quicker, and
looks here and there for her handkerchief; she prowls with the lamp.
As my eyes follow her, the room awakens more and more. My groping gaze
discovers the tiled floor, the conference of chairs backed side by side
against the wall, the motionless pallor of the window in the background
above the low and swollen bed, which is like a heap of earth and
plaster, the clothes lying on the floor like mole-hills, the protruding
edges of tables and shelves, pots, bottles, kettles and hanging clouts,
and that lock with the cotton-wool in its ear.
"I like orderliness so much," says Mame as she tacks and worms her way
through this accumulation of things, all covered with a downy layer of
dust like the corners of pastel pictures.
According to habit, I stretch out my legs and put my feet on the stool,
which long use has polished and glorified till it looks new. My face
turns this way and that towards the lean phantom of my aunt, and I lull
myself with the sounds of her stirring and her endless murmur.
And now, suddenly, she has come near to me. She is wearing her jacket
of gray and white stripes which hangs from her acute shoulders, she
puts her arm around my neck, and trembles as she says, "You can mount
high, you can, with the gifts that you have. Some day, perhaps, you
will go and tell men everywhere the truth of things. That _has_
happened. There have been men who were in the right, above everybody.
Why shouldn't you be one of them, my lad, _you_ one of these great
apostles!"
And with her head gently nodding, and her face still tear-stained, she
looks afar, and sees the streets attentive to my eloquence!
* * * * * *
Hardly has this strange imagining in the bosom of our kitchen passed
away when Mame adds, with her eyes on mine, "My lad, mind you, never
look higher than yourself. You are already something of a home-bird;
you have already serious and elderly habits. That's good. Never try
to be different from others."
"No danger of that, Mame."
No, there is no danger of that. I should like to remain as I am.
Something holds me to the surroundings of my infancy and childhood, and
I should like them to be eternal. No doubt I hope for much from life.
I hope, I have hopes, as every one has. I do not even know all that I
hope for, but I should not like too great changes. In my heart I
should not like anything which changed the position of the stove, of
the tap, of the chestnut wardrobe, nor the form of my evening rest,
which faithfully returns.
* * * * * *
The fire alight, my aunt warms up the stew, stirring it with the wooden
spoon. Sometimes there spurts from the stove a mournful flame, which
seems to illumine her with tatters of light.
I get up to look at the stew. The thick brown gravy is purring. I can
see pale bits of potato, and it is uncertainly spotted with the
mucosity of onions. Mame pours it into a big white plate. "That's for
you," she says; "now, what shall _I_ have?"
We settle ourselves each side of the little swarthy table. Mame is
fumbling in her pocket. Now her lean hand, lumpy and dark, unroots
itself. She produces a bit of cheese, scrapes it with a knife which
she holds by the blade, and swallows it slowly. By the rays of the
lamp, which stands beside us, I see that her face is not dry. A drop
of water has lingered on the cheek that each mouthful protrudes, and
glitters there. Her great mouth works in all directions, and sometimes
swallows the remains of tears.
So there we are, in front of our plates, of the salt which is placed on
a bit of paper, of my share of jam, which is put into a mustard-pot.
There we are, narrowly close, our foreheads and hands brought together
by the light, and for the rest but poorly clothed by the huge gloom.
Sitting in this jaded armchair, my hands on this ill-balanced
table,--which, if you lean on one side of it, begins at once to
limp,--I feel that I am deeply rooted where I am, in this old room,
disordered as an abandoned garden, this worn-out room, where the dust
touches you softly.
After we have eaten, our remarks grow rarer. Then Mame begins again to
mumble; once again she yields to emotion under the harsh flame of the
lamp, and once again her eyes grow dim in her complicated Japanese mask
that is crowned with cotton-wool, and something dimly shining flows
from them.
The tears of the sensitive old soul plash on that lip so voluminous
that it seems a sort of heart. She leans towards me, she comes so
near, so near, that I feel sure she is touching me.
I have only her in the world to love me really. In spite of her humors
and her lamentations I know well that she is always in the right.
I yawn, while she takes away the dirty plates and proceeds to hide them
in a dark corner. She fills the big bowl from the pitcher and then
carries it along to the stove for the crockery.
Antonia has given me an appointment for eight o'clock, near the Kiosk.
It is ten past eight. I go out. The passage, the court,--by night all
these familiar things surround me even while they hide themselves. A
vague light still hovers in the sky. Crillon's prismatic shop gleams
like a garnet in the bosom of the night, behind the riotous disorder of
his buckets. There I can see Crillon,--he never seems to stop,--filing
something, examining his work close to a candle which flutters like a
butterfly ensnared, and then, reaching for the glue-pot which steams on
a little stove. One can just see his face, the engrossed and heedless
face of the artificer of the good old days; the black plates of his
ill-shaven cheeks; and, protruding from his cap, a vizor of stiff hair.
He coughs, and the window-panes vibrate.
In the street, shadow and silence. In the distance are venturing
shapes, people emerging or entering, and some light echoing sounds.
Almost at once, on the corner, I see Monsieur Joseph Bonéas vanishing,
stiff as a ramrod. I recognized the thick white kerchief, which
consolidates the boils on his neck. As I pass the hairdresser's door
it opens, just as it did a little while ago, and his agreeable voice
says, "That's all there is to it, in business." "Absolutely," replies
a man who is leaving. In the oven of the street one can see only his
littleness--he must be a considerable personage, all the same.
Monsieur Pocard is always applying himself to business and thinking of
great schemes. A little farther, in the depths of a cavity, stoppered
by an iron-grilled window, I divine the presence of old Eudo, the bird
of ill omen, the strange old man who coughs, and has a bad eye, and
whines continually. Even indoors he must wear his mournful cloak and
the lamp-shade of his hood. People call him a spy, and not without
reason.
Here is the Kiosk. It is waiting quite alone, with its point in the
darkness. Antonia has not come, for she would have waited for me. I
am impatient first, and then relieved. A good riddance.
No doubt Antonia is still tempting when she is present. There is a
reddish fever in her eyes, and her slenderness sets you on fire. But I
am hardly in harmony with the Italian. She is particularly engrossed
in her private affairs, with which I am not concerned. Big Victorine,
always ready, is worth a hundred of her; or Madame Lacaille, the
pensively vicious; though I am equally satiated of her, too. Truth to
tell, I plunge unreflectingly into a heap of amorous adventures which I
shortly find vulgar. But I can never resist the magic of a first
temptation.
I shall not wait. I go away. I skirt the forge of the ignoble
Brisbille. It is the last house in that chain of low hills which is
the street. Out of the deep dark the smithy window flames with vivid
orange behind its black tracery. In the middle of that square-ruled
page of light I see transparently outlined the smith's eccentric
silhouette, now black and sharp, now softly huge. Spectrally through
the glare, and in blundering frenzy, he strives and struggles and
fumbles horribly on the anvil. Swaying, he seems to rush to right and
to left, like a passenger on a hell-bound ferry. The more drunk he is,
the more furiously he falls upon his iron and his fire.
I return home. Just as I am about to enter a timid voice calls
me--"Simon!"
It is Antonia. So much the worse for her. I hurry in, followed by the
weak appeal.
I go up to my room. It is bare and always cold; always I must shiver
some minutes before I shake it back to life. As I close the shutters I
see the street again; the massive, slanting blackness of the roofs and
their population of chimneys clear-cut against the minor blackness of
space; some still waking, milk-white windows; and, at the end of a
jagged and gloomy background, the blood-red stumbling apparition of the
mad blacksmith. Farther still I can make out in the cavity the cross
on the steeple; and again, very high and blazing with light on the
hill-top, the castle, a rich crown of masonry. In all directions the
eye loses itself among the black ruins which conceal their hosts of men
and of women--all so unknown and so like myself.