and workmen on the river. First came their players and the banner, and
then they all passed by our windows arm in arm, dancing and singing,
on their way to church, perhaps to the wineshop later. They saw me and
stopped to cheer, so I stood up, and my patron saint and I exchanged
salutations. Then I leaned down and shook as many of their black paws
as I could reach, and poured a drop or two into each of the big mouths,
though it was like trying to sprinkle a field.
My four sons came at twelve o’clock to offer me the compliments of the
season, for no matter on what terms one lives for the rest of the year,
a father’s name-day is sacred; the whole family life revolves around it
as on a pivot; it is a bond which draws us all together, and I attach
a great deal of importance to it. I don’t know that the four enjoyed
themselves much when they were all there together, for in fact I am the
only real tie between them, as they have but little love for each other.
It is a sign of our times, this relaxation of those ties between men,
the home, family, and religion; each trusts in his own wisdom now, and
wants to live for himself alone. I am not one of those old men who are
always grumbling and complaining of the present day, and predicting
disaster; I know that the world will outlast my time, and that the
young know their own business as well as ever their fathers did. Yes,
but the old have a hard part to play where all around them is change
and renewal; they must alter too or there is no room for them, and that
is precisely what I do not want to do. I prefer to sit here in my chair
just as I am; the only thing I am willing to change is my mind, and
only that when it is absolutely necessary. I can turn my ideas inside
out, but they are the same thing after all, and meanwhile I can look on
at the shifting scenes and the young people whom I admire, but none
the less I lie in wait for the chance to guide them in the way I would
have them go.
When we all gathered round the dinner table I had at my right hand John
Francis, who is a bigoted Catholic; on my left, my son Anthony from
Lyons, who is an equally bigoted Huguenot. They sat up stiffly on their
chairs, staring straight before them, so as not to be obliged to look
at one another.
John Francis is a smiling prosperous man with a hard shrewd eye;
he talked interminably of his business, boasted of his money and
of the fine linen that he sold by the special favor of Providence.
Anthony’s lips are shaved but he wears a little beard on his chin;
and is morose and cold in his manner. He also talked of his trade in
books, his journeys to Geneva, his affairs generally, and attributed
his prosperity to God, but it seemed to be a different Deity. Neither
listened, but kept on monotonously repeating the same refrain, until
at last they became annoyed and began to introduce topics of a
controversial nature, one dwelling on the progress of _The_ Religion,
the other on the stability of _The_ True Faith; all the time each
ignored his antagonist, sat as if nailed to his seat, and spoke with
the utmost contempt, and in a sharp rasping voice, of the enemies’ God.
In the middle of the table sat my son Michael, sergeant in the
Sacermore regiment; he is called a rascal, but is not a bad fellow on
the whole, and the behavior of his brothers diverted him extremely,
sending him into fits of laughter. He kept turning from one to the
other, like an animal in a cage, to stare into the angry faces of his
elders, and at last interrupted them without ceremony, telling them
that they were fat sheep of the same breed even if their fleece was
marked with a different brand, and that he had seen plenty of their
sort killed and eaten.
The youngest son Anisse sat and gazed at him with horror. His name was
certainly well chosen, for he never could have invented gunpowder;
discussions are his abhorrence, for he takes no real interest in
anything on earth; his only joy is to yawn and dawdle throughout the
livelong day. Politics and religion seem to him diabolical inventions
to disturb the sleep of sensible men. “Good or bad,” he would say,
“what I have is enough for me, so why change it? Why turn over the
mattress when I made the hole in the middle myself?” Poor fellow!
people will persist in shaking up his feather-bed whether he likes it
or not, which angers him so much that, mild as he is, he would like to
send his disturbers to instant execution. His brothers’ loud voices
positively scared him, making him duck his head as if to avoid a blow.
I was all eyes and ears as I sat there taking them in, and it amused
me to unravel the part of myself that was in each of my four sons, for
mine they are beyond a doubt. If something in them came out of me,
it must have gone into me at one time or another, but I do not find
anywhere in my skin a trace of the preacher, the priest, or the sheep.
(Perhaps I might discover the adventurer if I looked closely.) But the
germs must have been there, and Nature has betrayed me. Yes, I can
recognize my own gestures and ways of speaking, even of thinking. I
can see myself in these men, but disguised, and that is what is rather
confusing; but underneath it is the very same person, one and various.
We each contain many personalities, good, bad and indifferent, the
wolf, the lamb, the watch-dog, the honest man and the scamp, but one of
the number is sure to be the strongest, and dominates all the rest, who
escape as soon as they can by the first open door.
I am filled with self-reproach when I see these escaped sons of mine,
so remote, yet so near to me. My little boys they must always be too,
and even when they are most foolish, I feel that I ought to apologize
to them, for is it not all my fault? Luckily enough they are perfectly
contented and satisfied with themselves, and that is as it should be,
but their intolerance is what I cannot bear. Why cannot they live, and
let others live, in peace? There they were, all four, like so many
fighting-cocks, ready to peck and jump at each other, but by this
time I had had enough of it, and observed placidly, “Well, my lambs,
I see that it would not be easy to pull the wool from your backs, and
I am proud to see you show your good blood,--mine, I mean,--and make
yourselves heard, but now be still, all of you, and let me have a
chance to talk, for I have something I have been dying to say for the
last half hour.”
Far from obeying me on the instant, some chance word excited them so
that they broke into a perfect storm of rage; John Francis caught up a
chair, Michael drew his long sword, and Anthony a dagger, while Anisse
employed his only weapon by bleating, “Murder! Fire!” in a lamentable
voice.
Upon my honor I was afraid that they would cut each other’s throats,
but I seized the first thing that came to my hand (unluckily it was
the ewer with the doves, pride of Florimond’s heart), and dashed it in
fragments on the table. The noise checked the combatants, and at the
same moment, Martine ran in with a pot of boiling water and threatened
to sprinkle it over them if they did not stop fighting. They still
clamored and disputed, but when I raise my voice, other donkeys have to
cease braying.
“I am master here,” I cried, “and I tell you I will have no more of
this. Shut up! Are you all crazy, or do you take this for the Council
of Nicea? If you want subjects to discuss, pick out something of our
own day, for I am bored to death with your old quarrels. If the doctor
has ordered you to dispute by way of exercise, you can wrangle over the
merits of these wines, the food on the table, or anything you can see
or touch, and then there will be some way to decide the controversy;
but to differ about the Holy Ghost, or the mind of God, is as much as
to say that you have no minds of your own. I am not opposed to faith;
I believe, he believes, you believe, as much as you please, but don’t
let us talk so much about it. There are plenty of other interesting
topics in the world, and, since each of you is perfectly sure to go to
Heaven, with a place reserved for you, and all the people who differ
from you barred out, let us be happy meanwhile, and leave the good
Lord to arrange His household as seems good to Him. Surely He is able
to look after His own affairs without assistance from us; He reigns
in Heaven, and we on earth; our business is to make it as habitable
a place as possible, and to that end we must all do our share; not
one of us can be spared; even you four can be useful in your day and
generation. Your country needs your faith, John Francis, as much as
yours, Anthony; Michael’s adventurous spirit and Anisse’s stay-at-home
qualities are equally valuable; for you are the four pillars of the
house, and if one gives way, the whole building falls to the ground,
and will overwhelm you all in ruin. Surely you must be convinced by
such masterly reasoning, and will agree that you do not wish anything
so unnecessary. What would you think of sailors in a storm at sea if
they fell to disputing instead of taking in sail?
“I will tell you a story about King Henry and our late Duke. They were
lamenting the warlike disposition of the French nation which led to
perpetual civil wars. ‘Ventresaintgris!’ exclaimed the King, ‘but I
should like to take these furious monks and preachers of the Gospel,
sew them up in a sack like a litter of cats, and throw them into the
Loire!’ The Duke replied that he had heard there was an island where
the rulers of Berne sent quarrelsome husbands and wives; when a boat
returned for them a month later, it found the couple cooing like a pair
of turtle doves. ‘I should like to tie our rival religionists up in
bundles and pack them off to that isle, hoping for the same result,’
concluded his lordship, laughing.
“Now, my children,” said I, “you need the same kind of treatment. Why
do you grunt and turn your backs on each other? Each of you may think
himself of finer clay than his brothers, but the fact is you are all
Breugnons, chips of the old block, thorough-bred Burgundians. You all
have big crooked noses, and wide mouths like wine-funnels; your eyes
look out fiercely from under bushy eyebrows, but there is a twinkle in
them all the same. The artist’s signature is plain to see on the four
of you, so can’t you understand that if you hurt your brothers, you
are injuring yourself as well? That it is for your own interest to be
united? What if you don’t think alike on some questions? That is rather
an advantage than otherwise, for you cannot all plow the same field; on
the contrary, the more fields and opinions there are in the family, the
greater our strength and happiness. Reach out then into the world as
far as you possibly can, and increase your portion of land and thought.
Each for himself and all for each, and may the long Breugnon nose point
the way to the future glory of the family! Come, boys, shake hands and
be friends!”
For a moment they still looked sulkily at each other, but I could see
the clouds parting, and all at once Michael flung his arms round John
Francis, with a loud laugh, “Embrace me, Brother-Big-Nose!” cried he,
and the others followed his example.
“Come, Martine, let us drink to the Breugnon brothers ourselves!!”
A few moments before, when I broke the ewer in my anger, I had cut my
wrist a little, and left a little blood on the table. Anthony held his
glass under the scratch in his pompous manner, and caught a drop.
“Let this wine from our father’s veins be the seal of our
reconciliation.”
“What a disgusting idea!” I cried; “to think of spoiling good wine
with such a mixture! Throw it away, and if you want to drink my blood,
you’ll find it in a bottle of the best!” and thereupon we all drank and
all agreed as to the vintage.
When they had gone and Martine was binding up my wrist, she said slyly,
“You succeeded at last, you old scamp, didn’t you?”
“Succeeded in what? In stopping the quarrel?”
“You know well enough what I mean,” and she pointed to the broken
fragments of the ewer on the table.
I pretended not to understand, and, with the most innocent expression,
declared that I had not the least idea what she meant, but I could not
help laughing, and she boxed my ears for an old rascal.
“I couldn’t stand the sight of it another minute,” I said, “it was
really too hideous; either that ewer or I had to perish!”
“The one that remains is none too handsome.”
“That does not trouble me, you know, for I don’t have to look at him.”
Christmas Eve.
Now as the winter draws on the shortening days are like precious stuffs
folded away into the coffer of the nights, only to reappear, already
growing longer, on St. Lucy’s Day. The seasons have turned once more
on their well-oiled hinges, the door has shut and opened again, and
through the crack the new year begins to shine.
As I sit this Christmas Eve under the great chimney-hood, I am as it
were at the bottom of a well, and can look up and see the bright stars
winking in the sky, and from far off comes the sound of the bells
ringing for midnight mass. I love to think that the Child was born at
this dead hour when all the world was still. His voice speaks to us of
the coming day and of the New Year, and Hope, with her warm wings,
broods over the frozen night and softens it.
My children have all gone to church, but I have missed it for the
first time in my life, and I am here alone with my dog Citron, and the
household cat Patapon. A little while ago we were all gathered round
the hearth, and I was telling Glodie wonderful fairy tales. You should
see her open her round eyes at the story of Bout-de-Canard and the
little bald chicken, or of the boy who made a fortune out of his cock
by selling it to people who wanted to know when the day was coming, so
that they could carry it away in their carts. It was too amusing to see
her, and the others listening and laughing, every one putting in his
word.
Sometimes when we were silent for a minute we could hear the water
bubbling in the kettle, a log falling in the fire, the cricket’s shrill
voice, and, outside, the wind sweeping against the window. I love these
snug winter evenings, the silence, the sense of intimacy, when my
fancies can wander far afield and return safe to the home nest.
I have been making up my budget for the last year, and I find that
in six months I have lost all that I possessed; my wife, my house,
my money, and my legs; and yet, absurd as it sounds to say so, on
striking a balance, I find myself as rich as ever. How can that be,
when I have nothing?
No burdens, would be nearer the truth; for I find myself lightened
of care, happier, freer than the wind that blows; I would not have
believed it, if, last year, any one had predicted what would happen and
that I should take it in this spirit. I had always sworn that whatever
came, to the day of my death, I would be master in my own house,
independent, owing nothing to any one but myself. Well, we do not know
what a day will bring forth. Things turn out so differently from what
we intended, and we are nevertheless content.
Man is a wonderful creature and all is grist that comes to his mill.
Happiness, suffering, feast or famine, he can adjust himself to any
of them. He can go on four legs or on one; he may be deaf, dumb or
blind, he will still manage to get along, and see, hear and speak in
the depths of his own soul. Everything is shaped and formed by that
soul of his, and how delightful it is to have such a mind and body!
To feel that if need be one can swim like a fish, fly like a bird,
bathe in fire like a salamander, or wrestle successfully with all four
elements as man does on the ground. In this way we gain through our
losses, for our minds can supply what has been taken away, so that the
less we have the more we are, as a pruned tree grows stronger and more
beautiful.
The clock strikes midnight.
Hark to the Christmas hymn, “Unto us a Child is born.”
Epiphany.
It really is a joke how I keep on adding to my possessions now that I
have nothing at all, and the secret is that I have learned to enjoy the
riches of others, and so have none of the drawbacks.
I have read horrid stories of poor old fathers who stripped themselves
of all their goods for their children’s sake, and then found themselves
neglected and forlorn, conscious that their wicked offspring already
wished them dead and buried. I can only say that these unfortunate old
men must have mismanaged the whole thing, and, for my part, I have
never been so well looked after, so much loved and petted as I am now
in my poverty.
I kept some things from my prosperous days which are better than gold
and silver. I have my good spirits still, and lots more treasures that
I picked up in the course of my life; gaiety and sharpness, wisdom and
folly. I have enough for all comers, so if my children give me a good
deal, they get something back, and if the account does not balance
evenly, we throw in affection for good measure.
If you would like to see an uncrowned King, a landless but happy man,
look at Breugnon as he sits throned tonight at the merry feast of the
Epiphany. There was a great procession in the afternoon which went
by our windows; the three Magi with their attendants, a chorus of
shepherds and shepherdesses, and all the dogs in the town; now in the
evening we are all gathered round the table, thirty of us, including
me, children, and grandchildren; and they all drank my health together,
crying, “Here’s to the King!” for they have crowned me with a splendid
paper crown, and Martine is my queen; (you see, like those old fellows
in Plutarch, I have married my daughter) so whenever I carry my glass
to my lips, every one applauds; and then I laugh and the wine goes down
the wrong way. My queen not only shares my drink herself, but there is
another person who shares too in his own way, and that is my youngest
grandson, who lies in his mother’s arms, red and squalling. Every one
is happy down to the dog and cat picking up bones under the table.
I hate to keep my thoughts to myself, so I say aloud:
“The only fault I have to find with this good life of ours, my
friends, is that it is too short. I don’t feel as if I had had my
money’s worth, and though I may be told that I ought to be satisfied
with what has fallen to my lot, I can only say that I should like to
have more, a second slice of cake, if I could get it without making
too much fuss. And then it makes me unhappy to think of all the good
fellows who are gone. Of what use is it to be here alone? Ah, how Time
flows on, and with it good men like King Henry and our Duke Louis!”
The thought of them was enough to set me off, on former times and
recollections, and I told old stories till, I am sorry to say, I grew
tired and began to repeat myself; but my children did not mind, and
when I became confused and forgot anything, they would fill up the gap;
and then I would pull myself together and find them all laughing.
“Well, Father, those were great days when you were young! What figures
the women must have had, and what splendid fellows the men were! As for
King Henry and his friend the Duke, they have not their equal nowadays!”
“All right,” I reply, “laugh and grow fat. I know there is still good
fish in the sea, and good men to catch it, and for one that goes, three
will come after. There will never be a lack of good stout sons of Gaul,
but my trouble is that they will not be the same ones that I knew and
loved, like King Henry who is gone; but never mind, Colas, there is
nothing to cry about. I should think not indeed! for you surely don’t
want to keep on chewing the same cud for ever. The wine is just as good
even if it is not out of the old casks, and here’s to the King and his
people!
“Frankly, dear children, I love myself better than any King, so liberty
for us, my countrymen! and to the devil with our rulers! As long as we
are here, the land I love, and I, all is well; so what need have we of
a King on earth or in Heaven? Or of a throne for him to sit on? Let
each man have his share of the sun and shade, his bit of land, and his
arms to work with, no one could ask more; and if the King in person
came to my house I would say, ‘Come in and sit down, for we are all
equal together in France, each master in his own kingdom, and here’s to
your good health, my guest and cousin.’”
* * * * *
“How is this?” said Brother John, “art thou also a poet?--By the help
of God, I can string rhymes together as well as another; I am sure of
it; have but patience with me if my verses should prove of the wrong
color----”
--PANTAGRUEL, v. 46.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Bethléem, a suburb of Clamecy.
[2] “Judæa” is the nickname given to the suburb of Bethléem, or Béyant,
where the raftsmen and boatmen of Clamecy live. “Rome” is the upper
town, which gets its name on account of the stairs, called “Old Rome,”
which go down from the church of Saint Martin to the suburb of Beuvron.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.