my prayers. But I have no sooner started on the prayers than back come
the songs. I cannot help it. You remember, don't you, 'The King's Son?'
Oh, the 'King's Son!' And the 'Nightingale?' And the 'Rose?' I want to
sing one for you. Out loud, instead of in my mind. Which one? 'Flower o'
the Wheat!' Flower o' the Wheat! Ah...." She seemed on the point of
singing, but dropping from it, exclaimed: "The flail of the harvester
came. The grain was taken. Nothing is left but the straw ... and that
badly damaged. It was threshed too much.... Dear sir, you who know
everything, can you tell me why we come into this world?"
"I will tell you another day, my dear friend, when I come again."
But I never went back.
XIX
JEAN PIOT'S FEAST
Without examining the question whether life is sad or gay, without
attempting to say which is right, the groaning pessimist or the optimist
singing hymns of praise, one may be allowed the remark that a great many
people encounter between birth and death a great deal of trouble.
Conspicuous among them is the multitude of wretches who from morning
until night wear themselves out in ungrateful and monotonous labour for
which they receive just enough to enable them to continue wearing
themselves out without rest or reward.
The "fortunate ones of the world," those whom the others call fortunate
because they are safe from cold and hunger day by day, readily believe
that men bowed all their lives in the slavery of labour can no more than
beasts of burden feel the cruelty of their fate. It is, in fact, a great
aid to optimism to believe that the small allowance of worldly good
which some of us can get along with, though we feel our share
insufficient, is not paid for by a corresponding amount of worldly evil
at the other end of the divinely instituted social scale. In so far as
he thinks at all, the peasant entertains the same idea about the
animals, whom he uses without forbearance, and beats unmercifully,
satisfied with the argument that "they cannot feel anything." As for
him, what exactly does he feel in connection with the good and evil of
life? In looking for an answer one should discriminate between the
peasant of the past and the peasant of to-day, who in a vague way has
been developed by military service, emancipated, not very coherently, by
the primary school and universal suffrage, to say nothing of the
railroads.
When I look at the peasant of to-day, and compare him with the one I
knew in my youth, I realize that a breach has been made in the
impenetrable hedge that once closed his horizon. I do not know whether
he is happier or less happy. He has come into relation with the rest of
the world; that is the chief difference. I do not say that he personally
has even a dim conception of things in general. I do not believe he asks
himself any troublesome questions concerning the universe. But how many
inhabitants of cities are like him in that respect? Schools have
remained a place where words are taught. Barracks teach obedience and
discourage thought, agreeing in this with _Monsieur le Curé_, who exacts
blind faith, to the detriment of reason, that instrument of the devil.
Finally, the right to vote, which makes of men with such poor
preparation the sovereign arbiters of the most important social and
political questions, the right to vote so frequently reduces itself to a
simple matter of business or local interest, that the least daring
generalizations are beyond the understanding of the average peasant.
So it happens that despite the daily advance of civilization the
countryman continues to lead an elementary kind of life, knowing little
of society save his obligation to pay taxes, finding nothing in life
beyond the necessity to work without sufficient remuneration to provide
for inevitable old age. His distractions, his pleasures, he finds in the
Church, in fairs and the shows attached, in markets and the drinking
appurtenant, with interludes of amorous expansion which will be granted
to the veriest slave by the harshest master, interested in the
continuance of a servile caste.
It is true that aside from the joys of thought our average citizen, even
with theatres and music halls, attains to no higher pleasures. To eat,
to drink, to go out of their way to strip love of the dreams and
idealism which make it beautiful, these, when all is said, compose the
everlasting "life of pleasure" of our most assiduous "racketers." As
love among peasants is unhampered by idealism, the countryman has the
two other diversions left him, eating and drinking, which few mortals
hold in contempt, as anybody can see.
My friend Jean Piot, who for many years honourably occupied in broad
sunlight a position between that of beggar and labourer by the day, or
"odd jobber," was never one of those good for nothings who grumble over
their task. In the wood yard he would do double work without flagging.
On the other hand, he would have been ashamed of himself had he not
taken as his legitimate reward an equivalent ration of "fun." Puritans,
turn away your heads! Jean Piot, after his enormous share of work,
exacted remuneration from Providence, in the shape of joys.
In his youth, labour and joy went hand in hand. If the pay was not large
in spite of the excellence of the work, neither, on the other hand, is
the expense large, when a kiss only asks for a kiss in return, when the
soup of beans, cabbage, potatoes, and the bacon to go with it, are
plentiful, when the white wine demanded by the labourer with sweat on
his brow is grudged him by no one. Jean Piot had no trade, or rather he
had all trades. He was equally good as digger, teamster, herdsman, or
plowman, he took as much pleasure in all toil connected with the earth
as if he derived strength from it for his revels.
Then old age came. Jean Piot performed fewer prodigies, and when he did
the work of one man only, the master rebuked his laziness. He had
encumbered himself on the way with a certain Jeanne, whom public opinion
reproached with having put the two or three children she had had before
her marriage into a Foundlings' Home--she was reproached, that is to
say, with having estimated that the Republic would provide better than
she could for their maintenance and education. The sin is not one for
which in the opinion of the village there is no remission. Jeanne having
become "the Piotte," showed no less ardour for work and no less love of
good cheer than did her legitimate spouse. But her best days were
already past. Illness overtook her. There were no savings. Jean Piot,
who still caroused, was now no better than an ordinary workman, and
sometimes complained of stiff muscles, though he continued to drive them
beyond their strength.
Then came stark poverty. Alas! if the ability to work had diminished,
hunger and thirst, more pressing than ever, had not ceased to claim
their dues. Jean and his wife asked first one favour of their
neighbours, then another, and when they had worn these out they applied
to their friends, finally to strangers. Thus they passed by a scarcely
perceptible transition from salaried pride to resigned beggary. Jean
Piot and his Piotte were well thought of, never having had the
reputation of being sluggards. They had, to be sure, led a merry life,
fork and glass in hand. But which of their fellow labourers had never
been tempted to drown care in the cup? People helped them without too
bad a grace. From time to time they still worked when an opportunity
came not out of all proportion with their strength, sapped by work and
disease and white wine.
Slowly, age increased the inconveniences of being alive. In spite of
all, the two seemed happy, unmindful of the humiliation of begging,--or
sometimes even taking without having begged--accepted by all as
established parasites, always ready to lend a hand if there were
pressing work. It is not certain that, counting fairly, the collected
gifts falling into Jean Piot and the Piotte's scrip amounted to more
than an equitable reward for services rendered.
However that might be, no one seemed to complain of the state of things
brought about by the natural course of events, when a strange rumour
came from the county town. Jean Piot had inherited, it was said,
inherited from an unknown great uncle, who had "had property," and left
to his numerous relatives the task of dividing a "considerable" sum
among themselves. At this news, Jean Piot held up his head, and the
Piotte, going about with her crutch, asked for alms with a braver front.
Public opinion could but be favourably impressed by the great news.
Everybody's generosity suddenly increased, to the satisfaction of both
parties.
"Well, and those potatoes that I offered you the other day? You did not
take them, my good woman--you must carry them home." The Piotte could
not remember anybody mentioning potatoes, but she trustfully took
whatever was offered. From all sides gifts poured in, along with
congratulations on the wealth to come, which was to raise the Piots from
the dignity of beggars to the higher functions of the idle living on the
labour of others. The news soon received confirmation that an
inheritance there was, of which Jean Piot was a beneficiary. Whether
large or small, no one knew.
The heirs were said to be numerous, and the most contradictory reports
ran on the subject of the division. Jean Piot said nothing except
"perhaps," or "it is not impossible," which gave small satisfaction.
Everyone knew that he had been to see the lawyer, and that he had seemed
happy when he came home. The law does nothing quickly. There was a long
period of waiting, but public generosity did not weary, and Jean Piot
and his Piotte had easily fallen into the way of being received as "the
Lord's guests."
Finally, the news burst upon the community that Jean Piot had inherited
500 francs, all told. The disappointment caused a violent reaction, and
from one day to the next, the couple found everywhere resisting doors
and frowning faces. But Jean Piot seemed not to notice them, and before
long his look of pleasure and his expressions of satisfaction gave rise
to the idea that there must be something more than appeared. "We do not
know the whole," people whispered, and each, to forestall the unknown,
entrenched himself in a position of benevolent neutrality.
Five hundred francs was after all something, and as no one supposed that
Jean Piot intended to make a three per cent. investment, many wondered
if they might not draw some small advantage from the inheritance.
"Jean," said the maker of wooden shoes, "your shoes are a sorry sight. I
will make you a pair, cheap, if you like."
No representative of commerce or industry but came with offers of
obliging the "heir" with bargains in his wares.
Jean Piot shook his head, with gracious thanks. That was not what he
wanted.
Presently it was _Monsieur le curé's_ turn.
"Jean Piot, do you ever give thought to your soul?"
"Why, of course, _Monsieur le curé_, I am a good Christian, I think of
nothing else."
"Well, and what do you do to save your soul from the mighty blaze of
hell? I never even see you at mass."
"That is no fault of mine, _Monsieur le curé_, I have to earn my living.
You know very well that I go to the church door. On Sundays people are
readier to give alms than on week days."
"You should not work on Sundays."
"No danger. I can't work any more. Begging is not work."
"Do you know what would be a good thing to do? You ought to have masses
said, to redeem your sins."
"There's nothing I should like better. Will you say some for me?"
"Good. How much will you give me?"
"How much money? Does God ask for money, now, to save me from hell? Why,
then, did he not give me money to give him?"
"Hush--wretched man----! You blaspheme! Have you not just inherited?"
"Ah, you mean those five hundred francs? Wait a bit, _Monsieur le curé_,
you shall have your share."
"You will have masses said?"
"No, I have not enough for that."
"But for the small sum of twenty francs, I will say----"
"Impossible, _Monsieur le curé_, it is impossible."
"You grieve me, Jean Piot. You will die like a heathen."
"I wish you a good day, _Monsieur le curé_."
When this conversation was retailed, everyone wondered. What! not even
twenty francs to the Church? Jean Piot surely had some plan. What was he
going to do?
Soon they knew, for without solicitation orders began to be placed with
the best tradespeople. Jean Piot had engaged and paid for the largest
stable in the village. Tables were being set up in it, and covered with
a miscellaneous collection of dishes, as if for a Camacho's banquet,
such as was never seen outside of Cervantes' romance.
The two village inn keepers had received gigantic orders for food and
drink. And Jean Piot, his eyes sparkling with pride, went with a kindly
smile from door to door, no longer to beg, but to let everyone know that
"in remembrance of their good friendship" he was going to treat the
entire countryside for three days. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday there
was feasting, junketing, merrymaking--and everyone invited! There were
cauldrons of soup; cabbage, potatoes, and beef at will, and fish, and
fowls, and cakes and coffee. As for wine, casks of it were tapped, and
it was of the best; on top of that, little glasses of spirits, "as much
as you liked."
Amazement! Exclamations! Certainly Jean Piot was an extraordinary man.
It was perhaps unwise to spend all that money at once, when he must
necessarily be penniless on the day after. But who was there to blame
him, when everybody was taking his share of the feast? Only the _curé_
shook his head, regretting his masses. But public opinion was set in
Jean Piot's favour, and not even the Church could swim against the
stream.
At early dawn on Saturday Jean Piot and the Piotte settled themselves in
the middle seats at the table of honour, and the crowd having flocked
thither in their best attire, fell upon the victuals, and washed them
down with generous potations. At first they were too happy to speak, but
how everybody loved everybody else! How glad they were to say so! On all
sides handshaking--on all sides affectionate embraces--on all sides
cries of joy! And for Jean Piot and his Piotte, what kind and laudatory
expressions! What admiration!
During three days the enormous festival took its tumultuous course, amid
the muffled crunching of jaws, the gurgling of jugs and bottles, mingled
with laughter and shouts and songs. Women, children, old
people--everyone gorged himself immoderately. When evening came, young
and old danced to the music of fiddles. The church, alas, was empty on
Sunday, and when the _curé_ came to fetch his flock--God forgive
me!--they made him drink, and he, enkindled and set up, pressed Jean
Piot's two hands warmly to his heart. All the mean emotions of daily
life were forgotten, wiped away from the soul by this great human
communion. Tramps who were passing found themselves welcomed, stuffed to
capacity, beloved----And when the evening of the third day fell, not a
soul was there to mourn the too early close of an epic so glorious. The
entire village, exhausted, was asleep and snoring, fortifying itself by
dreams to meet the gloomy return to life's realities.
When his heavy drunkenness was dispelled, Jean Piot realized, for the
first thing, that the Piotte's sleep would have no awakening.
Congestion had done for her. He had on the subject philosophical
thoughts to which he did not give utterance for fear of being
misunderstood. In the depth of his heart he felt that neither of them
had any further reason for living, since they had fully lived.
And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the
imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life
swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity
which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him,
when doors closed and when he was reproached with having "wasted his
substance"--he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the
inevitable.
For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy,
it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said.
Two days before his death, the _curé_ had come to see him.
"Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?"
"Oh, yes, _Monsieur le curé_!"
"You remember when I proposed to say masses for you? If you had listened
to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse."
"And why should I suffer remorse, _Monsieur le curé_? I have done no
harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is
beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I
had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise.
Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that
is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do
you remember? You drank a glass, and you took both my hands, just as if
I had been a rich man, _Monsieur le curé_. We were like two brothers. If
you cannot say a mass for me without money, surely you will remember me
in your prayers, will you not?"
"I promise to, Jean Piot," said the _curé_, who had grown
thoughtful.
XX
THE TREASURE OF ST. BARTHOLEMEW
St. Bartholemew is a village in the Creuse, whose exact location I
abstain from indicating lest I disturb a peaceful community by calling
up unpleasant memories. St. Bartholemew is a village like any other. It
has its main street, with old sagging houses huddled one against the
other; here and there, the discordant note of a new building with
wrought-iron gateway and gateposts topped by cast-iron vases. There are
streets running at right angles, oozy with sewage, littered with manure,
where numerous chickens scratch for their living. There are little
gardens ornamented with bright shiny balls, reflecting people and
things, and making them look ugly at close range, beautiful in the
distance, even as our eyes do.
As far as I have ever been able to judge, the inhabitants of St.
Bartholemew differ in no wise from those of other villages. There, as
everywhere in the world, people are born, they live, and they die,
without knowing exactly why, and without arriving at any reasonable
explanation of the strange event. They seem, however, quite untroubled
by the difficulty of the problem. When they come into the world, their
first business is to lament. All their life long, they lament over the
labour involved in preserving their lives, but when it comes to dying,
they cannot make up their minds to it without lamentation! What bonds
hold them so closely to earth? Although "gifted with reason," they could
not tell you. What do they see beyond the fatal impulsion which sets men
at odds in a fierce struggle for life, the results of which seem
uncommensurate with the effort expended? They have no idea. Man comes
into collision with brutal fact, and can see nothing beyond a conflict
of interests. Three persons there are, having a direct action upon him:
the _curé_, the mayor, and the rural guard, whose injunction will bring
him to court.
The _curé_ is the purveyor of ideals appointed by the government. His
church, with its pictures, its gilded candlesticks, its tapers, and its
anthems, constitutes the only manifestation of art furnished by the
powers. It provides, in addition, a body of doctrine, texts, and
uplifting admonitions, the misfortune of which is, that although
everyone repeats them, no one pays any attention to them. The practice
of the cult seems to be the important thing. As to the precepts of which
that same cult is the support, everyone applies them to suit himself.
Gifts of money, a mechanical deathbed repentance, set the sinner on good
terms with the Master of the Beyond. With regard to the common events
of life, Lourdes and St. Anthony of Padua will attend to them for a
consideration.
As the _curé_ fills the office of God's mayor on earth, so the mayor and
the rural guard are the _curés_ of that far-away terrestrial divinity
called: "the Government." What, exactly, that word means, no one has the
necessary learning to explain. All that is known (and nothing further is
required), is that it is a mysterious power, as implacable as the Other,
and that one cannot even acquire merit with it by offering one's money
willingly, for it has liberty to force open doors and drawers and take
at its convenience. No one loves it, by whatever fine name it may call
itself, for it has, like the Other, a court of demons, a fierce company
of bailiffs, attorneys, judges, and jailers, cruel and vindictive toward
poor people who have the misfortune to displease it. This conception of
the social order may not express a very elevated philosophy, but it has
the great advantage of being exactly adapted to the tangible realities
of daily life.
If it were objected that at election time the "sovereign (!) voter"
might feel that he himself is the Government, I should answer that he
does not feel it for the simple reason that it is not so. To make it
true, an understanding of things and conditions would be necessary,
which the law may presuppose, but which it has not so far been able to
bring about, either among the people, or, for the greater part, among
the delegates of the people. Promises, of course, have not been wanting,
but what has followed? One is put in mind of a flock of sheep, given
their choice of tormentors, and as the personal interest of each, clear
and conspicuous, comes before the incomprehensible "general interest" (a
Pandora's box, concealing so many things!) the representative whom it is
good to elect is the one who will tear up the greatest number of legal
summonses and substitute for them the greatest number of office holders'
receipts and tobacconist shops.
It will be admitted, I fancy, that the spiritual condition of St.
Bartholemew, as shown in all this, does not greatly differentiate it
from the rural communities known to each one of us. The special
attribute of the place, aside from its excellent _curé_, and no less
excellent mayor, was that it boasted a "fool." To be sure, St.
Bartholemew's was not the usual village fool. He was not one of those
fantastic creatures in novels, who, happening on the scene at the right
moment, save the virtuous maiden, and bring the villain to punishment
before he has carried out his dark designs. No. He was a thickset dwarf,
with a bestial, twisted face, whose peculiarity was that he never spoke.
"Yes," and "no" formed his entire vocabulary. This viaticum was,
however, sufficient to ensure his worldly prosperity, given his notions
of prosperity. His mother, who had been something of a simpleton
herself, and whom the birth of the dwarf had firmly established in the
character of a "witch," had had him, she said, by a passing travelling
salesman. The adventure was in no way novel, but the appearance of the
dwarf caused the more superstitious to believe that her travelling
salesman travelled for the house of Satan!
This might have prejudiced the community against "Little Nick," as the
simpleton was called, had he not been gifted with more than ordinary
muscular strength, which impelled him to hurl himself with hyena howls
upon any one refusing him a bowl of soup, or straw to lie on in the
stable. Beside which, a strange lust for work possessed the diabolically
gnarled body. Hard physical labour was joy to Little Nick. He worked
gladly at any occupation whatsoever, even showing rudiments of art as a
carpenter or a blacksmith, which had given rise to the suspicion "that
he was not as stupid as he wished to be thought." But as he worked for
the love of it, and never demanded payment, he was universally judged to
be an "idiot," which did not keep the farmers from contending for his
favours.