Do you know the autumn, dear reader, autumn away in the country with its
squalls, its long gusts, its yellow leaves whirling in the distance, its
sodden paths, its fine sunsets, pale as an invalid’s smile, its pools of
water in the roadway; do you know all these? If you have seen all these
they are certainly not indifferent to you. One either detests or else
loves them.
I am of the number of those who love them, and I would give two summers
for a single autumn. I adore the big blazing fires; I like to take
refuge in the chimney corner with my dog between my wet gaiters. I like
to watch the tall flames licking the old ironwork and lighting up the
black depths. You hear the wind whistling in the stable, the great door
creak, the dog pull at his chain and howl, and, despite the noise of the
forest trees which are groaning and bending close by, you can make out
the lugubrious cawings of a flock of rooks struggling against the storm.
The rain beats against the little panes; and, stretching your legs
toward the fire, you think of those without. You think of the sailors,
of the old doctor driving his little cabriolet, the hood of which sways
to and fro as the wheels sink into the ruts, and Cocotte neighs in
the teeth of the wind. You think of the two gendarmes, with the rain
streaming from their cocked hats; you see them, chilled and soaked,
making their way along the path among the vineyards, bent almost double
in the saddle, their horses almost covered with their long blue cloaks.
You think of the belated sportsman hastening across the heath, pursued
by the wind like a criminal by justice, and whistling to his dog, poor
beast, who is splashing through the marshland. Unfortunate doctor,
unfortunate gendarmes, unfortunate sportsman!
And all at once the door opens and Baby rushes in exclaiming: “Papa,
dinner is ready.” Poor doctor! poor gendarmes!
“What is there for dinner?”
The cloth was as white as snow in December, the plate glittered in the
lamplight, the steam from the soup rose up under the lamp-shade, veiling
the flame and spreading an appetizing smell of cabbage. Poor doctor!
poor gendarmes!
The doors were well closed, the curtains carefully drawn. Baby hoisted
himself on to his tall chair and stretched out his neck for his napkin
to be tied round it, exclaiming at the same time with his hands in the
air: “Nice cabbage soup.” And, smiling to myself, I said: “The youngster
has all my tastes.”
Mamma soon came, and cheerfully pulling off her tight gloves: “There,
sir, I think, is something that you are very fond of,” she said to me.
It was a pheasant day, and instinctively I turned round a little to
catch a glimpse on the sideboard of a dusty bottle of my old Chambertin.
Pheasant and Chambertin! Providence created them for one another and my
wife has never separated them.
“Ah! my children, how comfortable you are here,” said I, and every one
burst out laughing. Poor gendarmes! poor doctor!
Yes, yes, I am very fond of the autumn, and my darling boy liked it as
well as I did, not only on account of the pleasure there is in gathering
round a fine large fire, but also on account of the squalls themselves,
the wind and the dead leaves. There is a charm in braving them. How many
times we have both gone out for a walk through the country despite cold
and threatening clouds. We were wrapped up and shod with thick boots;
I took his hand and we started off at haphazard. He was five years old
then and trotted along like a little man. Heavens! it is five-and-twenty
years ago. We went up the narrow lane strewn with damp black leaves;
the tall gray poplars stripped of their foliage allowed a view of the
horizon, and we could see in the distance, under a violet sky streaked
with cold and yellowish bands, the low thatched roofs and the red
chimneys from which issued little bluish clouds blown away by the wind.
Baby jumped for joy, holding with his hand his hat which threatened to
fly off, and looking at me with eyes glittering through tears brought
into them by the breeze. His cheeks were red with cold, and quite at the
tip of his nose hung ready to drop a small transparent pearl. But he was
happy, and we skirted the wet meadows overflowed by the swollen river.
No more reeds, no more water lilies, no more flowers on the banks. Some
cows, up to mid-leg in damp herbage, were grazing quietly.
At the bottom of a ditch, near a big willow trunk, two little girls
were huddled together under a big cloak wrapped about them. They were
watching their cows, their half bare feet in split wooden shoes and
their two little chilled faces under the large hood. From time to time
large puddles of water in which the pale sky was reflected barred the
way, and we remained for a moment beside these miniature lakes, rippling
beneath the north wind, to see the leaves float on them. They were the
last. We watched them detach themselves from the tops of the tall trees,
whirl through the air and settle in the puddles. I took my little boy in
my arms and we went through them as we could. At the boundaries of
the brown and stubble fields was an overturned plough or an abandoned
harrow. The stripped vines were level with the ground, and their damp
and knotty stakes were gathered in large piles.
I remember that one day in one of these autumnal walks, as we gained the
top of the hill by a broken road which skirts the heath and leads to
the old bridge, the wind suddenly began to blow furiously. My darling,
overwhelmed by it, caught hold of my leg and sheltered himself in the
skirt of my coat. My dog, for his part, stiffening his four legs, with
his tail between the hind ones and his ears waving in the wind, looked
up at me too. I turned, the horizon was as gloomy as the interior of a
church. Huge black clouds were sweeping toward us, and the trees were
bending and groaning on every side under the torrents of rain driven
before the squall. I only had time to catch up my little man, who was
crying with fright, and to run and squeeze myself against a hedge
which was somewhat protected by the old willows. I opened my umbrella,
crouched down behind it, and, unbuttoning my big coat, stuffed Baby
inside. He clung closely to me. My dog placed himself between my legs,
and Baby, thus sheltered by his two friends, began to smile from the
depths of his hiding-place. I looked at him and said:
“Well, little man, are you all right?”
“Yes, dear papa.”
I felt his two arms clasp round my waist--I was much thinner than I am
now--and I saw that he was grateful to me for acting as a roof to him.
Through the opening he stretched out his little lips and I bent mine
down.
“Is it still raining outside, papa?”
“It will soon be over.”
“Already, I am so comfortable inside you.”
How all this stays in your heart. It is perhaps silly to relate these
little joys, but how sweet it is to recall them.
We reached home as muddy as two water-dogs and we were well scolded.
But when evening had come and Baby was in bed and I went to kiss him and
tickle him a little, as was our custom, he put his two little arms round
my neck and whispered: “When it rains we will go again, eh?”