THE GUARDIANS OF THE HEARTH
When Lucienne left Jean he had turned round the house, crossed a
semicircular court formed by stables and coach-houses, then a large
kitchen-garden surrounded by walls, and opening a private door at
the end on the right he found himself in the country, behind the
village of Alsheim. His first joy at his return had already lessened
and faded. He heard again sentences which had sunk into the depths
of his soul; their very accent came back to him with the appearance
and the gesture of the one who had uttered them.
He thought of the "sad house" there quite close to the wall which
enclosed the grounds, and it pained him to remember what an entirely
different idea he had formed years ago of the welcome which awaited
him at Alsheim, and the almost religious emotion he had felt far
away, in the towns and on the roads of Europe and the East, when he
thought, "My mother, my father, my sister! My first day at home
after my father has said yes!" The first day had begun. It had not
been, up to the present, worthy of this old-time dream.
Even the weather was bad. Before him the plain of Alsace, smooth,
scarcely marked with some lines of trees, stretched out to the foot
of the Vosges, covered with forests which made their height appear
less than it was. The north wind, blowing from the sea, filling all
the valley with its continuous wailing, chased the dark clouds from
the sky, broken and heaped together like furrows in fields, clouds
full of rain and hail, which would dissolve in compact masses to
fall in the south, on the side of the Alps. It was cold.
Meanwhile Jean Oberlé, having looked to the left, from the side
where the land declined a little, perceived the avenue ending in a
little wood, which he had seen in the morning, and he felt again
that his youth called to _her_. He made sure no one was watching him
from the windows of his home, and he took the path which turned
round the village.
It was really only a track traced by people going to, and coming
from work. It followed very nearly the zigzag line made by the
sheds, the pig-styes, the stables, the barns, the low boundaries
commanded by the manure-heaps, fowl-houses, all the back buildings
of the dwellings of Alsheim, which had on the other side, on the
road, their principal façade, or at least a white wall, a cart-door,
and a great mulberry-tree overflowing the edge of it. The young man
walked quietly on the beaten track. He passed the church which,
almost in the centre of Alsheim, raised its square tower, surmounted
by a slate roof in the form of a steeple, with a metal point, and
came to the centre of a group of four enormous walnut-trees, serving
as landmarks, as ornament and shelter to the last farm in the
village. There began the property of M. Xavier Bastian, the mayor of
Alsheim, the old friend of M. Joseph Oberlé, a man of influence,
rich and patriotic, and to whose house Jean was going. The sound of
flails could be heard in the neighbouring yard. It must be the fine,
big sons of the Ramspacher, the Bastians' tenants. One had served
his time in the German army, the other was going to join his
regiment in the month of November. They were threshing under the
barn in the old style. Every autumn, every winter, when the miller's
store of corn diminished, and when the weather was bad outside, they
spread out some sheaves in the shelter, and their flails struck
blithely and galloped like colts let loose in high grass. Nothing
had stopped the tradition.
"Isn't my Alsheim old?" said Jean to himself. Although he was very
anxious not to be recognised, he approached the latticed door which
opened on to the fields on this side, and if he did not see the
workers, hidden by an unharnessed cart, he saw again with a friendly
smile the yard of the old farm, a kind of road bordered with
buildings which were only apparently framework with a little earth
between the wooden beams, a demonstration of the everlasting
strength of the chestnut which had furnished the jambs, the raising
pieces, the wooden balconies, and the framework of the windows. No
one heard him, no one saw him. He went on his way and his heart
began to beat violently. For immediately after the farm of the
Ramspachers, the path fell, at right angles, to an avenue of
cherry-trees leading from the village to the house of M. Bastian. It
was not probable that in this bad weather the Mayor would be far
from home. In a few moments Jean would speak with him; he would meet
Odile; he would find some means of knowing if she were betrothed.
Odile. All Jean's early childhood was full of that name. The
daughter of M. Bastian had formerly been the playfellow of Lucienne
and of Jean when the evolution of M. Oberlé had not been affirmed
and known in the country-side; a little later she had become the
charming vision which Jean saw again at the Munich Gymnasium when he
thought of Alsheim; the young, growing girl, whom one saw in the
holidays, on Sundays in church, whom one saluted without
approaching when Monsieur or Madame Oberlé were present, but also
the passer-by of the grape harvest and of the woods, and the walker
who had a smile for Lucienne or for Jean met at the turn of a road.
What secret enchantment did this girl of Alsheim possess, brought up
entirely in the country, except for two or three years passed with
the nuns of Notre-Dame in Strasburg, not worldly--less brilliant
than Lucienne, more silent and more grave? The same, no doubt, as
the country where she was born. Jean had left her, as he had left
Alsace, without being able to forget her. He had forbidden himself
to see her during his last short stay in Alsheim, in order to prove
himself and to find out if truly the memory of Odile would resist a
long separation, studies, and travels. He had thought: "If she
marries in the interval, it will be a proof that she has never
thought of me, and I shall not weep for her." She had not married.
Nothing showed that she was engaged. And certainly Jean was going to
see her again.
He preferred not to go down the wild cherry avenue, celebrated for
its beauty, which guarded the Bastians' property. The people of the
little town, the few workers in the neighbouring country, although
they were few, would have recognised the manufacturer's son going to
the Mayor of Alsheim's. He followed the trimmed blackthorn hedge,
which bounded the alley, walking on the red earth or on the narrow
border of grass left by the plough at the edge of the ditch. Behind
him the noise of the flails in the barn followed him, fading in the
distance and scattered by the wind. Jean asked himself: "How shall I
approach M. Bastian? How will he receive me? Bah! I arrive; I am
supposed to be ignorant of much!"
Two hundred yards to the south of the farm the avenue of wild
cherries ended, and the grove, which one saw from so far off,
bordered the sown fields. The wood was composed of fine old trees,
oaks, planes, and elms, at this time bare of leaves--under which
evergreen trees had grown up: pines, spindletrees, and laurels. Jean
continued to follow the hedge as it curved across a field of lucerne
to a rustic gate, with worn paint and half rotten, which rose
between two jambs. A piece of sandstone thrown across the ditch
served as a bridge. The laurel-trees growing out over the fence of
blackthorn on each side of the upright posts, closed in the view at
two yards. When Jean came near, a blackbird flew off, uttering a
warning note. Jean remembered that to enter one had only to pass
one's hand through the hedge and to lift an iron hook. So he opened
the door, and, a little uneasy at his audacity, grazed from his coat
to his gaiters by the overgrown branches of an alley far too narrow
and hardly ever entered, he came out on to a sanded space, passed
several clumps of shrubs edged with box, and arrived at the house on
the far side from Alsheim. Here there were plane-trees more than a
hundred years old, planted in a semi-circle, which sheltered a tiny
lawn and spread their branches over the tiles of an old, low, squat
house, from which two balconies projected, topped with overhanging
roofs. Store-rooms, presses, barns, and a bee-hive formed the
continuation of the master's house, where abundance, good nature,
and the simplicity of the old Alsatian homely spirit were in
evidence. Jean, kept back for a moment by the irresistible
attraction of these places, once so familiar to him, looked at the
plane-trees, the roof, a window with a balcony on which ivy grew. He
was going to take the few steps which separated him from the
half-open door, when on the threshold a tall man appeared, and
recognising the visitor made a sign of surprise. It was M. Xavier
Bastian. No man of sixty years of age in the division of Erstein was
more robust or of a more youthful turn of mind. He had wide
shoulders, a massive head, as wide below as above, quite white hair,
divided in short locks overlapping each other, his cheeks and the
upper lip shaven, the nose large, the eyes fine and grey, the mouth
thickset, and on his countenance the sort of prepossessing pride of
those who have never known fear of anything. He wore the long
frock-coat to which many notable Alsatians remained faithful, even
in the villages such as Alsheim, where the inhabitants have no
special costume or any memory of having had any.
Seeing Jean Oberlé, whom he had often dandled on his knees, he made
a movement of surprise.
"Is it you, my boy?" he said, in the dialect of Alsace, which he
mostly used, and with which he was more familiar than with French.
"What has happened to bring you here?"
"Nothing, M. Bastian, if not that I have just come home."
He held out his hand to the old Alsatian, who took it, pressed it,
and suddenly lost that gaiety which had been in his welcome, for he
thought: "It is now ten years since your father last came here, ten
years that your family and mine have been enemies." But he only
said, in answer to himself, and as if doing away with an objection:
"Come in all the same, Jean; there is no harm for once."
But the gladness of the first meeting was gone, and did not return.
"How did you know that I was on your land?" asked Jean, who did not
understand. "Did you hear me?"
"No; I heard the blackbird. I thought it was my servant, whom I have
sent to Obernai to get the lamps of my victoria mended. Come into
the hall."
He thought, with a feeling of regret and reprobation: "As your
father used to come in when he was worthy."
In the corridor to the left he opened a door, and both went into the
"big room," which was at the same time the dining-room and the
reception-room of this rich citizen, heir of lands and of the
traditions of a long series of ancestors, who had only left the
house at Alsheim for the cemetery. Nearly all the picturesque
furniture which one still meets with in the old houses of rural
Alsace had disappeared from the dwelling of M. Bastian. No more
carved cupboards; no more chairs of solid wood, with the backs cut
in the shape of hearts; no clock in its painted case; no more little
weights at the windows. The few chairs in the big, square, light
hall, the table, the cupboard, and the big chest, on the top of
which was the cast of a Pietà not known to fame, were all of
polished walnut. The only thing that was old was the historical
stove of faience, bearing the signature of Master Hugelin of
Strasburg, and of which M. Bastian was as proud as if it had been a
treasure. About two-thirds down the room, between the stove and the
table, a woman of about fifty was sitting, dressed in black, rather
stout, having regular, thick features, bands of grey hair, the
forehead almost without lines, fine long eyebrows, and eyes as dark
as if she had come from the south, calm and dignified, which she
lifted first to Jean and then to her husband as if to ask, "How does
he come here?"
She was sewing the hem of an unbleached linen sheet, which fell
about her in big folds. Seeing Jean enter, she dropped it. She
remained dumb with surprise, not understanding how her husband could
bring to her the son, educated in Germany, of a renegade father,
traitor to Alsace. During the war she had had three brothers killed
in the service of France.
"I met him coming to see me," M. Bastian said, as if to excuse
himself, "and I begged him to enter, Marie."
"Good day, madame," said the young man, who was hurt by the
astonishment and coolness of Madame Bastian's first glance, and who
had stopped in the middle of the hall. "Old memories brought me
here."
"Good day, Jean."
The words died away before reaching the walls, papered with old
peonies. One could hardly hear them. The silence which followed was
so cruel that Jean grew pale, and M. Bastian, who had shut the door,
and who, a little behind Jean, was scolding gently, with a shake of
the head, those beautiful, severe eyes of the Alsatian woman, which
did not lower themselves, intervened, saying:
"I have not told you, Marie, that I saw our friend Ulrich this
morning in our vineyards of Sainte Odile. He spoke to me of this
boy's return to Alsheim. He assured me that we ought to congratulate
ourselves that we are going to see his nephew settle in the country.
He told me that he was one of ours."
The silent lips of the Alsatian wore a vague smile of incredulity,
which died as the words died. And Madame Bastian again began to sew.
Jean turned round, pale, as yet more miserable than irritated, and
said in a low voice to M. Bastian:
"I knew that our two families were divided, but not to such an
extent as they evidently are. I left Alsheim some time ago. You will
excuse me for having come."
"Stay, stay! I will explain to you. Believe me that we have nothing
against you, no animosity whatever, neither one nor the other."
The old man placed his hand on Jean's arm in a friendly manner:
"I do not want you to go like that. No; since you are here I will
not let you say that I have sent you away without doing the
honours. The thought would weigh heavy on me. I will not!"
"No, M. Bastian, I ought not to be here. I am in the way; I cannot
stay one instant."
He moved to go away. The solid hand of the old Mayor of Alsheim
fastened round the wrist he held. His voice rose and became harsh.
"Presently. But do not at least refuse the civility I am accustomed
to show to all who come here. It is the custom of the country and of
the house. Drink with me, Jean Oberlé, or I shall repudiate you, and
we shall not even recognise each other."
Jean remembered that no house in the country round Barr or Obernai,
not even the oldest and richest, possessed better recipes for making
beam-tree-berry brandy or cherry brandy, or elderberry wine, or wine
made with dried grapes, or spring drinks. He saw that the old Mayor
of Alsheim would be deeply hurt by a refusal, and that the offer was
a means of showing his cordiality without disavowing in words, or in
thought, the mother, queen, and mistress of the big house, who
continued to ignore the guest, because the guest was the son of
Joseph Oberlé.
"So be it," he said.
Then M. Bastian called, "Odile!"
The hands that held the linen, near the stove, rested on the folds
of her black dress, and for half a minute there were three human
beings, each with very different thoughts, who awaited her who was
going to enter at the end of the room, on the right, near the great
walnut cupboard. She came out of the shadow of a neighbouring room
and advanced into the light, while Jean controlled his feelings and
was saying to himself, "I did well to remember her!"
"Give me the oldest brandy that we have," said the father.
Odile Bastian had at first smiled at her father, whom she saw near
the door, then she had, with a movement of her brown eyebrows, shown
her astonishment, without displeasure, when she recognised Jean
Oberlé near him; then the smile had disappeared when she saw her
mother, bending over her work-table, dumb and holding herself aloof
from what was going on around her. Then her bosom heaved, the words
she was going to say were arrested before reaching her lips; and
Odile Bastian, too intelligent not to guess the affront, too much a
woman to emphasise the secret trouble, had simply and silently
obeyed. She had sought a key in the drawer of a chest, had gone to
the big cupboard, and raising herself on the tips of her toes, one
hand leaning on one of the doors at the top of the piece of
furniture, her head thrown back, she ransacked the depths of the
hiding-place.
She was just the same girl, but more developed, who had lived in
Jean's memory for years, and who had followed him over the world.
Her features were not regular. But in spite of that she was
beautiful, with a strong, glowing beauty. She seemed like the
statues of Alsace, which one sees on monuments and in French
souvenir pictures, like those daughters of rich and warlike blood,
wrathful and daring, while near them a more feminine Lorraine weeps
sadly. She was tall; there were no hollows in her full cheeks,
curving to a chin as firm and pink. It is true she did not wear the
wide bows of black ribbon which make two wings on the head, but that
only accentuated the unusual, the exceptional beauty of her hair,
which was of the colour of ripe corn, of a perfectly dull, even
tint, bound in bands round her temples and there twisted and raised
on her head. Her eyebrows were of the same colour, long and finely
marked, and the lashes, and even the eyes, slightly apart, where
dwelt a soul at rest, were deep and passionate. In a moment M.
Bastian had on a stand two glasses of cut crystal and a big-bellied
black bottle. He took the bottle in one hand and with the other he
drew out, without shaking it, a cork which swelled out as it left
the neck, being damp as sapwood in spring time. At the same time a
smell of ripe fruit was diffused under the beams of the room.
"It is fifty years old," said he, pouring a little of the liqueur
into each of the glasses.
He added seriously, "I drink to your health, Jean Oberlé, and to
your return to Alsheim!"
But Jean, without answering directly, and with every one silent, and
looking at Odile, who had withdrawn to the cupboard, and who,
standing erect against it, was also looking at and studying her old
playfellow returned to his native country, said:
"I drink to the land of Alsace!"
By the tone of the words, by the gesture of the hand raising the
little sparkling glass, by the look fixed on the end of the room,
some one understood that the land of Alsace was here personified and
present. The tall, beautiful daughter of the Bastians remained
motionless, leaning against the cupboard, which framed her in its
yellowish shadow. But her eyes had the brightness that wheat has
when it waves at a breath of wind in the sunshine, and without
turning her head, without ceasing to look straight in front of her,
her eyelids slowly lowered and shut, saying thank you!
And that was all.
Madame Bastian had not even looked up. Odile had said not a
word--Jean bowed and went out.
The old Mayor of Alsheim rejoined him outside.
"I will go with you to the other end of my garden," he said, "for it
is better for us--for you--and for your father, that you should not
be seen coming down the avenue. You will seem to be coming from the
fields."
"What a strange country this has become!" said the young man in an
angry tone. "Because you do not hold the same opinions as my father
you cannot receive me, and when I leave you I must do so secretly,
and after having had to submit to the insult of a silence which was
hard to bear. I can tell you that!"
He spoke loudly enough to be heard from the house, from which he was
only a few steps away. The usual paleness of his complexion was more
noticeable, and emotion contracted the muscles of his neck and jaws,
and all his face had a tragic expression.
M. Bastian led him on.
"I have another reason for taking you that way," he said, "it will
be longer, and I have things to explain to you."
They took a path that was not gravelled, which went by the
plane-trees, passed a kitchen garden and then crossed a little wood.
"You do not understand, dear boy," said M. Bastian, in a voice which
was firm without being harsh, "because you have not yet really lived
among us. It has not changed; what you see dates back for thirty
years."
Through an opening in the trees they saw a little bit of the plain,
with the belfry of Barr in the distance, and the blue Vosges
mountains above and beyond.
"Formerly," continued M. Bastian, pointing vaguely to the country,
"our Alsace was just one family. Big and little knew each other and
lived happily together. You know that even now I make no difference
between rich and poor, between a citizen of Strasburg and a
wood-cutter from the mountain. But what is done is done--we have
been torn away, against our will, from France, and treated brutally
because we did not say 'Yes.' We cannot revolt--we cannot drive
away our masters, who know nothing about our hearts or our lives.
But we do not admit them to our friendship, neither them nor those
amongst us who have taken the side of the stronger."
He stopped speaking for a moment, not wishing to say all that he
thought on this subject, and went on, taking Jean's hand.
"You are very angry with my wife because of her reception of you;
but you are not the cause of it, neither is she. Until the doubt
which rests on you is lifted, you are he who was educated in
Germany, and the woman you have just seen is this country.
Reflect--you must not bear a grudge against her. We have not all
been faithful to Alsace, we men; and the best of us have compromised
and have more or less recognised the new master. Not so the
women--Ah! Jean Oberlé, I have not the courage to disclaim them even
when you whom I love so well are the subject. Our Alsatian women are
not insulting you in any ordinary way when they do not receive you;
they are defending their country, they are carrying on the war." The
old man had tears in his red and wrinkled eyes.
"You will know me later," said Jean.
They were at the end of the little park before a wooden door as
mouldy as the other. M. Bastian opened it, shook the young man's
hand and stayed a long time at the end of the wood watching Jean go
away and get smaller on the plain, his head bent against the wind,
which was still blowing, and more violently.
Jean was troubled to the depth of his soul.
Between him and each family in this old country he felt he was going
to find his father. He was suffering from having been born in the
house towards which he was going. He saw the image of Odile as the
only sweet thing of this first day, and her eyes were slowly, slowly
closing.