could count that this is what we must all come to; all flesh is grass,
here today and gone tomorrow, but in the heyday of your youth you
would never listen to me. Now alas! your cup is nearly empty, only the
dregs remain to you, but all the same you ought not to be afflicted,
since God does you the honor to summon you before Him, and I am here to
prepare and wash your soul if perchance it is not perfectly clean and
ready. Come, sinner, the time is short!”
“Vicar,” said I, “I will attend to you in a few moments.”
“The Chariot of Death will not wait for you.”
“In that case I shall have to go on my two feet.”
“Breugnon, my brother,” said he solemnly, “relinquish your hold on
the things of this world; why should you cling to them since they are
naught but vanity and vexation of spirit?”
“Too true,” said I, “and it breaks my heart to think of leaving old
friends like you behind me in the midst of such desolation.”
“We shall meet again!” said he, rolling up his eyes.
“Let it be soon then! You remember the motto of the Duke of Guise,
‘Where I lead you follow!’”
“Come, come, Breugnon, time is passing, and so are you; do you want the
father of lies to snap up your sinful soul for his dinner? He will, if
you do not make your confession quickly, Colas! I entreat you for my
sake!”
“For yours, for God’s, and for my own sake,” said I, “but first I have
a word or two to say to the notary.”
“Is it possible, Breugnon, that you will make the Eternal wait for the
scrivener?”
“The Eternal has all eternity, so He will not mind waiting, besides it
is more polite for me to take leave of this world which I am quitting,
before I greet the next world where I am--perhaps--expected.”
As I insisted in spite of all he could say to the contrary, Master
Paillard took out his writing-case and sat down on a stone by the
roadside, surrounded by a circle of spectators, and all the dogs in
the neighborhood, while I dictated to him my last will and testament.
Having disposed of my money, I turned my attention to my soul under the
direction of Chamaille, till at last, feeling that my strength failed
me, “Baptiste,” said I, “your words are heavenly, but what avails the
sky to a man whose throat is dry! Get me a stirrup-cup, for my soul is
just about to spring to the saddle, so one bottle, if you love me!”
My last words fell on the willing ears of good neighbors and Christians
who brought me not only one bottle but three, Chablis, Pouilly, and
Irancy, and I, like a sailor setting out on a voyage, let down a rope
out of my window; they put the wine in an old basket, tied the rope to
its handle, and I pulled it up gently, my last best friend! After this,
though the others had gone, I was not quite so lonely, but I kept no
count of time, and could not tell now how the hours passed or rather
how they seemed to be stolen from me, perhaps it was by the spirits
in my trio of bottles, from which came voices and replies, but Colas
Breugnon was not there to hear them.
Towards midnight I appeared to be seated in a strawberry bed looking up
at the sky through the branches of a tree. How dark the earth was, and
how the stars twinkled, the moon too was smiling at me, and all around
were twisted distorted old stems and roots, like a nest of serpents
grinning horribly.--What was I doing there? My head was spinning, but I
seemed to say to myself, “Up with you, Colas! and lie no longer on that
old mattress; the bottles are empty, out with you to the garden!” I
wanted also to pick some cloves of garlic, because they are said to be
a cure for the plague, but scarcely had I set foot on the ground when
everything seemed to be enchanted; the sky arched over me like a huge
tree, and from its drooping branches hung the stars like glittering
fruit, and they all had eyes to look at me; they laughed, and so did
the strawberries; high up among the leaves was a golden pear all ripe
and juicy, and she sang in a sweet little voice:
“Grow like me
From the tree,
Little man below.
Reach your hand to mine,
Cling like stems of vine;
Shake off all your woe,
Grow with me
As we upward go!”
And the heavens and earth seemed like one big orchard full of fruits
all singing, “Grow with me!”
Then I stuck my arms into the soft warm earth up to the elbows, and
sank down till I was all enfolded from head to heel, as if on my
mother’s breast. From the July night rose the Song of Songs, the bright
bunches of stars swung before my eyes, and the deep voice of St.
Martin’s struck the hour; twelve o’clock, fourteen, sixteen o’clock?
Surely there was something strange in the old time-piece! And the star
fruit above and below began to strike too, or was it chiming? with such
celestial sounds that they pierced my heart, and vibrated in my ears
like distant thunder. Then it seemed as I lay that a tree of Jesse
was growing from me and I mounted with it, up, up among the chiming
branches towards a bright planet dancing on the highest tree-top, and
that I stretched out my arms to reach it, singing:
“You are mine,
Star wine,
Spirit of the living vine,
Halleluia!”
I must have kept on climbing for the greater part of the night, and
from what they tell me I sang for hours, all sorts of songs, sacred and
profane, some edifying and some very much the reverse; I also played
on the dulcimer as well as on the drum and trumpet, till at last all
the neighborhood came out to listen and to say, “Poor old Colas, he is
dying, and mad as mad can be.”
The next morning the sun was out of his bed long before I was, for I
never opened my eyes till near midday, and my first thought was, “Good,
here I am still living!”--not but what my couch was hard enough, and I
still had those horrible pains in the gizzard, but I was glad enough
that my body was there to put a pain in. “Breugnon, old man,” said I,
“it is a pleasure to see you; if you had died last night, I should
never have got over it. Good-morning, dear garden, and everything in
you!”
And while I was gloating on my beautiful melons, I heard some one
hailing me from the other side of the wall. “Breugnon, are you dead
yet?” And there were Paillard and Chamaille weeping and wailing, and
prepared already to proclaim the virtues of the dear departed.
I crawled slowly from my bed, for my back was still confoundedly
painful, and put my head gently out of the window. “Here he is,” said
I. “Cuckoo!”
“Colas!” they cried, laughing, while the tears ran down their faces,
and I stuck out my tongue at them, telling them that I was not dead yet
by a long sight, but if you will believe me those friends actually kept
me shut up for ten days longer, till they were perfectly certain that I
was entirely recovered. It is only fair to say that they kept me well
supplied with bread and water,--I mean the kind that Noah drank,--and
they came every day and sat under my window and told me all the news
of town and country. When at last I was set free, Chamaille wanted me
to go at once and return thanks to St. Roch, who according to him had
delivered me from my mortal sickness. I told him I thought the saints
that saved me had come out of three quart bottles.
“Well, Colas,” said he, “we will split the difference, you come first
with me to St. Roch and I will help you afterwards to render due
thanks to St. Vineyard.” So we made both these pious pilgrimages, all
three together, for Paillard insisted on joining us.
“Friends,” said I, “you were not so anxious to go with me the other
day.”
“You know I love you,” said Paillard, “but I love my own self better,
and as the proverb says, ‘My skin fits tighter than my waistcoat.’”
“I am an old coward,” said Chamaille, thumping himself on the chest,
and looking very shamefaced.
“Well then,” said I, “of what use are all the precepts of religion and
of Cato?”
We all looked at each other and laughed. “Life is sweet,” we cried,
“and good men are scarce; if God thought fit to put us into this world,
it is our duty to stay here as long as we can.”
VIII
MY OLD WOMAN’S DEATH
Life tasted good to me after my illness, better than ever before; the
flavor of everything was enhanced, and I sat down to the world’s table
as Lazarus must have done, with a sharpened appetite. One day after
hours, my foreman and I were in the shop amusing ourselves with a
wrestling bout, when a neighbor looked in on his way from Morvan and
told me that he had seen my wife there. I asked him how she was getting
along. He said, “She was leaving when I saw her, making for a better
world as fast as she was able.”
“It won’t be the better for her coming,” said one would-be wit, and
another cried, “Good luck never comes single; you stay with us, Colas,
and she goes!” And he drank to my health.
I felt somewhat shaky, but not wishing to show it, I too held up my
glass and answered, “When the gods love a man they take his wife away!”
But I could not swallow the wine, it seemed tasteless, and suddenly
starting up, I seized my stick and went out without saying another
word. They called after me, but my heart was in my throat, and I could
not answer. It was all very well to say that I did not love her, and
that we had been constantly rubbing one another up the wrong way for
the last thirty years; she had lain by my side in the narrow bed, and
from her had sprung the seed I planted; and now that the pale shadow
was near her, I felt a cold hand laid on my heart; it was as if a part
of my flesh was torn from me, and though I had often wished to be rid
of her, now I pitied her and myself, and--Heaven forgive me!--I almost
loved her!
I arrived the next day at nightfall, and as soon as I came near my wife
I could see on her face the hand of the great sculptor, and under the
wrinkled skin the tragic mask of Death. There was a yet more certain
sign, for she smiled as I came in, and said:
“Why, poor old man, I hope the walk has not tired you!”
Fancy her speaking to me like that! My heart sank, and I said to myself
that there was no chance for her as I sat down by the bedside and took
her hand in mine. Her eyes rested on me with affection, but she was
too weak to talk, so I tried to cheer her up by telling all about my
illness, and how I had got out of the clutches of the plague after
all; but as it was the first she had heard of it the news proved almost
too much for her, and she turned so faint that I was ready to beat
myself on the head for my stupidity. However, she came to in a little
while, and to my great relief began to scold me in her trembling voice;
she was so weak that she could not get the words out fast enough, and
it really did me good, and seemed like old times to be told that I
ought to be ashamed of myself, that a man of any decency would have
let his wife know when he caught the plague, and that I deserved to
die of it all alone on my dunghill. The others were frightened at her
violence, and wanted to send me out of the room, but I laughed and said
that it would do her good to lose her temper, she was used to it; then
I took her face in my two hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and will
you believe it? the poor old thing began to cry.
For a long time after that I sat with her alone in silence, listening
to the tick-tack of the death-watch in the wainscot; at last she tried
to speak, but could only make a feeble murmur.
“Don’t try to talk, old girl,” said I. “I understand; we have not lived
together thirty years for nothing.”
“I have something I must say to you, Colas, or I should not rest easy
in Paradise,--I have been very hard to you, my husband.”
“No, no,” said I, “only a bit sharp, and that was good for me.”
“Yes, I was hard, jealous, quarrelsome; I know I often made the house
too hot for you, but,--Colas, it was because I loved you!”
“You don’t say so!” said I, patting her hand. “Well, there are all
sorts of ways of loving, but yours was rather a queer one.”
“I did love you,” she went on, “and you never returned it, that was why
I was cross, and you were always good-natured. Oh! that laugh of yours,
Colas! You don’t know how it made me suffer, till sometimes I really
thought it would kill me. You covered yourself with it like a hood, and
storm as I might, I could never get at you.”
“My poor old dear!” said I; “that was because I do not like water!”
“There you go again laughing! But I don’t mind it now that the chill
of the grave is upon me; your laughter seems something warm and
comforting, it does not anger me now,--and, Colas, say that you forgive
me.”
“You were an honest, hard-working, faithful wife to me,” said I
earnestly; “perhaps you were not always as sweet as sugar, but in this
world, you know, one does not expect perfection, God keeps that for
Himself up yonder; but when it came to hard times, you always backed me
up. I used to think you really good-looking when I saw how you threw
yourself into your work, whatever happened. Now I don’t want you to
torment yourself about the past, it’s bad enough to have lived through
it, but since it is all over, we might as well let the burden slip from
our shoulders and cast all our cares on the Master. We have come to the
end, and can take breath and look about us for a nice soft hole where
we can sleep the sleep of the just which means, I suppose, of the good
workers.”
While I was talking, she lay with folded arms, and her eyes shut, and
when I stopped she held out her hand. “Wake me tomorrow morning,” she
said. “And now good-night, my dear!”
Then she stretched herself out in the bed, and, neat as ever, she drew
the sheet smoothly up to her chin, with the crucifix resting on her
breast;--poor little woman, how thin she was! And there she lay, all
ready, staring straight in front of her, waiting for the summons. It
seemed that after so many years of effort her poor old body deserved
some repose, but alas! there was one more trial in store for her. The
landlady suddenly rushed into the room calling to me to come quickly,
and when I did not at once understand, and told her to speak lower, it
seemed as if the dying woman from her funeral couch could see beyond
and above me, for she raised herself stiffly like him whom Jesus
awakened, stretched out her arms, and cried, “Glodie!”
Her cry went through my heart, and as I heard a hoarse choking cough
from the next room, I understood only too well, and ran in to find my
poor little lark struggling with the croup, her cheeks all flushed and
burning, as she put her hands up to her throat, and with wild eyes
implored us to help her.
Oh, what a dreadful night that was! Even now a week later my knees
give way under me when I think of it. Can it be that the Omnipotent
causes the pain of such poor little creatures? How can He bear to see
their eyes full of wondering reproach when it is in His power to save
them? I can understand that since we are made in the image of our
Creator, He may sometimes be cruel, as we are, or at least not always
compassionate,--perhaps even capricious,--but grown-up men and women
must set their teeth and take whatever comes to them, and they can
always resist when things go too far, but that He should torment these
helpless lamblings is more than we can tolerate, and if this goes on,
Lord, some day or other we shall withdraw our allegiance. If such
crimes are possible it must be because You are blind, or else there
is no Father up there!--Pardon, I must take that back, it is a little
more than I intended. If You did not exist, I could not speak to You
as I am doing, and we have had many a discussion, which always ended
in my having the last word.--During the whole of that terrible night,
I called to You, threatened, cursed, denied, implored You; clasped my
hands in prayer, or shook my fist at You, but no voice came from above
in answer, in spite of all I could do nothing seemed to touch You, till
at last I cried out in desperation, “Lord, if You will not hear me, I
will turn to some one less hard-hearted!”
Martine, the child’s mother, had been taken with the pains of labor on
her journey, and had been obliged to stop at Dornecy, leaving Glodie to
the care of her grandmother; so now I had to watch alone with the old
landlady. It seemed as if our little martyr would pass away with the
night, and when dawn came I felt that there was but one thing left to
do. Looking out I saw that it rained and a high wind blew through the
doorway, but none the less, I made the sign of the Cross and lifted
my darling from her pillow where she lay so exhausted that she had no
further strength to struggle, but only panted a little like a bird in
one’s hand. She weighed no more than a feather as I carried her out,
where a rose brushed against her in passing,--that’s a sign of Death,
they say,--but I crossed myself and went out sheltering her as best I
could against the tempest. The landlady went first carrying presents,
and so we came to the wood, where we found what we sought; a tall aspen
standing high above the reeds on the edge of the swamp. Once, twice,
three times we circled round the tree; the child lay quiet in my arms,
only her teeth shook together like the leaves about us. We tied one end
of a ribbon to her wrist, and fastened the other end to the aspen, and
then the woman and I repeated this incantation:
“Shake, shake,
My sickness take.
By the sweet Trinity,
Thus do I order thee;
But if thou reject my suit
Ax shall soon destroy thy root.”
Then the old woman dug a hole between the roots of the tree, in which
she poured a pint of wine, and put in two cloves of garlic, a slice of
bacon, and a copper penny; then we filled my hat with rushes, laid it
on the ground, and again marched three times round it; the third time
we spat in it and said, “Catch croup, cursèd toads.” Then we turned
toward home, but near the edge of the wood we laid Glodie at the foot
of a thorn tree, and put up a prayer to God’s Son in the name of the
Holy Thorn.
The little one was unconscious when we got back to the house, but we
felt that we had done all we could; and it seemed too that my wife
would not quit this world as long as Glodie remained in it. “Jesus,
Mary,” cried she, “I cannot go until I know that our child will
recover, surely she must be cured, I swear it!”
Poor old dear, she was not as sure as she said, for she kept on
praying, with a strength that astonished me when I remembered that I
had thought her at her last breath the night before. “If that is the
last, it is a good long one,” said I, and was ashamed of myself for
laughing at such a moment, but I could not help it. You cannot, of
course, keep off suffering by laughter, but a Frenchman will always
meet pain with a smile, and sad or merry you will find he has his eyes
wide open; so, though I put a good face on it, my anxiety was as great
as that of the poor old woman who was twisting and groaning in her bed.
I tried to soothe her as we do children, tucking up the bedclothes
which she had disordered; but she pushed me away, and told me that if
I was worth my salt, I would do _something_ for Glodie. “You cured
yourself of the plague,” said she, crying, “and yet you can do nothing
for our darling! You are the one that ought to have died!”
“True enough, my dear, and I would give my skin to save her, but it is
too old and cracked to be of use to anybody; all we are good for now is
to suffer, the pair of us, and be as brave as we can, it may be some
help to our little girl.”
My wife leaned her head against mine, and our tears dropped together as
we felt in the room the sweeping wings of the Archangel of Death.
All at once the sound of those great wings grew fainter, and as if by
miracle hope dawned again. God had compassion on us, or the tender
Jesus to whom I had prayed so fervently;--or else those elder gods of
the earth and forest perhaps had heard our cries? Even our offering to
the aspen may have helped us? But no matter what the reason, all we
knew certainly was that from this moment the child’s fever left her,
once more she could draw her breath easily. Death had released her
throat from the clutch of his pale fingers, she was given back to us!
We did not know to whom we owed our thanks for this great mercy, but
our hearts were filled with gratitude, and with tears of joy we sang
“Nunc Dimittis,” and then my poor old woman said, “Now I can go.”
She fell back on her pillow quite exhausted, the light in her eyes
faded, her features grew sharp and hollow, and she sank down into the
dark river, through which I could still seem to see the outline of her
body;--until life was gone. I stooped and closed her eyelids, kissed
her brow, and folded her workworn hands together for the rest they had
never known till now, and turning from the extinguished lamp, I went to
watch by the little flickering flame which was to be henceforward the
light of my dwelling.
Glodie slept, and as I sat by her side I could not help the thoughts
that rushed over me:--Why is this little creature so unutterably dear
that nothing seems worth while without her, and with her the worst that
could happen would be bearable? Hers is the only life that matters; in
comparison my own seems valueless, and yet here am I active of body
and mind, with some talents, and what is even better, plenty of good
sense; loving life, and made to enjoy it, in short a good Burgundian
workman, and I would freely sacrifice all this for the sake of a little
creature I do not even know; who is nothing as yet but a sweet face,
a pretty plaything, but who will be something perhaps,--and for this
possibility I am willing to give up my own “I am.” Ah! it is because in
this “perhaps” lies enfolded the fine flower of my existence, the best
that is in me, and when I lie below the sod, and worms have destroyed
this body, then will arise another self better and happier than the
old one, yes, better, because I shall serve as a stepping-stone from
which to see more clearly than I did.--You who are born of me, and will
see the light when my eyes can no more behold it; through you I shall
taste the vintage of the long future years, through you I shall enjoy
the known and the unknown. All around me is passing as I shall pass,
but you will lead me, ever farther and upward. I am no longer bound to
my little holding here on earth; beyond my fields, beyond my life, the
lines of the future stretch out into the infinite; they cover the years
to come as the Milky Way covers the night sky. I have sown the seed of
future harvests, and in you who will live after me I put my desire and
my eternal hope.
IX
THE FIRE
15th of August.
I can hardly bear to tell of what happened today, and I feel as if I
could never really reconcile myself to it; but as I always say, “Cheer
up, Colas! a brave heart will carry you through everything.”
I have often heard it said that summer’s rain gives no pain; but you
would agree that it gives no gain, either, if you could see me after
a season when one storm after another has beat on my devoted head;
here I am without shoes or shirt to cover me,--but let me tell you all
about it.--I was just pulling myself together after a double trial, you
remember? Glodie had been cured of the croup and my poor wife of all
the troubles of this world; when a fresh blow fell on me at the hands,
I suppose, of the heavenly powers,--unless there is some woman up there
who has a grudge against me?--but this time I am stripped to the skin,
and glad enough to have that left on my bones. I had been in no hurry
to come home while Glodie was recovering from her illness; a child’s
convalescence is so charming! It is as if one saw a fresh creation,
everything looks smooth and white like a new-laid egg; and as I had
little to do, I went to market by way of amusement, and just to know
what was going on in the world. One day I heard something which made
me prick up my ears like an old mule. They said that a great fire was
raging at Clamecy, that it had spread to the suburb of Beuvron, and
that the whole place was burning up like a bundle of kindling wood.
Naturally I asked eagerly about my own house, but could hear nothing
further, and felt as if I was on hot coals,--probably from association
of ideas,--though all my friends tried to calm me by saying that my
house could be in no danger, or I should have heard of it by this time,
that ill news travels fast, and that I was certainly not the only fool
in Beuvron.