The pendulum of time, inexorable, swings on. In a few hours I shall have
to leave, and soon my brother Yves will depart also, both of us for
distant parts, for the unknown.
It is the last day, the last evening. Yves, little Pierre and I are on
our way to the cottage of the old Keremenens, where I am to say good-bye
to grandmother Marianne.
She lives alone, now, under her moss-grown roof, under the spreading
vault of the great oaks. Pierre Kerbras and Anne, who were married in
the spring, are building in the village a proper house in granite, like
that of Yves. All the children have departed.
Poor little cottage in which the white coifs and collarettes moved about
so joyously on the day of the baptism! All that is over; now, the
cottage is empty and silent. We sit down on the old oak benches, resting
our elbows on the table on which the great baptismal feast was served.
The old grandmother is on a stool, spinning at her distaff, her head
bowed, looking already decrepit and forlorn.
Although the sun is not yet very low, inside the cottage it is dark.
Around us, none but old-fashioned things, poor and primitive. Large
rosaries are hung on the rough granite of the walls; in corners, lost in
shadow, one sees the oak logs amassed for the winter, and old household
utensils, blackened and dusty, in ancient and simple forms.
Never had we realized so clearly that all this is of the past and far
from us.
It is the old Brittany of an earlier time, almost dead.
Through the chimney filters the light of the sky, green tones fall from
above on the stones of the hearth, and through the open door appears the
Breton lane, with a ray of the setting sun on the honeysuckle and the
ferns.
We become dreamers, Yves and I, on this visit we have come to pay to the
dwelling of the grandparents.
Besides, grandmother Marianne speaks only Breton. From time to time Yves
addresses her in this language of the past; she replies, smiles, seems
pleased to see us; but the conversation quickly flags and silence
returns.
Vague melancholy of the evening, dreams of far-off days in this old
dwelling which soon will collapse by the roadside, which will fall into
ruin like its old inmates, and which no one will ever rebuild.
Little Pierre is with us. He is very fond of this little cottage and of
this old grandmother, who spoils him with adoration. He loves especially
the little oaken cradle, a work of another century, in which he was put
when he was born. He is longer than his cradle now and uses it, sitting
within, as a see-saw, looking about him with his wide-open dark eyes.
And now his grandmother, stooping near him, her back bent under her
frilled collarette, begins to rock him herself to amuse him. And as she
rocks she sings, and he, every now and then, interrupts the quavering
notes with a burst of his child's laughter.
Boudoul galaïchen! boudoul galaïch du!
Sing, poor old woman, with your broken, trembling voice, sing the
ancient lullaby, the air which comes from the distant night of dead
generations, and which your grandchildren will no longer know!
Boudoul, boudoul! Galaïchen, galaïch du!
One expects to see gnomes and fairies descend by the wide chimney, with
the light that comes from above.
Outside, the sun gilds stills the branches of the oaks, the honeysuckle
and the ferns.
Inside, in the lonely cottage, all is mysterious and dark.
Boudoul, boudoul! Galaïchen, galaïch du!
Rock your little grandson, rock him still, old woman in white frilled
collar! Soon the Breton songs, and the old Bretons who sing them, will
be no more!
And little Pierre joins his hands to say his evening prayer.
Word for word, in a very sweet voice which has a strong Toulven accent,
he repeats, watching us the while, all that his grandmother knows of
French:
"Oh God, and blessed Virgin Mary, and good Saint Anne, I pray to you for
my father, for my mother, for my godfather, for my grandparents, for my
little sister Yvonne. . . ."
"For my Uncle Goulven who is far away at sea," adds Yves in a grave
voice.
And still more solemnly:
"For my grandmother at Plouherzel."
"For my grandmother at Plouherzel," repeats little Pierre.
And then he waits for something more to repeat, keeping his hands
joined.
But Yves is almost in tears at the poignant recollection which has
suddenly come to him of his mother, of the cottage in which he was born,
of his village of Plouherzel, which his son scarcely knows and which he
himself will perhaps never see again. Life is like that for the children
of the coast, for sailors; they go away, the exigencies of their calling
separate them from beloved parents who scarcely know how to write to
them and whom afterwards they never see.
I look at Yves, and, as we understand each other without speaking, I can
imagine very well what is passing in his mind.
To-day he is happy beyond his dream, many sombre things have been
distanced and conquered, and yet, and yet . . . and afterwards? Here he
is now plunged suddenly into I know not what dream of past and future,
into a strange and unexpected melancholy! And afterwards?
Boudoul galaïchen! boudoul galaïch du!
sings the old woman, her back bent under her white frilled collar.
And afterwards? . . . Only little Pierre is inclined to laugh. He turns
from one side to the other his vivacious head, bronzed and vigorous;
merriment, the flame of a life quite new are still in his large dark
eyes.
And afterwards? . . . All is dark in the abandoned cottage; it seems as
if the objects there are talking mysteriously among themselves of the
past; night is closing in around us on the great woods.
And afterwards? . . . Little Pierre will grow up and sail the seas, and
we, my brother, we shall pass away and all that we have loved with
us--our old mothers first--then everything and we ourselves, the old
mothers of the Breton cottages as those of the towns, and old Brittany
also, and everything, all the things of this world!
Boudoul galaïchen! boudoul galaïch du!
Night falls and a sadness unexpected, profound, weighs upon our hearts.
. . . And yet, to-day we are happy.