has happened.” “Well, come in first,” said he, “upstairs where we
shall be more comfortable. My throat is as dry as a lime-kiln, I must
have something to drink. Now what do you say to that? You must have
tasted worse in your time. But would you believe it, my friends, those
brutes actually wanted me to have fasts and feasts every day, and for
what do you think? For nothing in the world but insects.”--“Insects!”
we shouted. “Well, you really must have a bee in your bonnet; are
you crazy, or are we?” This was the last straw, and he protested
indignantly that it was bad enough to be troubled by all this folly,
without being called a fool. “Well then, tell us all about it like a
sensible man.”--“You will drive me to perdition,” said he, wiping the
sweat from his brow, “the good Lord and I have been so harried and
bothered with all this nonsense, I must try to calm down!--You know
these people of mine want their vicar to provide rain and sunshine
for them. They jeer at the life eternal and don’t keep their souls
any cleaner than their feet, but they expect me to make the sun and
the moon stand still at their desire.--‘Not too much rain,’ they say,
‘now a little warm weather and a gentle breeze--no frost for pity’s
sake--now, Lord, a few drops more on my vineyard--stop!--now give us a
wee bit more sunshine!’--If you listen to them you would think prayer
was a kind of whip with which to drive their Maker, as a gardener does
his old ass that turns a water-wheel. The worst of all this is that
they cannot agree among themselves; one wants wet weather, another
dry, so they take refuge with the saints, for you must know that
there are thirty-seven of them up there, who have charge of rainy
weather. The foremost with his lance in his hand, is the great St.
Médard.--The fair-weather saints are only two in number, St. Raymond
and St. Dié, and it is their duty to brush away the clouds. Then
there are St. Blaise, the wind calmer, St. Christopher, St. Valerian,
and St. Aurelian who saves us from the hail, the storm, and the
thunder; lastly, St. Clare who sweeps the cobwebs out of the sky.--The
contradictory prayers of our farmers stir up discord in heaven, and
all these saintly personages are at daggers drawn with one another,
till Sts. Susan, Helen, and Scholastica actually pull each other’s hair
down. The good Lord himself does not know where to turn, and if He
does not know, how is it with His poor vicar? After all it is none of
my business; my duty is only to forward petitions and the Proprietor
can attend to them as He sees fit. This idolatry positively revolts
me, but I would not object if these good-for-nothings would not drag
me into their quarrels with Heaven, but they are mad enough to try to
make use of me and the Cross as a talisman against the pests which
devour their crops. They wanted the rats driven away from the grain in
their barns, so there were prayers, exorcisms, and processions in honor
of St. Nicaise;--all this on a bitter day in December, with snow up
to my neck; I have had lumbago ever since. Then caterpillars attacked
them, and we had more processions, this time addressed to St. Gertrude,
in a March storm with melting sleet;--a racking cough for me was the
result. Now we have the locusts, and they want another procession
round the orchards; think of it! with the sun like a furnace, and
black clouds rolling up before a thunderstorm. I should come back
with a rush of blood to the head, chanting the verse ‘Ibi ceciderunt,
workers of iniquity, atque expulsi sunt!’ but it is I who would be cast
out,--(‘Sacred to the memory of Baptiste Chamaille, commonly called
Dulcis, vicar of this parish.’)--No! I am in no hurry to quit this
world, and the best of jokes may be carried too far. It is no business
of mine to get rid of their caterpillars, and as for their locusts, the
lazy-bones can drive them off with their own hands. Help yourself and
others will help you! It would be really too comfortable for them to
sit down and let me do all the work. No, I will do my duty to the Lord,
and let them do likewise. They can besiege me here if they choose. It
would not bother me in the least, and I tell you, my friends, that they
could raise this house from the ground easier than they could make me
move out of this armchair. So now let’s have another bottle.” Having
come to the end of his breath and his eloquence, he took a long drink
and we followed his example, looking through our glasses at the world
and our future which appeared rosy enough. Then there was silence for
a few moments.--Each had his own special way of drinking, Paillard
smacked his lips, looked at his glass inside and out, held it up to
the light, tasted the wine and swallowed it down little by little,
taking it in through his nose and his eyes as much as by his palate.
Chamaille threw the wine into his big throat at one gulp. “Ha!” he
would say as he felt it going down, rolling up his eyes to Heaven. As
for me, I enjoyed both drink and drinkers; the more I looked at them
the happier I felt. What can be more delightful than to taste two
pleasures at once? All the same the bottle did not stand still with me.
Not one of the three was behind the others, but would you believe it?
at the end of the race the old notary was first by a good bumper. Our
souls seemed to dilate under this refreshing dew, which moistened our
throats and brightened up our wits and our faces. We leaned out of the
open window, touched and charmed at the sight of the fields in their
fresh spring dress, the young poplar shoots opening under the soft
sunshine, the Yonne down in the valley twisting and turning through the
meadows, like a playful puppy. We could hear the gay voices of women as
they beat their linen on the stones, and the ducks quacking among the
reeds. By this time Chamaille had quite recovered his good humor and
began to talk as he leaned out between us. “It’s a pretty good place
to live in after all; we were all three of us born here, the Lord be
praised! Was there ever a sweeter, dearer country? it fairly smiles at
you, it is so soft, so tender and graceful, fit to bring tears to your
eyes and to make your mouth water.” We nodded our heads, and he began
again.--“Our Master of course does what is right, we all know that,
but why the devil did He put such disagreeable people in this heavenly
place? I wish with all my heart that He would send them off somewhere
to live under the Incas or the Great Mogul, anywhere but here.” “But,
Chamaille,” said we, “all men are alike, you would not gain by getting
rid of these.” “Well then, they must have come into this world not that
I might save their souls, but to discipline mine through this earthly
Purgatory. My friends, you must admit that no lot is so hard as that
of a country priest who has to struggle to knock the truths of our
holy religion into the thick skulls of these stupid peasants; they may
take in the Catechism with their mother’s milk but it does not stay
by them, for such rude natures need coarse provender. They will fill
their mouths with aves and litanies, often just for the sake of hearing
themselves; they will bray out vespers and complines, but the sacred
words seldom get any farther than their thirsty jaws; for all the good
done to their hearts and stomachs they might as well have held their
tongues; pagans they were before, and pagans they remain. We have been
striving for hundreds of years to drive out the gnomes and fairies from
our fields, woods, and streams; but though we crack our cheeks and
lungs in the effort to blow out these infernal fires, so that we can
make God’s true light to shine in the black darkness of the world, we
cannot prevail over these base spirits, vulgar superstitions, of the
earth earthy. The people will still find some of this brood of Satan
hidden in the trunks of aged oaks, or under rocking stones, though the
Lord alone knows how many we have broken, thrown down, and uprooted;
but to get rid of all the devils which our mother Gaul holds hidden
within her, would be endless. Every sod and stone in the country would
have to be overturned. The truth is, nature is always slipping through
our fingers; if you clip her wings one day they grow out the next, and
ten gods spring up for each one that you destroy. Our stupid peasants
think everything is a god or a devil; and they believe in were-wolves,
headless horses, human snakes, imps, and sorcerers. Just imagine the
figure the gentle Son of Mary and Joseph must cut among all these
monsters out of Noah’s ark!” “If we could only see ourselves as others
see us,” said Paillard. “No doubt your people are a crazy lot, but how
about you yourself? is there much to choose between you? and are your
saints much better than demons and fairies? Three Gods in one was not
enough; besides a goddess mother, you fill your Pantheon and the niches
left empty by the old deities, with all kinds of godlings, male and
female; but as far as I can see these newcomers are no better than the
old: they appear like snails from no one knows where, deformed, maimed,
eaten up with dirt and vermin.--They make a display of their sores and
ulcers; one carries a trencher on his head, another sticks his head
itself under his arm, like a hat. Then there is his saintship who goes
about with his skin in his hand, and worst of all here in this Church
is your own particular St. Simon Stylites, who stood for forty years on
top of a pillar on one leg, for all the world like a crane.”
“Hold up there!” cried Chamaille, jumping from his seat. “Say what you
please about the other saints, they are no affair of mine, but here in
St. Simon’s own house, the least we can do is to be civil to him.”
“Well, as I am your guest, I will leave your old crane in peace on
his pedestal, but how about the Abbot of Cortigny who has the Blessed
Virgin’s milk in a bottle, and Count Sermizelles who took powdered
relics and washed them down with holy water when he happened to need
medicine?”
“You might do the same thing under the same circumstances,” said
Chamaille, “for all that you laugh at it now,--but as for the Abbot
of Cortigny, or any other monk, they would sell angel’s milk or
archangel’s cream, if they thought they could get our customers away
from us: we are like cat and dog; their very name is an abomination to
me!”
“Come, now, do you believe in these relics, or do you not?”
“I believe in my own, not in theirs, of course,--I have here the
shoulder-blade of St. Diétrine, a sovereign cure for the scurvy, and
the skull of St. Etoupe, which drives devils out of the sheep.--Now
what are you jeering at? I tell you I have documents here, signed
parchments, to prove the truth of what I say; if you do not believe me,
I will go and fetch them.”
“Sit down, old man, I don’t want to see your documents; now, Chamaille,
honor bright, you have no more faith in these things than I have, I
can see it in your eye. A bone is a bone, no matter where it comes
from, and you are an idolater if you adore it. Everything has its
place in this world, and corpses should stay in the graveyard; so for
my part I believe in life, in the light of day. I know that I live
and think--very clearly too,--I know also that two and two make four,
and that the earth is a fixed star hung in infinite space.--I believe
in our local customs, and could recite the whole list of them to you.
Then there are books where man’s knowledge and experience are distilled
drop by drop! I believe firmly in them. Above all I trust my own
understanding, and like any wise and prudent man, I have faith in Holy
Writ. Now are you satisfied?”
At this Chamaille fairly lost his temper. “What! satisfied?” cried he;
“you are a horrible mixture of Calvinist, heretic, and Bible-pattering
Huguenot; you would push aside even the vicar, and presume to dictate
to your Mother Church. Oh! generation of vipers!”
It was now Paillard’s turn to be angry, because, as he said, he could
not suffer any one to apply the term Huguenot to him; he declared he
was a loyal Frenchman and son of the Church, and had a good head on his
shoulders too, so that he could see through a millstone as well as the
next man; that he knew a fool when he saw him, and Chamaille was three
parts a fool or three fools in one, just as he pleased; and he added
that since God is the fountain of light and reason, if we would respect
God, we should respect our own reason also.
After this silence settled down, except for an occasional grunt as
they sat back to back at the table, finishing their bottle.--I burst
out laughing, and they noticed then for the first time that I had
taken no part in the dispute, though I had followed the whole argument
with delight, and caught myself imitating the motions of their lips,
frowning when they frowned, and moving my features like a rabbit
eating a cabbage leaf. Now they both appealed to me to know on which
side I was.
“I agree with both of you,” said I, “and not with you alone: let us
thresh this thing out together. Folly leads to laughter, and laughter
to wisdom;--when you want to estimate your possessions what do you do?
You begin naturally by writing down your column of figures, and then
you add them up. Now why not pursue the same method with any crotchets
you may have in your head? Add them all together and the sum may be a
truth, though truth is hard to seize, and mocks at those who would lay
hands on her; still there is more than one answer to the riddle of the
world, my children. We only see one side of the shield, so I am for all
gods, pagan and Christian alike, and for the god of reason first and
foremost.”
This lucid exposition had no better result than to unite both the
others in an onslaught on me, and what they called my pagan and
atheistic opinions. “Atheist!” cried I, “and why not? my door is open
to all comers; gods and laws of every degree are welcome. I reverence
God, and worship His saints, and love to gossip and laugh with such
as are good company, but to tell you the plain truth, one god is
not quite enough for a man as greedy as I am, so I have saints and
saintesses, fairies and spirits of the earth, air, and water. I believe
in reason, but I believe also in folly, from which truth sometimes
springs. If I have faith in sorcery, I like also to think of this earth
hanging in the clouds, and I should love to have my fingers on all the
springs that move the world.--What joy to listen to the bright-eyed
planets, and watch the man in the moon.--‘Silly talk!’ say you, who are
all for rule and order, but let me tell you, these things are to be
had at a price only, and a high one. To be orderly means not to follow
one’s own will, but that of others; it means to cut down the tall trees
that the highroad may run straight;--convenient if you will, but ugly
as the devil. No, mine are the old Gallic ideas,--many chiefs and a
strong law, but every man for himself, and all brothers. Believe as you
choose, but leave me to my belief, and the worship of my reason. Above
all, let the gods alone; they are everywhere, in the heavens and in
the waters under the earth; the world teems with them, and I not only
respect those I know, but I am willing to accept new ones; only no one
shall take from me one I have already known, unless he has deceived me.”
Paillard and the vicar looked at me with positive compassion, and
asked how I expected to get through the world with my head in such a
tangle.
“There is no difficulty as to that,” I assured them. “I know just where
to put my feet. Do you think I need to take the highroad from Clamecy
to Vézelay when I can cut through the woods? I find my way blindfold
through little bypaths, it takes rather longer perhaps, but I pick up
something for my game-bag. In my world everything is in its place: God
in His Heaven, the saints in their chapels, out of doors the fairies,
and my good brains in my head, so it all works smoothly; to each his
proper task, with no despotic king to rule over us. It is more like a
confederation of allied cantons, some strong and others weak; but in
case of necessity the little ones band together, and who will get the
upper hand then? Of course the Lord is mightier than any fairy, but
it is another pair of shoes when a swarm of fairies make common cause
against Him. The biter, you know, is sometimes bit. You think me crazy
I know, but it sticks in my head that the head God of all is yet to be
seen, for He is above everything; far, far away like our good King; we
know his stewards and lieutenants only too well, but he is invisible
in his palace,--so the sovereign to whom we bow is one Concini. Now,
Chamaille, don’t look at me like that, if you like it better, we will
say that the Duke of Nevers is our ruler just now. Blessings on his
head! I admire and respect him, but when he of the Louvre raises his
voice our Duke is silent, and a good thing too!”
“I wish it were good,” said Paillard, “but as the proverb says, when
the sun is hid, you see the stars, and since the death of our lamented
Henry, the whole kingdom is under petticoat government, princes and
all; you know who profits by the sport of nobles; there are plenty to
dip their fingers in the bag of gold, (the price of future triumphs,)
that Sully has laid up there in the Arsenal. How long, O Lord? before
these thieves are brought to justice!”
This was the signal for us to break out and talk with the utmost
imprudence; for we had now hit on a tune which we could all sing,
and we did sing it with variations on princes, hypocrites, lazy
monks, and fat prelates. It is only fair to Chamaille to say that his
improvisations on this theme were by far the most brilliant; but the
trio continued in most melodious measure to chant of bitter and sweet,
of those who have too much faith, and those who have none; fanatics,
Huguenots, bigots, and fools who think that they can put the fear of
God into a man by a dagger thrust or a blow on the head. As if we were
donkeys to be driven with a stick along the heavenly way! Damnation
should be free to all who desire it, but let them burn in a future
state without tormenting them here on earth, and meanwhile leave us
in peace, each to act as seems good in his own eyes. We are told that
Christ died for men; for the infidel, as well as the Christian, and in
truth are we not all poor creatures, as like as peas in a pod, neither
better nor worse? What place, then, should pride and cruelty have among
us?
Somewhat fatigued by all this conversation, we then resumed the worship
of Bacchus, the only god respected by all three; even Chamaille
declared that all the monks and sermons in the world could not turn him
from this allegiance, for Bacchus is everywhere acknowledged as of true
French lineage, and a real Christian. Are there not old pictures where
our Saviour is represented treading the winepress under His feet? “Let
us drink then, my friends, to our smiling god, whose red blood warms
our hillsides and vineyards, rejoices our hearts, loosens our tongues,
and breathes his right generous spirit over our France, filling her
with the elixir of life.”
Just here we stopped to take breath, and drink to France and common
sense; for her motto is always to avoid extremes, if you would be wise;
sometimes, it is true, one falls between two stools. All at once we
heard a great banging of doors and heavy steps on the stairs, mingled
with portentous puffings and appeals to all the saints in the calendar,
and Mistress Louisa, the vicar’s housekeeper, made her appearance,
wiping her fat red face with a corner of her apron. “Oh! Master, you
are wanted at once! Come and help us.”
“Come where, you old fool?” said her master with pardonable irritation.
“Oh! save us, they will be here in a jiffy!”
“Who? the caterpillars?--let them spread over the fields. Now I won’t
hear another word about those brutes of farmers.”
“But they are threatening the most dreadful things!”
“Pooh! what do I care for them? Do they threaten to bring me before the
Tribunal? Let them come on, I am ready for them.”
“Ah, dear Master! a suit is nothing to what they threaten to do.”
“For the love of Heaven, woman, speak out!”
“They are all at big Picq’s house down in the village, and what do you
think? They are making charms and exorcisms to drive all the mice and
insects from their own fields to your orchard and cellar!”
Chamaille sprang to his feet. “To think of those fiends! Sending
locusts to eat up my fruit! How dare they even think of such a thing!
St. Simon, have mercy on your poor vicar!”
We could not help laughing, and tried our best to calm him, but it was
of no use.
“It is all very well!” he cried, “but you would laugh on the other side
of your mouths if you were in my shoes; I suppose I must go and get my
storeroom ready for these guests! Locusts! How revolting! And mice! It
is enough to drive one crazy!”
I tried to persuade him that he could easily get the better of his
parishioners and advised him to try some strong counter exorcism, but
nothing could console him.
“I am lost!” he cried, wringing his hands. “Picq is terribly clever and
sharp; the Lord alone knows what will come of it. I shall have to give
in. To think how happy and comfortable I was just a minute ago! Ah! my
dear friends, it is all up with me. Run, Louisa; run, and tell them
to stop; say I am coming as fast as I can. Beasts that they are! Just
let them wait till the next time they are dying and send for me! Well,
the will of the Lord be done; it is not the first time I have had to
knuckle down.”
“Where are you going, old man?” we said.
“I am off on a crusade against locusts, of course!” he cried.
IV
THE IDLER
A Day in Spring.
Fair April, daughter of spring, the pink and white apricot blossoms
are like your slender breasts, and your sweet eyes shed soft sunshine
over my garden. Ah! what a lovely day lies before me! And how good to
stretch my old arms and shake off the stiffness of the night. I have
been working hard for the last two weeks to make up for lost time, and
we three, my two apprentices and I, have made the shavings fly under
our planes, but unfortunately we rather lack customers; there are few
to buy, and fewer still to pay for what they order; now purses are lean
and empty, but red blood still runs in our arms, good soil is in our
fields, and we reign over both.
Since early morning the voice of the working city has risen up to
Heaven, “Our Father, give us our daily bread,” but meanwhile, like
sensible folks, we are kneading it ourselves.... You can hear the
clatter of the millwheel, the wheeze of the forge bellows, and the
hammers beating on the anvil; horses stamp and splash through
the ford, carts bump along the road, whips crack, wooden shoes go
pitter-patter; the butcher swings his chopper, the cobbler sings as
he hammers in his nails,--and above is the blue spring sky, the white
clouds flying before the light fresh breeze, and the genial sun warming
everything. My youth revives, coming from far on swift wings to build
her swallow’s nest in my old heart once more, where she is more than
ever welcome after her long absence, dearer even than in those first
sweet days.
Just at this moment I hear the harsh grind of the weather-cock on the
roof, or is it my old woman screaming something or other at me? I turn
a deaf ear, but deuce take the sound, it has scared away my lovely
youth.... She--I mean my wife--comes down in a rage as usual.
“What in the world are you doing there with your arms folded, gazing
into the clouds, with your big mouth open as if you expected larks to
drop into it? while here am I working for you like a pack-horse,--you
think that’s what women are made for, but the good Lord never meant
Adam to stand with his hands in his pockets while his wife slaved about
the house. I say he ought to take his share of all that is going, good
and bad alike; there must be that much justice in Heaven or I will know
the reason why! Stop laughing, you great fool! Get to work if you
want to eat. Ah! I thought that would hit him! Now then begin, and the
sooner the better.”
“Of course I am going,” said I, smiling sweetly. “It is a sin to stay
in the house on a day like this.” So back I went to the workshop and
told my apprentices to come with me to Rion’s woodyard to choose a long
smooth plank for the work I had in hand. Cagnat, Robinet, and I went
out whistling, and met my old girl on the threshold still railing at
men and things.
“Don’t go on so about it, Mistress,” said Cagnat, “we shall be back in
no time.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” shrieked my sweet partner.
Nine was striking on the town clock as we reached Béyant, no distance
at all, but we had the manners to pause just a second at the bridge
and speak to Fétu, Gadin, and Trinquet, who were sitting on the
parapet watching the water--by way of beginning their working day.
We had a moment’s chat about nothing in particular, and then went on
our way like steady responsible workmen, straight on, saying nothing
to anybody, because, for one thing, there was no one on the road;
but being persons of taste, we appreciated the beauties of nature,
admiring the sky, the fresh spring verdure, a blooming apple-tree under
the walls, the flight of a swallow, with some talk about the weather
and the direction of the wind. All at once I remembered that I had not
seen my little Glodie the whole morning, so I told my men to go on
ahead, I would catch up with them at Rion’s.
When I got to Martine’s I found her down on her knees scrubbing the
shop, her tongue going like a mill-race, talking to her husband, to
his apprentice, to Glodie, to every one else within hearing, in the
highest of spirits, and the floor being done, she flung the dirty water
into the street, and hit me fair on the legs, where I was standing just
outside the door admiring her,--there is no use denying it, she is the
light of my eyes. Of course we both laughed louder than ever; she made
a real picture, with her dark hair all tousled over her bright eyes and
thick eyebrows, her lips as red as ripe plums, and her plump neck and
arms, and her skirts tucked up just as far as need be.
“I hope you got it all, Father Noah?”
“Every drop, but I don’t mind that, as long as I am not obliged to
drink it.”
In I went and kissed my little Glodie, who was sitting under the
counter to be out of the wet.
“I bet I know what brought you here so early in the morning,” said
Martine.
“You knew the reason before you were born,” was my answer.
“You mean Mother?”
“Who else?”
“Men are such cowards!”
Florimond heard the last word, just as he was coming in, and drew
himself up, thinking it was meant for him. “No offense,” said I, “she
was talking to me.”
“If the cap fits put it on!” said my daughter.
Florimond always stands a good deal on his dignity and hates to be
laughed at; besides he is apt to be suspicious of Martine and me when
we get together, and fancies, sometimes with some reason, that we are
making him the butt of our jokes, so I said innocently, “You know well
enough, Martine, that Florimond is master in his own house, not like
your poor old father, who always let himself be put upon; you inherit
your docile submissive nature from me, my child.”
“Get along with you, old humbug,” cried Martine, who by this time
was at her house-cleaning again, rubbing the windows, the walls, and
the furniture, as if to take the very skin off. She filled the whole
place to overflowing with life and energy, while in the background
stood Florimond as usual, stiff and particular; he is always chilly,
never quite at his ease with us, our jokes shock him, and he cannot
understand why we often laugh just out of sheer health and jollity,
for he is himself somewhat undersized, thin, and low-spirited. Nothing
is ever quite to his mind, perhaps because he is always thinking of
himself, so there he stood with a knitted scarf round his scraggy
fowl’s neck, and kept glancing about uneasily, till at last he said:
“There is a gale here fit to blow your head off. Shut a few of those
windows.”
“It is as hot as Tophet!” said Martine, scrubbing harder than ever, but
as a matter of fact there was a good fresh breeze coming in from all
directions, too much for Florimond, who went off like a thunder-cloud.
“He can go back and warm himself in his oven,” she said, laughing. I
could not help asking her how she got along with her baker, though I
knew perfectly well she would let herself be cut in pieces before she
would admit that she had ever made a mistake; true enough, she declared
that he suited her down to the ground. “One should always be content
with what one has,” said she.