1_st January_, 1881.
In the heart of the docks at Brest, a little before dawn, on the first
morning of the year 1881. A mournful place, these docks; the _Sèvre_
has been moored there now for a week.
Above, the sky has begun to brighten between the high granite walls
which enclose us. The lamps, few and far between, shed in the mist their
last meagre yellow light. And already one may discern the silhouettes of
formidable things which are taking shape, awakening ideas of a grim and
cruel rigidity; machines high perched, enormous anchors upturning their
black arms; all sorts of vague and ugly shapes; and, in addition,
laid-up ships, with their outline of gigantic fishes, motionless on
their chains, like large dead monsters.
A great silence prevails and a deadly cold. There is no solitude
comparable with that of a naval dockyard at night, especially on a night
of holiday. As the time approaches for the gun to sound the signal to
cease work, everybody flees as from a place of pestilence; thousands of
men issue from every point, swarming like ants, hastening towards the
gates. The last of them run, actuated by a fear lest they should arrive
too late and find the iron gates closed. Then calm descends. Then night.
And there is no longer a soul, no longer a sound.
From time to time a patrol passes on his round, challenged by the
sentries, giving in a low voice the password. And then the silent
population of rats debouches from all the holes, takes possession of the
deserted ships, the empty yards.
On duty on board since the previous day I had got to sleep very late, in
my icy, iron-walled room. I was worried about Yves, and the songs, the
shoutings of sailors which came to me in the night from the distance,
from the low quarters of the town, filled me with foreboding.
Marie and little Pierre were to make their journey to Plouherzel in
Goello, and Yves had wanted, nevertheless, to spend the night on shore
in Brest, to celebrate the New Year with some old friends. I could have
stopped him by asking him to stay and keep me company; but the coldness
between us persisted; and I had let him go. And this night of the 31st
December is of all nights perhaps the most dangerous, a night when Brest
gives itself up wholly to a riot of alcohol.
As I climbed on deck, I saluted rather sadly this first morning of the
New Year, and I began the mechanical promenade, the hundred paces of the
watch, thinking of many past things.
And especially I thought of Yves, who was my present preoccupation.
During the last fortnight, on this _Sèvre_, it seemed to me that the
affection of this simple brother who had long been the only real friend
I had in the world, was slowly, hour by hour, drifting from me. And
then, also, I was angry with him for not behaving himself better, and it
seemed to me, that, for my part, too, I loved him less. . . .
A black bird passed above my head, uttering a mournful croaking.
"Good luck to you!" said a sailor who was making his morning ablution in
cold water. "Here's some one come to wish us a happy New Year! . . . You
ugly croaker! Anyhow, you are a sign that better things are to follow."
Yves returned at seven o'clock, walking very straight, and answered the
roll-call. Afterwards he came to me, as usual, to wish me good morning.
I quickly saw, from his eyes slightly dulled and his voice slightly
altered, that he had not been as abstemious as he should. And I said to
him in the tone of a curt order:
"Yves, you will not return to shore to-day."
And then I affected to speak to others, conscious that I had been unduly
severe and none too pleased with myself.
_Midday._ The dockyard, the ships are emptying, becoming deserted as on
days of holiday. Everywhere the sailors may be seen on their way out for
the day, all very smart in their clean Sunday clothes, brushing off with
eager hand the least trace of dust, adjusting for one another their
large blue collars. Walking briskly they soon reach the gates and press
forward into Brest.
When it comes to the turn of those on the _Sèvre_ Yves appears with the
others, well brushed, well washed, and very bare about the neck, in his
best clothes.
"Yves, where are you going?"
He gave me an angry glance such as I had not had from him before. It
seemed to defy me and I read in it still the fever and bewilderment of
alcohol.
"I am going to join my friends," he said. "Sailors from my country, whom
I have arranged to meet, and who are expecting me."
Then I attempted to reason with him, taking him aside, obliged to say
what I had to say very quickly, for time pressed, obliged to speak low
and to maintain an appearance of complete calm, for it was necessary
that the others who were standing quite near us should not know what was
passing. And I began to feel that I had taken a wrong road, that I was
no longer myself, that my patience was exhausted. I spoke in the tone
which irritates and does not persuade.
"I am going, I am going, I tell you," he said at the end, trembling, his
teeth clenched. "Unless you put me in irons to-day, you will not stop
me."
He turned away, defying me to my face for the first time in his life,
and moved to rejoin the others.
"In irons? Very well then, Yves; in irons you shall be."
And I called a sergeant-at-arms, and gave him out loud the order to lead
him away.
Oh! the glance he gave me as he turned away, obliged to follow the
sergeant-at-arms who prepared to take him below, before all his fellows,
to descend into the hold in his brave Sunday clothes! He was sobered,
assuredly; for his gaze was penetrating and his eyes were clear. It was
I who hung my head under this expression of reproach, of sorrowful and
supreme amazement, of sudden disillusion and disdain.
And then I went back to my room.
Was it all over between us? I thought it was. This time I had lost him
indeed.
I knew that Yves, with his obstinate Breton character, would not return;
his heart, once closed, would never open again.
I had abused my authority over him, and he was of those, who, before
force, rebel and will not yield.
I had begged the officer on duty to let me continue in charge for this
day, not having the courage to leave the ship--and I continued my
endless walk up and down the deck.
The dockyard was deserted within its high walls. There was no one on
deck. The sound of distant singing came from the low-lying streets of
Brest. And, from the crew's quarters below, the voices of the sailors of
the watch calling at regular intervals the _Loto_ numbers with the
little jokes usual among sailors, which are very old and always gain a
laugh.
"--22, the two quartermasters out for a walk!"
"--33, the legs of the ship's cook!"
And my poor Yves was below them, at the bottom of the hold, in the dark,
stretched on the floor in the cold, with his foot in an iron ring.
What should I do? . . . Order him to be set free and sent to me? I
foresaw perfectly well how this interview might turn out: He standing
before me, impassive, sullen, his bonnet, respectfully doffed, braving
me by his silence, his eyes downcast.
And, if he refused to come--and he was quite capable of this in his
present mood--what then? . . . How could I save him from the
consequences of such a refusal of obedience? How could I then extricate
him from the mess I should have made between our own private affairs and
the blind rules of discipline?
Now, night was falling and Yves had been nearly five hours in irons. I
thought of little Pierre and of Marie, of the good folk of Toulven, who
had put their hope in me, and then of an oath I had sworn to an old
mother in Plouherzel.
And above all, I realized that I still loved my poor Yves as a brother.
. . . I went back to my room and began hurriedly to write to him; for
this must be the only means of communication between us; with our
characters, explanations would never be successful. I wrote quickly, in
large letters, so that he could still read them: darkness was coming on
quickly, and, in the dockyard, a light is a thing forbidden.
Then I said to the sergeant-at-arms:
"Bring Kermadec to speak to _the Officer of the Watch_, here in my
room."
I had written:
"DEAR BROTHER,--I forgive you and I ask that you too will forgive me.
You know well that we are now brothers, and that, in spite of
everything, we must stick together through thick and thin. Are you
willing that all that we have done and said on the _Sèvre_ should be
forgotten, and are you willing to make one more firm resolution to be
sober? I ask this of you in the name of your mother. If you will write
'Yes' at the bottom of this paper, all will be over and we will not
speak of it again.
"PIERRE."
When Yves came in, without looking at him, and without waiting for a
reply, I said to him simply:
"Read this which I have just written for you." And I went out, leaving
him alone.
He came out quickly, as if he had been afraid of my return, and, as soon
as I heard that he was some distance away, I re-entered my room to see
what he had answered.
At the bottom of my letter--in letters still larger than mine, for it
was growing darker--he had written: "Yes, brother," and signed: "YVES."