It was manifest that Yann meant to accompany them; perhaps all the way
home. They walked on, all three together, as if following the cat's
funeral procession; it was almost comical to watch them pass; and the
old folks on the doorsteps grinned at the sight. Old Yvonne, in the
middle, carried the dead pet; Gaud walked on her right, trembling and
blushing, and tall Yann on the left, grave and haughty.
The aged woman had become quiet now; she had tidied her hair up herself
and walked silently, looking alternately at them both from the tail of
her eyes, which had become clear again.
Gaud said nothing for fear of giving Yann the opportunity of taking his
leave; she would have liked to feel his kind, tender eyes eternally on
her, and to walk along with her own closed so as to think of nothing
else; to wander along thus by his side in the dream she was weaving,
instead of arriving so soon at their lonely, dark cottage, where all
must fade away.
At the door occurred one of those moments of indecision when the heart
seems to stop beating. The grandam went in without turning round, then
Gaud, hesitating, and Yann, behind, entered, too.
He was in their house for the first time in his life--probably without
any reason. What could he want? As he passed over the threshold he
touched his hat, and then his eyes fell and dwelt upon Sylvestre's
portrait in its small black-beaded frame. He went slowly up to it, as to
a tomb.
Gaud remained standing with her hands resting on the table. He looked
around him; she watched him take a silent inspection of their poverty.
Very poor looked this cottage of the two forsaken women. At least he
might feel some pity for her, seeing her reduced to this misery inside
its plain granite and whitewash. Only the fine white bed remained of all
past splendour, and involuntarily Yann's eyes rested there.
He said nothing. Why did he not go? The old grandmother, although still
so sharp in her lucid intervals, appeared not to notice him. How odd! So
they remained over against one another, seeming respectively to question
with a yearning desire. But the moments were flitting, and each second
seemed to emphasize the silence between them. They gazed at one
another more and more searchingly, as if in solemn expectation of some
wonderful, exquisite event, which was too long in coming.
“Gaud,” he began, in a low grave voice, “if you're still of a mind
now----”
What was he going to say? She felt instinctively that he had suddenly
taken a mighty resolution--rapidly as he always did, but hardly dared
word it.
“If you be still of a mind--d'ye see, the fish has sold well this year,
and I've a little money ahead----”
“If she were still of a mind!” What was he asking of her? Had she heard
aright? She felt almost crushed under the immensity of what she thought
she premised.
All the while, old Yvonne, in her corner, pricked up her ears, feeling
happiness approach.
“We could make a splice on it--a marriage, right off, Mademoiselle Gaud,
if you are still of the same mind?”
He listened here for her answer, which did not come. What could stop her
from pronouncing that “yes?” He looked astonished and frightened, she
could see that. Her hands clutched the table edge. She had turned quite
white and her eyes were misty; she was voiceless, and looked like some
maid dying in her flower.
“Well, Gaud, why don't you answer?” said Granny Yvonne, who had risen
and come towards them. “Don't you see, it rather surprises her, Monsieur
Yann. You must excuse her. She'll think it over and answer you later on.
Sit you down a bit, Monsieur Yann, and take a glass of cider with us.”
It was not the surprise, but ecstasy that prevented Gaud from answering;
no words at all came to her relief. So it really was true that he was
good and kind-hearted. She knew him aright--the same true Yann, her own,
such as she never had ceased to see him, notwithstanding his sternness
and his rough refusal. For a long time he had disdained her, but now he
accepted her, although she was poor. No doubt it had been his wish all
through; he may have had a motive for so acting, which she would know
hereafter; but, for the present, she had no intention of asking him his
meaning, or of reproaching him for her two years of pining. Besides, all
that was past, ay, and forgotten now; in one single moment everything
seemed carried away before the delightful whirlwind that swept over her
life!
Still speechless, she told him of her great love and adoration for him
by her sweet brimming eyes alone; she looked deeply and steadily at him,
while the copious shower of happy tears poured adown her roseate cheeks.
“Well done! and God bless you, my children,” said Granny Moan. “It's
thankful I be to Him, too, for I'm glad to have been let grow so old to
see this happy thing afore I go.”
Still there they remained, standing before one another with clasped
hands, finding no words to utter; knowing of no word sweet enough, and
no sentence worthy to break that exquisite silence.
“Why don't ye kiss one another, my children? Lor'! but they're dumb!
Dear me, what strange grandchildren I have here! Pluck up, Gaud; say
some'at to him, my dear. In my time lovers kissed when they plighted
their troth.”
Yann raised his hat, as if suddenly seized with a vast, heretofore
unfelt reverence, before bending down to kiss Gaud. It seemed to him
that this was the first kiss worthy of the name he ever had given in his
life.
She kissed him also, pressing her fresh lips, unused to refinements of
caresses, with her whole heart, to his sea-bronzed cheek.
Among the stones the cricket sang of happiness, being right for this
time. And Sylvestre's pitiful insignificant portrait seemed to smile
on them out of its black frame. All things, in fact, seemed suddenly to
throb with life and with joy in the blighted cottage. The very silence
apparently burst into exquisite music; and the pale winter twilight,
creeping in at the narrow window, became a wonderful, unearthly glow.
“So we'll go to the wedding when the Icelanders return; eh, my dear
children?”
Gaud hung her head. “Iceland,” the “_Leopoldine_”--so it was all real!
while she had already forgotten the existence of those terrible things
that arose in their way.
“When the Icelanders return.”
How long that anxious summer waiting would seem!
Yann drummed on the floor with his foot feverishly and rapidly. He
seemed to be in a great hurry to be off and back, and was telling the
days to know if, without losing time, they would be able to get married
before his sailing. So many days to get the official papers filled and
signed; so many for the banns: that would only bring them up to the
twentieth or twenty-fifth of the month for the wedding, and if nothing
rose in the way, they could have a whole honeymoon week together before
he sailed.
“I'm going to start by telling my father,” said he, with as much haste
as if each moment of their lives were now numbered and precious.
PART IV -- YANN'S FIRST WEDDING
CHAPTER I--THE COURTING BY THE SEA
All sweethearts like to sit on the bench at their cottage door, when
night falls.
Yann and Gaud did that likewise. Every evening they sat out together
before the Moans' cottage, on the old granite seat, and talked love.
Others have the spring-time, the soft shadow of the trees, balmy
evenings, and flowering rosebushes; they had only the February twilight,
which fell over the sea-beaten land, strewn with eel-grass and stones.
There was no branch of verdure above their heads or around them; nothing
but the immense sky, over which passed the slowly wandering mists.
And their flowers were brown sea-weeds, drawn up from the beach by the
fishers, as they dragged their nets along.
The winters are not very severe in this part of the country, being
tempered by currents of the sea; but, notwithstanding that, the gloaming
was often laden with invisible icy rain, which fell upon their shoulders
as they sat together. But they remained there, feeling warm and happy.
The bench, which was more than a hundred years old, did not seem in the
least surprised at their love, having seen many other pairs in its time;
it had listened to many soft words, which are always the same on the
lips of the young, from generation to generation; and it had become used
to seeing lovers sit upon it again, when they returned to it old and
trembling; but in the broad day, this time, to warm themselves in the
last sun they would see.
From time to time Granny Moan would put her head out at the door to have
a look at them, and try to induce them to come in. “You'll catch cold,
my good children,” said she, “and then you'll fall ill--Lord knows, it
really isn't sensible to remain out so late.”
Cold! they cold? Were they conscious of anything else besides the bliss
of being together.
The passers-by in the evening down their pathway, heard the soft murmur
of two voices mingling with the voice of the sea, down below at the foot
of the cliffs. It was a most harmonious music; Gaud's sweet, fresh voice
alternated with Yann's, which had soft, caressing notes in the lower
tones. Their profiles could be clearly distinguished on the granite wall
against which they reclined; Gaud with her white headgear and slender
black-robed figure, and beside her the broad, square shoulders of her
beloved. Behind and above rose the ragged dome of the straw thatch, and
the darkening, infinite, and colourless waste of the sea and sky floated
over all.
Finally, they did go in to sit down by the hearth, whereupon old Yvonne
immediately nodded off to sleep, and did not trouble the two lovers very
much. So they went on communing in a low voice, having to make up for
two years of silence; they had to hurry on their courtship because it
was to last so short a time.
It was arranged that they were to live with Granny Moan, who would leave
them the cottage in her will; for the present, they made no alterations
in it, for want of time, and put off their plan for embellishing their
poor lonely home until the fisherman's return from Iceland.
CHAPTER II--THE SEAMAN'S SECRET
One evening Yann amused himself by relating to his affianced a thousand
things she had done, or which had happened to her since their first
meeting; he even enumerated to her the different dresses she had had,
and the jollifications to which she had been.
She listened in great surprise. How did he know all this? Who would have
thought of a man ever paying any attention to such matters, and being
capable of remembering so clearly?
But he only smiled at her in a mysterious way, and went on mentioning
other facts to her that she had altogether forgotten.
She did not interrupt him; nay, she but let him continue, while an
unexpected delicious joy welled up in her heart; she began, at length,
to divine and understand everything. He, too, had loved--loved her,
through that weary time. She had been his constant thought, as he was
guilelessly confessing. But, in this case, what had been his reason for
repelling her at first and making her suffer so long?
There always remained this mystery that he had promised to explain to
her--yet still seemed to elude--with a confused, incomprehensible smile.
CHAPTER III--THE OMINOUS WEDDING-DRESS
One fine day, the loving pair went over to Paimpol, with Granny Moan, to
buy the wedding-dress.
Gaud could very easily have done over one of her former town-lady's
dresses for the occasion. But Yann had wanted to make her this present,
and she had not resisted too long the having a dress given by her
betrothed, and paid for by the money he had earned at his fishing; it
seemed as if she were already his wife by this act.
They chose black, for Gaud had not yet left off mourning for her father;
but Yann did not find any of the stuffs they placed before them good
enough. He was not a little overbearing with the shopman; he, who
formerly never would have set his foot inside a shop, wanted to manage
everything himself, even to the very fashion of the dress. He wished it
adorned with broad beads of velvet, so that it would be very fine, in
his mind.
CHAPTER IV--FLOWER OF THE THORN
One evening as these lovers sat out on their stone bench in the solitude
over which the night fell, they suddenly perceived a hawthorn bush,
which grew solitarily between the rocks, by the side of the road,
covered with tiny flowered tufts.
“It looks as if 'twas in bloom,” said Yann.
They drew near to inspect it. It was in full flower, indeed. As they
could not see very well in the twilight, they touched the tiny blooms,
wet with mist. Then the first impression of spring came to them at the
same time they noticed this; the days had already lengthened, the air
was warmer, and the night more luminous. But how forward this particular
bush was! They could not find another like it anywhere around, not one!
It had blossomed, you see, expressly for them, for the celebration of
their loving plight.
“Oh! let us gather some more,” said Yann.
Groping in the dark, he cut a nosegay with the stout sailor's knife that
he always wore in his belt, and paring off all the thorns, he placed it
in Gaud's bosom.
“You look like a bride now,” said he, stepping back to judge of the
effect, notwithstanding the deepening dusk.
At their feet the calm sea rose and fell over the shingle with an
intermittent swash, regular as the breathing of a sleeper; for it seemed
indifferent or ever favourable to the love-making going on hard by.
In expectation of these evenings the days appeared long to them, and
when they bade each other good-bye at ten o'clock, they felt a kind of
discouragement, because it was all so soon over.
They had to hurry with the official documents for fear of not being
ready in time, and of letting their happiness slip by until the autumn,
or even uncertainty.
Their evening courtship in that mournful spot, lulled by the continual
even wash of the sea, with that feverish impression of the flight of
time, was almost gloomy and ominous. They were like no lovers; more
serious and restless were they in their love than the common run.
Yet Yann never told her what mysterious thing had kept him away from her
for these two lonely years; and after he returned home of a night, Gaud
grew uneasy as before, although he loved her perfectly--this she knew.
It is true that he had loved her all along, but not as now; love grew
stronger in his heart and mind, like a tide rising and overbrimming. He
never had known this kind of love before.
Sometimes on their stone seat he lay down, resting his head in Gaud's
lap like a caressing child, till, suddenly remembering propriety, he
would draw himself up erect. He would have liked to lie on the very
ground at her feet, and remain there with his brow pressed to the hem of
her garments. Excepting the brotherly kiss he gave her when he came and
went, he did not dare to embrace her. He adored that invisible spirit in
her, which appeared in the very sound of her pure, tranquil voice, the
expression of her smile, and in her clear eye.
CHAPTER V--THE COST OF OBSTINACY
One rainy evening they were sitting side by side near the hearth, and
Granny Moan was asleep opposite them. The fire flames, dancing over the
branches on the hearth, projected their magnified shadows on the beams
overhead.
They spoke to one another in that low voice of all lovers. But upon this
particular evening their conversation was now and again broken by long
troubled silence. He, in particular, said very little and lowered his
head with a faint smile, avoiding Gaud's inquiring eyes. For she had
been pressing him with questions all the evening concerning that mystery
that he positively would not divulge; and this time he felt himself
cornered. She was too quick for him, and had fully made up her mind to
learn; no possible shifts could get him out of telling her now.
“Was it any bad tales told about me?” she asked.
He tried to answer “yes,” and faltered: “Oh! there was always plenty of
rubbish babbled in Paimpol and Ploubazlanec.”
She asked what, but he could not answer her; so then she thought of
something else. “Was it about my style of dress, Yann?”
Yes, of course, that had had something to do with it; at one time she
had dressed too grandly to be the wife of a simple fisherman. But he was
obliged to acknowledge that that was not all.
“Was it because at that time we passed for very rich people, and you
were afraid of being refused?”
“Oh, no! not that.” He said this with such simple confidence that Gaud
was amused.
Then fell another silence, during which the moaning of the sea-winds was
heard outside. Looking attentively at him, a fresh idea struck her, and
her expression changed.
“If not anything of that sort, Yann, _what_ was it?” demanded she,
suddenly, looking at him fair in the eyes, with the irresistible
questioning look of one who guesses the truth, and could dispense with
confirmation.
He turned aside, laughing outright.
So at last she had, indeed, guessed aright; he never could give her a
real reason, because there was none to give. He had simply “played the
mule” (as Sylvestre had said long ago). But everybody had teased him
so much about that Gaud, his parents, Sylvestre, his Iceland mates,
and even Gaud herself. Hence he had stubbornly said “no,” but knew well
enough in the bottom of his heart that when nobody thought any more
about the hollow mystery it would become “yes.”
So it was on account of Yann's childishness that Gaud had been
languishing, forsaken for two long years, and had longed to die.
At first Yann laughed, but now he looked at Gaud with kind eyes,
questioning deeply. Would she forgive him? He felt such remorse for
having made her suffer. Would she forgive him?
“It's my temper that does it, Gaud,” said he. “At home with my folks,
it's the same thing. Sometimes, when I'm stubborn, I remain a whole week
angered against them, without speaking to anybody. Yet you know how I
love them, and I always end by doing what they wish, like a boy. If
you think that I was happy to live unmarried, you're mistaken. No, it
couldn't have lasted anyway, Gaud, you may be sure.”
Of course, she forgave him. As she felt the soft tears fall, she
knew they were the outflow of her last pangs vanishing before Yann's
confession. Besides, the present never would have been so happy without
all her suffering; that being over, she was almost pleased at having
gone through that time of trial.
Everything was finally cleared up between them, in a very unexpected
though complete manner; there remained no clouds between their souls.
He drew her towards him, and they remained some time with their cheeks
pressed close, requiring no further explanations. So chaste was their
embrace, that the old grandam suddenly awaking, they remained before her
as they were without any confusion or embarrassment.
CHAPTER VI--THE BRIDAL
It was six days before the sailing for Iceland. Their wedding procession
was returning from Ploubazlanec Church, driven before a furious wind,
under a sombre, rain-laden sky.
They looked very handsome, nevertheless, as they walked along as in a
dream, arm-in-arm, like king and queen leading a long cortege. Calm,
reserved, and grave, they seemed to see nothing about them; as if they
were above ordinary life and everybody else. The very wind seemed to
respect them, while behind them their “train” was a jolly medley of
laughing couples, tumbled and buffeted by the angry western gale.
Many people were present, overflowing with young life; others turning
gray, but these still smiled as they thought of _their_ wedding-day and
younger years. Granny Yvonne was there and following, too, panting a
little, but something like happy, hanging on the arm of an old uncle of
Yann's, who was paying her old-fashioned compliments. She wore a grand
new cap, bought for the occasion, and her tiny shawl, which had been
dyed a third time, and black, because of Sylvestre.
The wind worried everybody; dresses and skirts, bonnets and _coiffes_,
were similarly tossed about mercilessly.
At the church door, the newly married couple, pursuant to custom, had
bought two nosegays of artificial flowers, to complete their bridal
attire. Yann had fastened his on anyhow upon his broad chest, but he
was one of those men whom anything becomes. As for Gaud, there was still
something of the lady about the manner in which she had placed the rude
flowers in her bodice, as of old very close fitting to her unrivalled
form.
The violin player, who led the whole band, bewildered by the wind,
played at random; his tunes were heard by fits and starts betwixt the
noisy gusts, and rose as shrill as the screaming of a sea-gull. All
Ploubazlanec had turned out to look at them. This marriage seemed to
excite people's sympathy, and many had come from far around; at each
turn of the road there were groups stationed to see them pass. Nearly
all Yann's mates, the Icelanders of Paimpol, were there. They cheered
the bride and bridegroom as they passed; Gaud returned their greeting,
bowing slightly like a town lady, with serious grace; and all along the
way she was greatly admired.
The darkest and most secluded hamlets around, even those in the woods,
had been emptied of all their beggars, cripples, wastrels, poor, and
idiots on crutches; these wretches scattered along the road, with
accordions and hurdy-gurdies; they held out their hands and hats to
receive the alms that Yann threw to them with his own noble look and
Gaud with her beautiful queenly smile. Some of these poor waifs
were very old and wore gray locks on heads that had never held much;
crouching in the hollows of the roadside, they were of the same colour
as the earth from which they seemed to have sprung, but so unformed as
soon to be returned without ever having had any human thoughts. Their
wandering glances were as indecipherable as the mystery of their
abortive and useless existences. Without comprehending, they looked
at the merrymakers' line pass by. It went on beyond Pors-Even and the
Gaoses' home. They meant to follow the ancient bridal tradition of
Ploubazlanec and go to the chapel of La Trinite, which is situated at
the very end of the Breton country.
At the foot of the outermost cliff, it rests on a threshold of low-lying
rocks close to the water, and seems almost to belong to the sea already.
A narrow goat's path leads down to it through masses of granite.
The wedding party spread over the incline of the forsaken cape head;
and among the rocks and stones, happy words were lost in the roar of the
wind and the surf.
It was useless to try and reach the chapel; in this boisterous weather
the path was not safe, the sea came too close with its high rollers.
Its white-crested spouts sprang up in the air, so as to break over
everything in a ceaseless shower.
Yann, who had advanced the farthest with Gaud on his arm, was the first
to retreat before the spray. Behind, his wedding party had remained
strewn about the rocks, in a semicircle; it seemed as if he had come
to present his wife to the sea, which received her with scowling,
ill-boding aspect.
Turning round, he caught sight of the violinist perched on a gray rock,
trying vainly to play his dance tunes between gusts of wind.
“Put up your music, my lad,” said Yann; “old Neptune is playing us a
livelier tune than yours.”
A heavily beating shower, which had threatened since morning, began to
fall. There was a mad rush then, accompanied by outcries and laughter,
to climb up the bluff and take refuge at the Gaoses'.
CHAPTER VII--THE DISCORDANT NOTE
The wedding breakfast was given at Yann's parents', because Gaud's
home was so poor. It took place upstairs in the great new room.
Five-and-twenty guests sat down round the newly married pair--sisters
and brothers, cousin Gaos the pilot, Guermeur, Keraez, Yvon Duff, all
of the old _Marie's_ crew, who were now the _Leopoldine's_; four very
pretty bridesmaids, with their hair-plaits wound round their ears, like
the empresses' in ancient Byzantium, and their modern white caps, shaped
like sea-shells; and four best men, all broad-shouldered Icelanders,
with large proud eyes.
Downstairs, of course, there was eating and cooking going on; the whole
train of the wedding procession had gathered there in disorder; and the
extra servants, hired from Paimpol, well-nigh lost their senses before
the mighty lumbering up of the capacious hearth with pots and pans.
Yann's parents would have wished a richer wife for their son, naturally,
but Gaud was known now as a good, courageous girl; and then, in spite
of her lost fortune, she was the greatest beauty in the country, and it
flattered them to see the couple so well matched.
The old father was inclined to be merry after the soup, and spoke of the
bringing up of his fourteen little Gaoses; but they were all doing well,
thanks to the ten thousand francs that had made them well off.
Neighbour Guermeur related the tricks he played in the navy, yarns about
China, the West Indies, and Brazil, making the young ones who would be
off some day, open their eyes in wonderment.
“There is a cry against the sea-service,” said the old sailor, laughing,
“but a man can have fine fun in it.”
The weather did not clear up; on the contrary, the wind and rain raged
through the gloomy night; and in spite of the care taken, some of the
guests were fidgety about their smacks anchored in the harbour, and
spoke of getting up to go and see if all was right. But here a more
jovial sound than ever was heard from downstairs, where the younger
members of the party were supping together; cheers of joy and peals of
laughter ascended. The little cousins were beginning to feel exhilarated
by the cider.
Boiled and roasted meats had been served up with poultry, different
kinds of fish, omelets and pancakes.
The debate had turned upon fishery and smuggling, and the best means of
fooling the coast-guardsmen, who, as we all know, are the sworn enemies
of honest seafarers.
Upstairs, at the grand table, old circumnavigators went so far as to
relate droll stories, in the vernacular.
But the wind was raging altogether too strong; for the windows shook
with a terrible clatter, and the man telling the tale had hurriedly
ended to go and see to his smack.
Then another went on: “When I was bo's'n's mate aboard of the _Zenobie_,
a-lying at Aden, and a-doing the duty of a corporal of marines, by the
same token, you ought to ha' seen the ostridge feather traders a-trying
to scramble up over the side. [_Imitating the broken talk_] 'Bon-joo,
cap'n! we're not thiefs--we're honest merchants'--Honest, my eye! with a
sweep of the bucket, a purtending to draw some water up, I sent 'em all
flying back an oar's length. 'Honest merchants, are ye,' says I, 'then
send us up a bunch of honest feathers first--with a hard dollar or two
in the core of it, d'ye see, and then I'll believe in your honesty!'
Why, I could ha' made my fortun' out of them beggars, if I hadn't been
born and brought up honest myself, and but a sucking-dove in wisdom,
saying nothing of my having a sweetheart at Toulon in the millinery
line, who could have used any quantity of feathers----”
Ha! here's one of Yann's little brothers, a future Iceland fisherman,
with a fresh pink face and bright eyes, who is suddenly taken ill from
having drunk too much cider. So little Laumec has to be carried off,
which cuts short the story of the milliner and the feathers.
The wind wailed in the chimney like an evil spirit in torment; with
fearful strength, it shook the whole house on its stone foundation.
“It strikes me the wind is stirred up, acos we're enjoying of
ourselves,” said the pilot cousin.
“No, it's the sea that's wrathy,” corrected Yann, smiling at Gaud,
“because I'd promised I'd be wedded to _her_.”
A strange languor seemed to envelop them both; they spoke to one another
in a low voice, apart, in the midst of the general gaiety. Yann, knowing
thoroughly the effect of wine, did not drink at all. Now and then he
turned dull too, thinking of Sylvestre. It was an understood thing that
there was to be no dancing, on account of him and of Gaud's dead father.
It was the dessert now; the singing would soon begin. But first there
were the prayers to say, for the dead of the family; this form is never
omitted, at all wedding-feasts, and is a solemn duty. So when old Gaos
rose and uncovered his white head, there was a dead silence around.
“This,” said he, “is for Guillaume Gaos, my father.” Making the sign of
the cross, he began the Lord's prayer in Latin: “_Pater noster, qui es
in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tumm_----”
The silence included all, even to the joyful little ones downstairs, and
every voice was repeating in an undertone the same eternal words.
“This is for Yves and Jean Gaos, my two brothers, who were lost in the
Sea of Iceland. This is for Pierre Gaos, my son, shipwrecked aboard
the _Zelie_.” When all the dead Gaoses had had their prayers, he turned
towards grandmother Moan, saying, “This one is for Sylvestre Moan.”
Yann wept as he recited another prayer.
“_Sed libera nos a malo. Amen_!”
Then the songs began; sea-songs learned in the navy, on the forecastle,
where we all know there are rare good vocalists.
“_Un noble corps, pas moins que celui des Zouaves_,” etc.
A noble and a gallant lad The Zouave is, we know, But, capping him for
bravery, The sailor stands, I trow. Hurrah, hurrah! long life to him,
Whose glory never can grow dim!
This was sung by one of the bride's supporters, in a feeling tone that
went to the soul; and the chorus was taken up by other fine, manly
voices.
But the newly wedded pair seemed to listen as from a distance. When they
looked at one another, their eyes shone with dulled brilliance, like
that of transparently shaded lamps. They spoke in even a lower voice,
and still held each other's hands. Gaud bent her head, too, gradually
overcome by a vast, delightful terror, before her master.
The pilot cousin went around the table, serving out a wine of his own;
he had brought it with much care, hugging and patting the bottle, which
ought not to be shaken, he said. He told the story of it. One day out
fishing they saw a cask a-floating; it was too big to haul on board, so
they had stove in the head and filled all the pots and pans they had,
with most of its contents. It was impossible to take all, so they had
signalled to other pilots and fishers, and all the sails in sight had
flocked round the flotsam.
“And I know more than one old sobersides who was gloriously topheavy
when we got back to Pors-Even at night!” he chuckled liquorishly.
The wind still went on with its fearful din.
Downstairs the children were dancing in rings; except some of the
youngest, sent to bed; but the others, who were romping about, led by
little Fantec (Francis) and Laumec (Guillaume), wanted to go and play
outside. Every minute they were opening the door and letting in furious
gusts, which blew out the candles.
The pilot cousin went on with his story. Forty bottles had fallen to
his lot, he said. He begged them all to say nothing about it, because of
“_Monsieur le Commissaire de l'Inscription Maritime_,” who would surely
make a fuss over the undeclared find.
“But, d'ye see,” he went on, “it sarved the lubbers right to heave over
such a vallyble cask or let it 'scape the lashings, for it's superior
quality, with sartinly more jinywine grape-juice in it than in all the
wine-merchants' cellars of Paimpol. Goodness knows whence it came--this
here castaway liquor.”
It was very strong and rich in colour, dashed with sea-water, and had
the flavour of cod-pickle, but in spite of that, relishable; and several
bottles were emptied.
Some heads began to spin; the Babel of voices became more confused, and
the lads kissed the lasses less surreptitiously.
The songs joyously continued; but the winds would not moderate, and
the seamen exchanged tokens of apprehension about the bad weather
increasing.
The sinister clamour without was indeed worse than ever. It had
become one continuous howl, deep and threatening, as if a thousand mad
creatures were yelling with full throats and out-stretched necks.
One might imagine heavy sea-guns shooting out their deafening boom
in the distance, but that was only the sea hammering the coast of
Ploubazlanec on all points; undoubtedly it did not appear contented,
and Gaud felt her heart shrink at this dismal music, which no one had
ordered for their wedding-feast.
Towards midnight, during a calm, Yann, who had risen softly, beckoned
his wife to come to speak with him.
It was to go home. She blushed, filled with shame, and confused at
having left her seat so promptly. She said it would be impolite to go
away directly and leave the others.
“Not a bit on it,” replied Yann, “my father allows it; we may go,” and
away he carried her.
They hurried away stealthily. Outside they found themselves in the cold,
the bitter wind, and the miserable, agitated night. They began to run
hand-in-hand.
From the height of the cliff-path, one could imagine, without seeing it,
the furious open sea, whence arose all this hubbub. They ran along, the
wind cutting their faces, both bowed before the angry gusts, and obliged
to put their hands over their mouths to cover their breathing, which the
wind had completely taken away at first.
He held her up by the waist at the outset, to keep her dress from
trailing on the ground, and her fine new shoes from being spoiled in the
water, which streamed about their feet, and next he held her round the
neck, too, and continued to run on still faster. He could hardly realize
that he loved her so much! To think that she was now twenty-three and
he nearly twenty-eight; that they might have been married two years ago,
and as happy then as to-night!
At last they arrived at home, that poor lodging, with its damp flooring
and moss-grown roof. They lit the candle, which the wind blew out twice.
Old grandam Moan, who had been taken home before the singing began, was
there. She had been sleeping for the last two hours in her bunk, the
flaps of which were shut. They drew near with respect and peeped through
the fretwork of her press, to bid her good-night, if by chance she were
not asleep. But they only perceived her still venerable face and closed
eyes; she slept, or she feigned to do so, not to disturb them.
They felt they were alone then. Both trembled as they clasped hands.
He bent forward to kiss her lips; but Gaud turned them aside, through
ignorance of that kind of kiss; and as chastely as on the evening of
their betrothal, she pressed hers to Yann's cheek, which was chilled,
almost frozen, by the wind.
It was bitterly cold in their poor, low-roofed cottage. If Gaud had only
remained rich, what happiness she would have felt in arranging a pretty
room, not like this one on the bare ground! She was scarcely yet used to
these rugged granite walls, and the rough look of all things around; but
her Yann was there now, and by his presence everything was changed and
transfigured. She saw only her husband. Their lips met now; no turning
aside. Still standing with their arms intertwined tightly to draw
themselves together, they remained dumb, in the perfect ecstasy of a
never-ending kiss. Their fluttering breath commingled, and both quivered
as if in a burning fever. They seemed without power to tear themselves
apart, and knew nothing and desired nothing beyond that long kiss of
consecrated love.
She drew herself away, suddenly agitated. “Nay, Yann! Granny Yvonne
might see us,” she faltered.
But he, with a smile, sought his wife's lips again and fastened his own
upon them, like a thirsty man whose cup of fresh water had been taken
from him.
The movement they had made broke the charm of delightful hesitation.
Yann, who, at the first, was going to kneel to her as before a saint,
felt himself fired again. He glanced stealthily towards the old oaken
bunk, irritated at being so close to the old woman, and seeking some
way not to be spied upon, but ever without breaking away from those
exquisite lips.
He stretched forth his arm behind him, and with the back of his hand
dashed out the light, as if the wind had done it. Then he snatched her
up in his arms. Still holding her close, with his mouth continually
pressed to hers, he seemed like a wild lion with his teeth embedded in
his prey. For her part she gave herself up entirely, to that body and
soul seizure that was imperious and without possible resistance, even
though it remained soft as a great all-comprising embrace.
Around them, for their wedding hymn, the same invisible orchestra,
played on----“Hoo-ooh-hoo!” At times the wind bellowed out in its deep
noise, with a _tremolo_ of rage; and again repeated its threats, as if
with refined cruelty, in low sustained tones, flute-like as the hoot of
an owl.
The broad, fathomless grave of all sailors lay nigh to them, restless
and ravenous, drumming against the cliffs with its muffled boom.
One night or another Yann would have to be caught in that maw, and
battle with it in the midst of the terror of ice as well. Both knew this
plainly.
But what mattered that now to them on land, sheltered from the sea's
futile fury. In their poor gloomy cottage, over which tempest rushed,
they scorned all that was hostile, intoxicated and delightfully
fortified against the whole by the eternal magic of love.
CHAPTER VIII--THE BLISSFUL WEEK
For six days they were husband and wife. In this time of leave-taking
the preparations for the Iceland season occupied everybody. The women
heaped up the salt for the pickle in the holds of the vessels; the men
saw to the masts and rigging. Yann's mother and sisters worked from
morning till night at the making of the sou'westers and oilskin
waterproofs.
The weather was dull, and the sea, forefeeling the approach of the
equinoctial gales, was restless and heaving.
Gaud went through these inexorable preparations with agony; counting the
fleeting hours of the day, and looking forward to the night, when the
work was over, and she would have her Yann to herself.
Would he leave her every year in this way?
She hoped to be able to keep him back, but she did not dare to speak to
him about this wish as yet. He loved her passionately, too; he never had
known anything like this affection before; it was such a fresh, trusting
tenderness that the same caresses and fondlings always seemed as if
novel and unknown heretofore; and their intoxication of love continued
to increase, and never seemed--never was satiated.
What charmed and surprised her in her mate was his tenderness and
boyishness. This the Yann in love, whom she had sometimes seen at
Paimpol most contemptuous towards the girls. On the contrary, to her he
always maintained that kindly courtesy that seemed natural to him, and
she adored that beautiful smile that came to him whenever their eyes
met. Among these simple folk there exists the feeling of absolute
respect for the dignity of the wife; there is an ocean between her and
the sweetheart. Gaud was essentially the wife. She was sorely troubled
in her happiness, however, for it seemed something too unhoped for, as
unstable as a joyful dream. Besides, would this love be lasting in Yann?
She remembered sometimes his former flames, his fancies and different
love adventures, and then she grew fearful. Would he always cherish that
infinite tenderness and sweet respect for her?
Six days of a wedded life, for such a love as theirs, was nothing; only
a fevered instalment taken from the married life term, which might be
so long before them yet! They had scarcely had leisure to be together at
all and understand that they really belonged to one another. All their
plans of life together, of peaceful joy, and settling down, was forcedly
put off till the fisherman's return.
No! at any price she would stop him from going to this dreadful Iceland
another year! But how should she manage? And what could they do for a
livelihood, being both so poor? Then again he so dearly loved the sea.
But in spite of all, she would try and keep him home another season; she
would use all her power, intelligence, and heart to do so. Was she to
be the wife of an Icelander, to watch each spring-tide approach with
sadness, and pass the whole summer in painful anxiety? no, now that she
loved him, above everything that she could imagine, she felt seized with
an immense terror at the thought of years to come thus robbed of the
better part.
They had one spring day together--only one. It was the day before the
sailing; all the stores had been shipped, and Yann remained the whole
day with her. They strolled along, arm-in-arm, through the lanes, like
sweethearts again, very close to one another, murmuring a thousand
tender things. The good folk smiled, as they saw them pass, saying:
“It's Gaud, with long Yann from Pors-Even. They were married only
t'other day!”
This last day was really spring. It was strange and wonderful to behold
this universal serenity. Not a single cloud marred the lately flecked
sky. The wind did not blow anywhere. The sea had become quite tranquil,
and was of a pale, even blue tint. The sun shone with glaring white
brilliancy, and the rough Breton land seemed bathed in its light, as
in a rare, delicate ether; it seemed to brighten and revive even in
the utmost distance. The air had a delicious, balmy scent, as of summer
itself, and seemed as if it were always going to remain so, and never
know any more gloomy, thunderous days. The capes and bays over which
the changeful shadows of the clouds no longer passed, were outlined in
strong steady lines in the sunlight, and appeared to rest also in the
long-during calm. All this made their loving festival sweeter and longer
drawn out. The early flowers already appeared: primroses, and frail,
scentless violets grew along the hedgerows.
When Gaud asked: “How long then are you going to love me, Yann?”
He answered, surprisedly, looking at her full in the face with his frank
eyes: “Why, for ever, Gaud.”
That word, spoken so simply by his fierce lips, seemed to have its true
sense of eternity.
She leaned on his arm. In the enchantment of her realized dream, she
pressed close to him, always anxious, feeling that he was as flighty as
a wild sea-bird. To-morrow he would take his soaring on the open sea.
And it was too late now, she could do nothing to stop him.
From the cliff-paths where they wandered, they could see the whole of
this sea-bound country; which seems almost treeless, strewn with low,
stunted bush and boulders. Here and there fishers' huts were scattered
over the rocks, their high battered thatches made green by the cropping
up of new mosses; and in the extreme distance, the sea, like a boundless
transparency, stretched out in a never-ending horizon, which seemed to
encircle everything.
She enjoyed telling him about all the wonderful things she had seen in
Paris, but he was very contemptuous, and was not interested.
“It's so far from the coast,” said he, “and there is so much land
between, that it must be unhealthy. So many houses and so many people,
too, about! There must be lots of ills and ails in those big towns; no,
I shouldn't like to live there, certain sure!”
She smiled, surprised to see this giant so simple a fellow.
Sometimes they came across hollows where trees grew and seemed to defy
the winds. There was no view here, only dead leaves scattered beneath
their feet and chilly dampness; the narrow way, bordered on both sides
by green reeds, seemed very dismal under the shadow of the branches;
hemmed in by the walls of some dark, lonely hamlet, rotting with old
age, and slumbering in this hollow.
A crucifix arose inevitably before them, among the dead branches, with
its colossal image of Our Saviour in weather-worn wood, its features
wrung with His endless agony.
Then the pathway rose again, and they found themselves commanding the
view of immense horizons--and breathed the bracing air of sea-heights
once more.
He, to match her, spoke of Iceland, its pale, nightless summers and sun
that never set. Gaud did not understand and asked him to explain.
“The sun goes all round,” said he, waving his arm in the direction of
the distant circle of the blue waters. “It always remains very low,
because it has no strength to rise; at midnight, it drags a bit
through the water, but soon gets up and begins its journey round again.
Sometimes the moon appears too, at the other side of the sky; then they
move together, and you can't very well tell one from t'other, for they
are much alike in that queer country.”
To see the sun at midnight! How very far off Iceland must be for such
marvels to happen! And the fjords? Gaud had read that word several times
written among the names of the dead in the chapel of the shipwrecked,
and it seemed to portend some grisly thing.
“The fjords,” said Yann, “they are not broad bays, like Paimpol, for
instance; only they are surrounded by high mountains--so high that
they seem endless, because of the clouds upon their tops. It's a sorry
country, I can tell you, darling. Nothing but stones. The people of
Iceland know of no such things as trees. In the middle of August, when
our fishery is over, it's quite time to return, for the nights begin
again then, and they lengthen out very quickly; the sun falls below the
earth without being able to get up, and that night lasts all the
winter through. Talking of night,” he continued, “there's a little
burying-ground on the coast in one of the fjords, for Paimpol men who
have died during the season or went down at sea; it's consecrated earth,
just like at Pors-Even, and the dead have wooden crosses just like
ours here, with their names painted on them. The two Goazdious from
Ploubazlanec lie there, and Guillaume Moan, Sylvestre's grandfather.”
She could almost see the little churchyard at the foot of the solitary
capes, under the pale rose-coloured light of those never-ending days,
and she thought of those distant dead, under the ice and dark winding
sheets of the long night-like winters.
“Do you fish the whole time?” she asked, “without ever stopping?”
“The whole time, though we somehow get on with work on deck, for the sea
isn't always fine out there. Well! of course we're dead beat when the
night comes, but it gives a man an appetite--bless you, dearest, we
regularly gobble down our meals.”
“Do you never feel sick of it?”
“Never,” returned he, with an air of unshaken faith which pained her;
“on deck, on the open sea, the time never seems long to a man--never!”
She hung her head, feeling sadder than ever, and more and more
vanquished by her only enemy, the sea.
PART V -- THE SECOND WEDDING
CHAPTER I--THE START
After the spring day they had enjoyed, the falling night brought back
the impression of winter, and they returned to dine before their fire,
which was flaming with new branches. It was their last meal together;
but they had some hours yet, and were not saddened.
After dinner, they recovered the sweet impression of spring again, out
on the Pors-Even road; for the air was calm, almost genial, and the
twilight still lingered over the land.
They went to see the family--for Yann to bid good-bye--and returned
early, as they wished to rise with break of day.
The next morning the quay of Paimpol was crowded with people. The
departures for Iceland had begun the day before, and with each tide
there was a fresh fleet off. On this particular morning, fifteen vessels
were to start with the _Leopoldine_, and the wives or mothers of the
sailors were all present at the getting under sail.
Gaud, who was now the wife of an Icelander, was much surprised to
find herself among them all, and brought thither for the same fateful
purpose. Her position seemed to have become so intensified within the
last few days, that she had barely had time to realize things as they
were; gliding irresistibly down an incline, she had arrived at this
inexorable conclusion that she must bear up for the present, and do as
the others did, who were accustomed to it.
She never before had been present at these farewells; hence all was new
to her. Among these women was none like her, and she felt her difference
and isolation. Her past life, as a lady, was still remembered, and
caused her to be set aside as one apart.
The weather had remained fine on this parting-day; but out at sea a
heavy swell came from the west, foretelling wind, and the sea, lying in
wait for these new adventurers, burst its crests afar.
Around Gaud stood many good-looking wives like her, and touching, with
their eyes big with tears; others were thoughtless and lively; these
had no heart or were not in love. Old women, threatened nearly by
death, wept as they clung to their sons; sweethearts kissed each other;
half-maudlin sailors sang to cheer themselves up, while others went on
board with gloomy looks as to their execution.
Many sad incidents could be marked; there were poor luckless fellows
who had signed their contracts unconsciously, when in liquor in the
grog-shop, and they had to be dragged on board by force; their own wives
helping the gendarmes. Others, noted for their great strength, had
been drugged in drink beforehand, and were carried like corpses on
stretchers, and flung down in the forecastles.
Gaud was frightened by all this; what companions were these for her
Yann? and what a fearful thing was this Iceland, to inspire men with
such terror of it?
Yet there were sailors who smiled, and were happy; who, doubtless, like
Yann, loved the untrammelled life and hard fishing work; those were
the sound, able seamen, who had fine noble countenances; if they were
unmarried they went off recklessly, merely casting a last look on the
lasses; and if they were married, they kissed their wives and little
ones, with fervent sadness and deep hopefulness as to returning home all
the richer.
Gaud was a little comforted when she saw that all the _Leopoldines_ were
of the latter class, forming really a picked crew.
The vessels set off two by two, or four by four, drawn out by the tugs.
As soon as they moved the sailors raised their caps and, full-voiced,
struck up the hymn to the Virgin: “_Salut, Etoile-de-la-Mer_!” (All
Hail! Star of the Sea!), while on the quay, the women waved their hands
for a last farewell, and tears fell upon the lace strings of the caps.
As soon as the _Leopoldine_ started, Gaud quickly set off towards the
house of the Gaoses. After an hour and a half's walk along the coast,
through the familiar paths of Ploubazlanec, she arrived there, at the
very land's end, within the home of her new family.
The _Leopoldine_ was to cast anchor off Pors-Even before starting
definitely in the evening, so the married pair had made a last
appointment here. Yann came to land in the yawl, and stayed another
three hours with her to bid her good-bye on firm land. The weather was
still beautiful and spring-like, and the sky serene.
They walked out on the high road arm-in-arm, and it reminded them of
their walk the day before. They strolled on towards Paimpol without
any apparent object in view, and soon came to their own house, as if
unconsciously drawn there; they entered together for the last time.
Grandam Moan was quite amazed at seeing them together again.
Yann left many injunctions with Gaud concerning several of his things in
his wardrobe, especially about his fine wedding clothes; she was to take
them out occasionally and air them in the sun, and so on. On board ship
the sailors learn all these household-like matters; but Gaud was amused
to hear it. Her husband might have been sure, though, that all his
things would be kept and attended to, with loving care.
But all these matters were very secondary for them; they spoke of them
only to have something to talk about, and to hide their real feelings.
They went on speaking in low, soft tones, as if fearing to frighten away
the moments that remained, and so make time flit by more swiftly still.
Their conversation was as a thing that had inexorably to come to an end;
and the most insignificant things that they said seemed, on this day, to
become wondrous, mysterious, and important.
At the very last moment Yann caught up his wife in his arms, and without
saying a word, they were enfolded in a long and silent embrace.
He embarked; the gray sails were unfurled and spread out to the light
wind that rose from the west. He, whom she still could distinguish,
waved his cap in a particular way agreed on between them. And with her
figure outlined against the sea, she gazed for a long, long time upon
her departing love.
That tiny, human-shaped speck, appearing black against the bluish gray
of the waters, was still her husband, even though already it became
vague and indefinable, lost in the distance, where persistent sight
becomes baffled, and can see no longer.
As the _Leopoldine_ faded out of vision, Gaud, as if drawn by a magnet,
followed the pathway all along the cliffs till she had to stop, because
the land came to an end; she sat down at the foot of a tall cross, which
rises amidst the gorse and stones. As it was rather an elevated spot,
the sea, as seen from there, appeared to be rimmed, as in a bowl, and
the _Leopoldine_, now a mere point, appeared sailing up the incline of
that immense circle. The water rose in great slow undulations, like the
upheavals of a submarine combat going on somewhere beyond the horizon;
but over the great space where Yann still was, all dwelt calm.
Gaud still gazed at the ship, trying to fix its image well in her brain,
so that she might recognise it again from afar, when she returned to the
same place to watch for its home-coming.
Great swells now rolled in from the west, one after another, without
cessation, renewing their useless efforts, and ever breaking over the
same rocks, foaming over the same places, to wash the same stones.
The stifled fury of the sea appeared strange, considering the absolute
calmness of the air and sky; it was as if the bed of the sea were too
full and would overflow and swallow up the strand.
The _Leopoldine_ had grown smaller and smaller, and was lost in the
distance. Doubtless the under-tow carried her along, for she moved
swiftly and yet the evening breezes were very faint. Now she was only
a tiny, gray touch, and would soon reach the extreme horizon of all
visible things, and enter those infinite regions, whence darkness was
beginning to come.
Going on seven o'clock, night closed, and the boat had disappeared. Gaud
returned home, feeling withal rather brave, notwithstanding the tears
that uncontainably fell. What a difference it would have been, and what
still greater pain, if he had gone away, as in the two preceding years,
without even a good-bye! While now everything was softened and bettered
between them. He was really her own Yann, and she knew herself to be so
truly loved, notwithstanding this separation, that, as she returned
home alone, she felt at least consoled by the thought of the delightful
waiting for that “soon again!” to be realized to which they had pledged
themselves for the autumn.
CHAPTER II--THE FIRST OF THE FLEET
The summer passed sadly, being hot and uneventful. She watched anxiously
for the first yellowed leaves, and the first gathering of the swallows,
and blooming of the chrysanthemums. She wrote to Yann several times by
the boats bound for Rykawyk, and by the government cruisers, but one
never can be sure of such letters reaching their destination.
Towards the end of July, she received a letter from him, however. He
told her that his health was good, that the fishing season promised
to be excellent, and that he already had 1500 fish for his share. From
beginning to end, it was written in the simple conventional way of all
these Icelanders' home letters. Men educated like Yann completely ignore
how to write the thousand things they think, feel, or fancy. Being more
cultivated than he, Gaud could understand this, and read between the
lines that deep affection that was unexpressed. Several times in the
four-paged letter, he called her by the title of “wife,” as if happy in
repeating the word. And the address above: “_A Madame Marguerite Gaos,
maison Moan, en Ploubazlanec_”--she was “Madame Marguerite Gaos” since
so short a time.
She worked hard during these summer months. The ladies of Paimpol had,
at first, hardly believed in her talent as an amateur dressmaker,
saying her hands were too fine-ladyish; but they soon perceived that
she excelled in making dresses that were very nice-fitting, so she had
become almost a famous dressmaker.
She spent all her earnings in embellishing their home against his
return. The wardrobe and old-shelved beds were all done up afresh, waxed
over, and bright new fastenings put on; she had put a pane of glass into
their little window towards the sea, and hung up a pair of curtains;
and she had bought a new counterpane for the winter, with new chairs and
table.
She had kept the money untouched that her Yann had left her, carefully
put by in a small Chinese box, to show him when he returned. During the
summer evenings, by the fading light, she sat out before the cottage
door with Granny Moan, whose head was much better in the warm weather,
and knitted a fine new blue wool jersey for her Yann; round the collar
and cuffs were wonderful open-work embroideries. Granny Yvonne had been
a very clever knitter in her day, and now she taught all she knew to
Gaud. The work took a great deal of wool; for it had to be a large
jersey to fit Yann.
But soon, especially in the evenings, the shortening of the days could
be perceived. Some plants, which had put forth all their blossoms in
July, began to look yellow and dying, and the violet scabious by the
wayside bloomed for the second time, smaller now, and longer-stalked;
the last days of August drew nigh, and the first return-ship from
Iceland hove in sight one evening at the cape of Pors-Even. The feast of
the returners began.
Every one pressed in a crowd on the cliff to welcome it. Which one was
it?
It was the _Samuel-Azenide_, always the first to return.
“Surely,” said Yann's old father, “the _Leopoldine_ won't be long now; I
know how 'tis out yonder: when one of 'em begins to start homeward, the
others can't hang back in any peace.”
CHAPTER III--ALL BUT TWO
The Icelanders were all returning now. Two ships came in the second day,
four the next, and twelve during the following week. And, all through
the country, joy returned with them, and there was happiness for the
wives and mothers; and junkets in the taverns where the beautiful
barmaids of Paimpol served out drink to the fishers.
The _Leopoldine_ was among the belated; there were yet another ten
expected. They would not be long now, and allowing a week's delay so as
not to be disappointed, Gaud waited in happy, passionate joy for Yann,
keeping their home bright and tidy for his return. When everything was
in good order there was nothing left for her to do, and besides she
could think of nothing else but her husband in her impatience.
Three more ships appeared; then another five. There were only two
lacking now.
“Come, come,” they said to her cheerily, “this year the _Leopoldine_ and
the _Marie-Jeanne_ will be the last, to pick up all the brooms fallen
overboard from the other craft.”
Gaud laughed also. She was more animated and beautiful than ever, in her
great joy of expectancy.
CHAPTER IV--STILL AT SEA
But the days succeeded one another without result. She still dressed
herself every day, and with a joyful look, went down to the harbour to
gossip with the other wives. She said that this delay was but natural;
was it not the same event every year? These were such safe boats, and
had such capital sailors.
But when at home alone, at night, a nervous, anxious shiver of anguish
would run through her whole frame.
Was it right to be frightened already? Was there even a single reason
to be so? But she began to tremble at the mere idea of grounds for being
afraid.
CHAPTER V--SHARING THE DREAD
The tenth of September came. How swiftly the days flew by!
One morning, a true autumn morning, with cold mist falling over the
earth, in the rising sun, she sat under the porch of the chapel of the
shipwrecked mariners, where the widows go to pray, with eyes fixed and
glassy, throbbing temples tightened as by an iron hand.
These sad morning mists had begun two days before, and on this
particular day Gaud had awakened with a still more bitter uneasiness,
caused by the forecast of advancing winter. Why did this day, this hour,
this very moment, seem to her more painful than the preceding? Often
ships are delayed a fortnight, even a month, for that matter.
But surely there was something different about this particular morning,
for she had come to-day for the first time to sit in the porch of this
chapel and read the names of the dead sailors, perished in their prime.
“In memory of GAOS, YVON, Lost at sea Near the Norden-Fjord.”
Like a great shudder, a gust of wind rose from the sea, and at the same
time something fell like rain upon the roof above. It was only the dead
leaves though; many were blown in at the porch; the old wind-tossed
trees of the graveyard were losing their foliage in this rising gale,
and winter was marching nearer.
“Lost at sea, Near the Norden-Fjord, In the storm of the 4th and 5th of
August, 1880.”
She read mechanically under the arch of the doorway; her eyes sought to
pierce the distance over the sea. That morning it was untraceable under
the gray mist, and a dragging drapery of clouds overhung the horizon
like a mourning veil.
Another gust of wind, and other leaves danced in in whirls. A stronger
gust still, as if the western storm that had strewn those dead over the
sea, wished to deface the very inscriptions that remembered their names
to the living.
Gaud looked with involuntary persistency at an empty space upon the wall
that seemed to yawn expectant. By a terrible impression she was pursued,
the thought of a fresh slab which might soon, perhaps, be placed there,
with another name which she did not even dare to think of in such a
spot.
She felt cold, and remained seated on the granite bench, her head
reclining against the stone wall.
* * * * *
. . . “near the Norden-Fjord, In the storm of the 4th and 5th of
August, At the age of 23 years, _Requiescat in pace_!”
Then Iceland loomed up before her, with its little cemetery lighted up
from below the sea-line by the midnight sun. Suddenly in the same empty
space on the wall, with horrifying clearness she saw the fresh slab she
was thinking of; a clear white one, with a skull and cross-bones, and in
a flash of foresight, a name--the worshipped name of “Yann Gaos!” Then
she suddenly and fearfully drew herself up straight and stiff, with a
hoarse, wild cry in her throat like a mad creature.
Outside the gray mist of the dawn fell over the land, and the dead
leaves were again blown dancingly into the porch.
Steps on the footpath? Somebody was coming? She rose and quickly
smoothed down her cap and composed her face. Nearer drew the steps. She
assumed the air of one who might be there by chance; for, above all, she
did not wish to appear yet, like the widow of a shipwrecked mariner.
It happened to be Fante Floury, the wife of the second mate of the
_Leopoldine_. She understood immediately what Gaud was doing there; it
was useless to dissemble with her. At first each woman stood speechless
before the other. They were angry and almost hated each other for having
met with a like sentiment of apprehension.
“All the men of Treguier and Saint Brieuc have been back this week,”
said Fante at last, in a pitiless, muffled, half-irritated voice.
She carried a blessed taper in her hand, to offer up a prayer. Gaud did
not wish yet to resort to that extreme resource of despairing wives.
Yet silently she entered the chapel behind Fante, and they knelt down
together side by side, like two sisters.
To the “Star of the Sea” they offered ardent imploring prayers, with
their whole soul in them. A sound of sobbing was alone heard, as their
rapid tears swiftly fell upon the floor. They rose together, more
confident and softened. Fante held up Gaud, who staggered, and taking
her in her arms, kissed her.
Wiping their eyes, and smoothing their dishevelled hair, they brushed
off the salt dust from the flagstones, soiling their gowns, and they
went away in opposite directions, without another word.
CHAPTER VI--ALL BUT ONE
This end of September was like another summer, only a little less
lively. The weather was so beautiful, that had it not been for the dead
leaves that fell upon the roads, one might have thought that June
had come back again. Husbands and sweethearts had all returned, and
everywhere was the joy of a second spring-time of love.
At last, one day, one of the missing ships was signalled. Which one was
it?
The groups of speechless and anxious women had rapidly formed on the
cliff. Gaud, pale and trembling, was there, by the side of her Yann's
father.
“I'm almost sure,” said the old fisher, “I'm almost sure it's them! A
red rail and a topsail that clews up--it's very like them anyhow. What
do you make it, Gaud?
“No, it isn't,” he went on, with sudden discouragement; “we've made
a mistake again, the boom isn't the same, and ours has a jigger sail.
Well, well, it isn't our boat this time, it's only the _Marie-Jeanne_.
Never mind, my lass, surely they'll not be long now.”
But day followed day, and night succeeded night, with uninterrupted
serenity.
Gaud continued to dress every day like a poor crazed woman, always
in fear of being taken for the widow of a shipwrecked sailor, feeling
exasperated when others looked furtively and compassionately at her, and
glancing aside so that she might not meet those glances that froze her
very blood.
She had fallen into the habit of going in the early morning right to
the end of the headland, on the high cliffs of Pors-Even, passing behind
Yann's old home, so as not to be seen by his mother or little sisters.
She went to the extreme point of the Ploubazlanec land, which is
outlined in the shape of a reindeer's horn upon the gray waters of the
channel, and sat there all day long at the foot of the lonely cross,
which rises high above the immense waste of the ocean. There are many of
these crosses hereabout; they are set up on the most advanced cliffs
of the seabound land, as if to implore mercy and to calm that restless
mysterious power that draws men away, never to give them back, and in
preference retains the bravest and noblest.
Around this cross stretches the ever-green waste, strewn with short
rushes. At this great height the sea air was very pure; it scarcely
retained the briny odour of the weeds, but was perfumed with all the
exquisite ripeness of September flowers.
Far away, all the bays and inlets of the coast were firmly outlined,
rising one above another; the land of Brittany terminated in ragged
edges, which spread out far into the tranquil surface.
Near at hand the reefs were numerous, but out beyond nothing broke its
polished mirror, from which arose a soft, caressing ripple, light and
intensified from the depths of its many bays. Its horizon seemed so
calm, and its depths so soft! The great blue sepulchre of many Gaoses
hid its inscrutable mystery, while the breezes, faint as human breath,
wafted to and fro the perfume of the stunted gorse, which had bloomed
again in the lastest autumn sun.
At regular hours the sea retreated, and great spaces were left uncovered
everywhere, as if the Channel was slowly drying up; then with the same
lazy slowness, the waters rose again, and continued their everlasting
coming and going, without any heed of the dead.
At the foot of the cross, Gaud remained, surrounded by these tranquil
mysteries, gazing ever before her, until the night fell and she could
see no more.
CHAPTER VII--THE MOURNER'S VISION
September had passed. The sorrowing wife took scarcely any nourishment,
and could no longer sleep. She remained at home now, crouching low with
her hands between her knees, her head thrown back and resting against
the wall behind. What was the good of getting up or going to bed now?
When she was thoroughly exhausted she threw herself, dressed, upon her
bed. Otherwise she remained in the same position, chilled and benumbed;
in her quiescent state, only her teeth chattered with the cold; she had
that continual impression of a band of iron round her brows; her cheeks
looked wasted; her mouth was dry, with a feverish taste, and at times
a painful hoarse cry rose from her throat, and was repeated in spasms,
while her head beat backward against the granite wall. Or else she
called Yann by his name in a low, tender voice, as if he were quiet
close to her, whispering words of love to her.
Sometimes she occupied her brain with thoughts of quite insignificant
things; for instance, she amused herself by watching the shadow of the
china Virgin lengthen slowly over the high woodwork of the bed, as the
sun went down. And then the agonized thoughts returned more horrible,
and her wailing cry broke out again as she beat her head against the
wall.
All the hours of the day passed, and all the hours of evening, and of
night, and then the hours of the morning. When she reckoned the time he
ought to have been back, she was seized with a still greater terror; she
wished to forget all dates and the very names of the days.
Usually there is some information concerning the wrecks off Iceland;
those who return have seen the tragedy from afar, or else have found
some wreckage or bodies, or have an indication to guess the rest. But
of the _Leopoldine_ nothing had been seen, and nothing was known. The
_Marie-Jeanne_ men, the last to have seen her, on the 2d of August, said
that she was to have gone on fishing farther towards the north, and,
beyond that, the secret was unfathomable.
Waiting, always waiting, and knowing nothing! When would the time come
when she need wait no longer? She did not even know that; and, now, she
almost wished that it might be soon.
Oh! if he were dead; let them at least have pity enough to tell her so!
Oh! to see her darling, as he was at this very moment, that is, what was
left him! If only the much-implored Virgin, or some other power, would
do her the blessing to show her, by second-sight, her beloved! either
living and working hard to return a rich man, or else as a corpse,
surrendered by the sea, so that she might at least know a certainty.
Sometimes she was seized with the thought of a ship appearing suddenly
upon the horizon; the _Leopoldine_ hastening home. Then she would
suddenly make an irreflected movement to rise, and rush to look out at
the ocean, to see whether it were true.
But she would fall back. Alas! where was this _Leopoldine_ now? Where
could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of Iceland, forsaken,
crushed, and lost.
All ended by a never-fading vision appearing to her--an empty,
sea-tossed wreck, slowly and gently rocked by the silent gray and
rose-streaked sea; almost with soft mockery, in the midst of the vast
calm of deadened waters.
CHAPTER VIII--THE FALSE ALARM
Two o'clock in the morning.
It was at night, especially, that she kept attentive to approaching
footsteps; at the slightest rumour or unaccustomed noise her temples
vibrated; by dint of being strained to outward things, they had become
fearfully sensitive.
Two o'clock in the morning. On this night as on others, with her hands
clasped and her eyes wide open in the dark, she listened to the wind,
sweeping in never-ending tumult over the heath.
Suddenly a man's footsteps hurried along the path! At this hour who
would pass now? She drew herself up, stirred to the very soul, her heart
ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door, and came up the small stone steps.
He!--O God!--he! Some one had knocked--it could be no other than he! She
was up now, barefooted; she, so feeble for the last few days, had sprung
up as nimbly as a kitten, with her arms outstretched to wind round her
darling. Of course the _Leopoldine_ had arrived at night, and anchored
in Pors-Even Bay, and he had rushed home; she arranged all this in her
mind with the swiftness of lightning. She tore the flesh off her fingers
in her excitement to draw the bolt, which had stuck.
“Eh?”
She slowly moved backward, as if crushed, her head falling on her bosom.
Her beautiful insane dream was over. She just could grasp that it was
not her husband, her Yann, and that nothing of him, substantial or
spiritual, had passed through the air; she felt plunged again into her
deep abyss, to the lowest depths of her terrible despair.
Poor Fantec, for it was he, stammered many excuses, his wife was very
ill, and their child was stifling in its cot, suddenly attacked with a
malignant sore throat; so he had run over to beg for assistance on the
road to fetch the doctor from Paimpol.
What did all this matter to her? She had gone mad in her own distress,
and could give no thoughts to the troubles of others. Huddled on a
bench, she remained before him with fixed, glazed eyes, like a dead
woman's; without listening to him or even answering at random or looking
at him. What to her was the speech the man was making?
He understood it all; and guessed why the door had been opened so
quickly to him, and feeling pity for the pain he had unwittingly caused,
he stammered out an excuse.
“Just so; he never had ought to have disturbed her--her in particular.”
“I!” ejaculated Gaud, quickly, “why should I not be disturbed
particularly, Fantec?”
Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish to appear
in despair before others. Besides, she pitied him now; she dressed to
accompany him, and found the strength to go and see to his little child.
At four o'clock in the morning, when she returned to throw herself on
the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out. But that moment of
excessive joy had left an impression on her mind, which, in spite of
all, was permanent; she awoke soon with a shudder, rising a little
and partially recollecting--she knew not what. News had come to her
concerning her Yann. In the midst of her confusion of ideas, she
sought rapidly in her mind what it could be, but there was nothing save
Fantec's interruption.
For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss, nothing
changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Yet in that short, hopeful moment she had felt him so near to her,
that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto her, what is
called a foretoken (_pressigne_) in Breton land; and she listened still
more attentively to the steps outside, trusting that some one might come
to her to speak of him.
Just as the day broke Yann's father entered. He took off his cap, and
pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in curls like Yann's,
and sat down by Gaud's bedside.
His heart ached fully, too, for Yann, his tall, handsome Yann, was his
first-born, his favourite and his pride; but he did not despair yet. He
comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affectionate way; to begin with, those
who had last returned from Iceland spoke of the increasing dense fogs
that might well have delayed the vessel; and then, too, an idea struck
him; they might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on
their homeward course, whence letters were so long in travelling. This
had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own poor dead and gone
mother had had a mass said for his soul. The _Leopoldine_ was such a
good boat, next to new, and her crew were such able-bodied seamen.
Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head; the distress of her
granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength and reason; she
tidied up the place, glancing from time to time at the faded portrait of
Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite wall with its anchor emblems and
mourning-wreath of black bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of
her own last offspring she believed no longer in safe returns; she only
prayed through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her heart.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her large
sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old sire, who so
much resembled her beloved one; merely to have him near her was like
a hostage against death having taken the younger Gaos; and she felt
reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her tears fell softly and silently, and
she repeated again her passionate prayers to the “Star of the Sea.”
A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very likely event.
She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed as if she might fairly
expect him. All then was not lost, if a seaman, his own father, did not
yet despair. And for a few days, she resumed looking out for him again.
Autumn at last arrived, a late autumn too, its gloomy evenings making
all things appear dark in the old cottage, and all the land looked
sombre, too.
The very daylight seemed crepuscular; immeasurable clouds, passing
slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at broad noon. The wind blew
constantly with the sound of a great cathedral organ at a distance, but
playing profane, despairing dirges; at other times the noise came close
to the door, like the howling of wild beasts.
She had grown pale, aye, blanched, and bent more than ever, as if old
age had already touched her with its featherless wing. Often did she
finger the wedding clothes of her Yann, folding and unfolding them again
and again like some maniac, especially one of his blue woolen jerseys,
which still had preserved his shape; when she threw it gently on the
table, it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed
it by itself on a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that it
might for ever rest unaltered.
Every night the cold mists sank upon the land, as she gazed over the
depressing heath through her little window, and watched the paltry puffs
of white smoke arise from the chimneys of other cottages scattered here
and there on all sides. There the husbands had returned, like wandering
birds driven home by the frost. Before their blazing hearths the
evenings passed, cosy and warm; for the spring-time of love had begun
again in this land of North Sea fishermen.
Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might perhaps
have lingered, she was buoyed up by a kind hope and expected him home
any day.
CHAPTER IX--WEDDED TO THE SEA
But he never returned. One August night, out off gloomy Iceland, mingled
with the furious clamour of the sea, his wedding with the sea was
performed. It had been his nurse; it had rocked him in his babyhood, and
had afterward made him big and strong; then, in his superb manhood,
it had taken him back again for itself alone. Profoundest mystery had
surrounded this unhallowed union. While it went on, dark curtains hung
pall-like over it as if to conceal the ceremony, and the ghoul howled in
an awful deafening voice to stifle his cries. He, thinking of Gaud, his
sole, darling wife, had battled with giant strength against this deathly
rival, until he at last surrendered, with a deep death-cry like the roar
of a dying bull, through a mouth already filled with water; and his arms
were stretched apart and stiffened for ever.
All those he had invited in days of old were present at his wedding. All
except Sylvestre, who had gone to sleep in the enchanted gardens far,
far away, at the other side of the earth.