LE LIVRE DE RAISON
Grandmama sat very stiff and erect at the head of the table; and
Bertrand sat next to her with the big, metal-clasped book still open
before him, and a huge key placed upon the book. Micheline was making
vain endeavours to swallow her tears, and mother sat as usual in her
high-backed chair, her head resting against the cushions; she looked
even paler, more tired than was her wont, her eyes were more swollen and
red, as if she, too, had been crying.
As Bertrand was going away on the morrow, going to St. Cyr, where he
would learn to become an officer of the King, grandmama had opened the
great brass-bound chest that stood in a corner of the living-room, and
taken out the “Book of Reason,” a book which contained the family
chronicles of the de Ventadours from time immemorial, copies of their
baptism and marriage certificates, their wills, and many other deeds and
archives which had a bearing upon the family history. Such a book—called
“_Livre de Raison_”—exists in every ancient family of Provence; it is
kept in a chest of which the head of the house has the key, and whenever
occasion demands the book is taken out of its resting-place, and the
eldest son reads out loud, to the assembled members of the family,
extracts from it, as his father commands him to do.
Just for a time, when Bertrand’s father brought a young wife home to the
old château, his old mother—over-reluctantly no doubt—resigned her
position as head of the house, but since his death, which occurred when
Bertrand was a mere baby, and Micheline not yet born, grandmama had
resumed the reins of authority which she had wielded to her own complete
satisfaction ever since she had been widowed. Of a truth, her weak,
backboneless daughter-in-law, with her persistent ill-health and
constant repinings and tears, was not fit to conduct family affairs that
were in such a hopeless tangle as those of the de Ventadours. The young
Comtesse had yielded without a struggle to her mother-in-law’s masterful
assumption of authority; and since that hour it was grandmama who had
ruled the household, superintended the education of her grandchildren,
regulated their future, ordered the few servants about, and kept the
keys of the dower-chests. It was she also who put the traditional “Book
of Reason” to what uses she thought best. Mother acquiesced in
everything, never attempted to argue; it would have been useless, for
grandmama would brook neither argument nor contradiction, and mother was
too ill, too apathetic to attempt a conflict in which of a surety she
would have been defeated.
And so when grandmama decided that as soon as Bertrand had attained his
seventeenth year he should go to St. Cyr, mother had acquiesced without
a murmur, even though she felt that the boy was too young, too
inexperienced to be thus launched into the world where his isolated
upbringing in far-off old Provence would handicap him in face of his
more sophisticated companions. Only once did she suggest meekly, in her
weak and tired voice, that the life at St. Cyr offered many temptations
to a boy hitherto unaccustomed to freedom, and to the society of
strangers.
“The cadets have so many days’ leave,” she said, “Bertrand will be in
Paris a great deal.”
“Bah!” grandmama had retorted with a shrug of her shoulders, “Sybille de
Mont-Pahon is no fool, else she were not my sister. She will look after
Bertrand well enough if only for the sake of Rixende.”
After which feeble effort mother said nothing more, and in her gentle,
unobtrusive way set to, to get Bertrand’s things in order. Of course she
was bound to admit that it was a mightily good thing for the boy to go
to St. Cyr, where he would receive an education suited to his rank, as
well as learn those airs and graces which since the restoration of King
Louis had once more become the hall-mark that proclaimed a gentleman. It
would also be a mightily good thing for him to spend a year or two in
the house of his great-aunt, Mme. de Mont-Pahon, a lady of immense
wealth, whose niece Rixende would in truth be a suitable wife for
Bertrand in the years to come. But he was still so young, so very young
even for his age, and to put thoughts of a mercenary marriage, or even
of a love-match into the boy’s head seemed to the mother almost a sin.
But grandmama thought otherwise.
“It is never too soon,” she declared, “to make a boy understand
something of his future destiny, and of the responsibilities which he
will have to shoulder. Sybille de Mont-Pahon desires the marriage as
much as I do: she speaks of it again in her last letter to me: Rixende’s
father, our younger sister’s child, was one of those abominable traitors
to his King who chose to lick the boots of that Corsican upstart who had
dared to call himself Emperor of the French. Heaven being just, the
renegade has fallen into dire penury and Sybille has cared for his
daughter as if she were her own, but the stain upon her name can be
wiped out only by an alliance with a family such as ours. Bertrand’s
path lies clear before him: win Sybille’s regard and the affection of
Rixende, and the Mont-Pahon millions will help to regild the tarnished
escutcheon of the Ventadours, and drag us all out of this slough of
penury and degradation in which some of our kindred have already gone
under.”
Thus the day drew nigh when Bertrand would have to go. Everything was
ready for his departure and his box was packed, and Jasmin, the man of
all work, had already taken it across to Jaume Deydier’s; for at six
o’clock on the morrow Deydier’s barouche would be on the road down
below, and it would take Bertrand as far as Pertuis, where he would pick
up the diligence to Avignon and thence to Paris.
What wonder that mother wept! Bertrand had never been away from home,
and Paris was such a long, such a very long way off! Bertrand who had
never slept elsewhere than in his own little bed, in the room next to
Micheline’s, would have to sleep in strange inns, or on the cushions of
the diligence. The journey would take a week, and he would have so very
little money to spend on small comforts and a good meal now and then. It
was indeed awful to be so poor, that Micheline’s christening cup had to
be sold to provide Bertrand with pocket money on the way. Oh, pray God!
pray God that the boy found favour in the eyes of his rich relative, and
that Rixende should grow up to love him as he deserved to be loved!
But grandmama did not weep. She was fond of Bertrand in her way, fonder
of him than she was, or had been, of any one else in the world, but in
an entirely unemotional way. She was ambitious for him, chiefly because
in him and through him she foresaw the re-establishment of the family
fortunes.
Ever since he had come to the age of understanding, she had talked to
him about his name, his family, his ancestors, the traditions and
glories of the past which were recorded in the Book of Reason. And on
this last afternoon which Bertrand would spend at home for many a long
year, she got the book out of the chest, and made him read extracts from
it, from the story of Guilhem de Ventadour who went to the Crusades with
King Louis, down to Bertrand’s great-great-grandfather who was one of
the pall-bearers at the funeral of the Grand Monarque.
The reading of these extracts from the Book of Reason took on, on this
occasion, the aspect of a solemn rite. Bertrand, who loved his family
history, read on with enthusiasm and fervour, his eyes glowing with
pride, his young voice rolling out the sentences, when the book told of
some marvellous deed of valour perpetrated by one of his forbears, or of
the riches and splendours which were theirs in those days, wherever they
went. Nor did he tire or wish to leave off until grandmama suddenly and
peremptorily bade him close the book. He had come to the page where his
grandfather had taken up the family chronicles, and he had nought but
tales of disappointments, of extravagance and of ever-growing poverty to
record.
“There, it’s getting late,” grandmama said decisively, “put down the
book, Bertrand, and you may lock it up in the chest, and then give me
back the key.”
But Bertrand lingered on, the book still open before him, the heavy key
of the chest laid upon its open pages. He was so longing to read about
his grandfather, and about his uncle Raymond, around whose name and
personality there hung some kind of mystery. He thought that since he
was going away on the morrow, the privileges of an _enfant gâté_ might
be accorded him to-night, and his eagerly expressed wish fulfilled. But
the words had scarcely risen to his lips before grandmama said
peremptorily: “Go, Bertrand, do as I tell you.”
And when grandmama spoke in that tone it was useless to attempt to
disobey. Swallowing his mortification, Bertrand closed the book and,
without another word, he picked up the big key and took the book and
locked it up in the chest that stood in the furthest corner of the room.
He felt cross and disappointed, conscious of a slight put upon him as
the eldest son of the house and the only male representative of the
Ventadours. He was by right the head of the family, and it was not just
that he should be governed by women. Ah! when he came back from St.
Cyr...!
But here his meditations were interrupted by the sound of his name
spoken by his mother.
“Bertrand ought to go,” she was saying in her gentle and hesitating way,
“and say good-bye to Nicolette and to Jaume Deydier and thank him for
lending his barouche to-morrow.”
“I do not see the necessity,” grandmama replied. “He saw Deydier last
Sunday, and methought he would have preferred to spend the rest of his
time with his own sister.”
“Micheline might go with him,” mother urged, “as far as the mas. She
would enjoy half an hour’s play with Nicolette.”
“In very truth,” grandmama broke in with marked irritation, “I do not
understand, my good Marcelle, how you can encourage Micheline to
associate with that Deydier child. I vow her manners get worse every
day, and no wonder; the brat is shockingly brought up by that old fool
Margaï, and Jaume Deydier himself has never been more than a peasant.”
“Nicolette is only a child,” mother had replied with a weary sigh, “and
Micheline will have no one of her own age to speak to, when Bertrand has
gone.”
“As to that, my dear,” grandmama retorted icily, “you have brought this
early separation on yourself. Bertrand might have remained at home
another couple of years, studying with Father Siméon-Luce, but frankly
this intimacy with the Deydiers frightened me, and hastened my decision
to send him to St. Cyr.”
“It was a cruel decision, madame,” the Comtesse Marcelle rejoined with
unwonted energy, “Bertrand is young and——”
“He is seventeen,” the old Comtesse interposed in her hard, trenchant
voice, “an impressionable age. And we do not want a repetition of the
adventure which sent Raymond de Ventadour——”
“Hush, madame, in Heaven’s name!” her daughter-in-law broke in hastily,
and glanced with quick apprehension in the direction where Bertrand
stood gazing with the eager curiosity of his age, wide-eyed and excited,
upon the old Comtesse, scenting a mystery of life and adventure which
was being withheld from him.
Grandmama beckoned to him, and made him kneel on the little cushion at
her feet. He had grown into a tall and handsome lad of late, with the
graceful, slim stature of his race, and that wistful expression in the
eyes which is noticeable in most of the portraits of the de Ventadours,
and which gave to his young face an almost tragic look.
Grandmama with delicate, masterful hand, pushed back the fair unruly
hair from the lad’s forehead and gazed searchingly into his face. He
returned her glance fearlessly, even lovingly, for he was fond, in a
cool kind of way, of his stately grandmother, who was so austere and so
stern to everybody and unbent only for him.
“I wonder,” she said, and her eyes, which time had not yet dimmed,
appeared to search the boy’s very soul.
“What at, grandmama?” he asked.
“If I can trust you, Bertrand.”
“Trust me?” the boy exclaimed, indignant at the doubt. “I am Comte de
Ventadour,” he went on proudly. “I would sooner die than commit a
dishonourable action....”
Whereat grandmama laughed;—an unpleasant, grating laugh it was, which
acted like an icy douche upon the boy’s enthusiasm. She turned her gaze
on her daughter-in-law, whose pale face took on a curious ashen hue,
whilst her trembling lips murmured half incoherently:
“Madame—for pity’s sake——”
“Ah bah!” the old lady rejoined with a shrug of the shoulders, “the boy
will have to know sooner or later that his father——”
“Madame——!” the younger woman pleaded once more, but this time there was
just a thought of menace, and less of humility in her tone.
“There, there!” grandmama rejoined dryly, “calm your fears, my good
Marcelle, I won’t say anything to-day. Bertrand goes to-morrow. We shall
not see him for two years: let him by all means go under the belief that
no de Ventadour has ever committed a dishonourable action.”
Throughout this short passage of arms between his mother and
grandmother, Bertrand had remained on his knees, his great dark eyes,
with that wistful look of impending tragedy in them, wandering excitedly
from one familiar face to the other. This was not the first time that
his keen ears had caught a hint of some dark mystery that clung around
the memory of the father whom he had never known. Like most children,
however, he would sooner have died than ask a direct question, but this
he knew, that whenever his father’s name was mentioned, his mother wept,
and grandmama’s glance became more stern, more forbidding than its wont.
And, now on the eve of his departure for St. Cyr, he felt that mystery
encompass him, poisoning the joy he had in going away from the gloomy
old château, from old women and girls and senile servitors, out into the
great gay world of Paris, where the romance and adventures of which he
had dreamt ever since he could remember anything, would at last fall to
his lot, with all the good things of this life. He felt that he was old
enough now to know what it was that made his mother so perpetually sad,
that she had become old before her time, sick and weary, an absolute
nonentity in family affairs over which grandmama ruled with a masterful
hand. But now he was too proud to ask. They treated him as a child—very
well! he was going away, and when he returned he would show them who
would henceforth be the master of his family’s destiny. But for the
moment all that he ventured on was a renewed protest:
“You can trust me in everything, grandmama,” he said. “I am not a
child.”
Grandmama was still gazing into his face, gazing as if she would read
all the secrets of his young unsophisticated soul: he returned her gaze
with a glance as searching as her own. For a moment they were in perfect
communion these two, the old woman with one foot in the grave, and the
boy on the threshold of life. They understood one another, and each read
in the other’s face, the same pride, the same ambition, and the same
challenge to an adverse fate. For a moment, too, it seemed as if the
grandmother would speak, tell the boy something at least of the
tragedies which had darkened the last few pages of the family
chronicles; and Bertrand, quite unconsciously, put so much compelling
force into his gaze that the old woman was on the point of yielding. But
once more the mother’s piteous voice pleaded for silence:
“Madame!” she exclaimed.
Her voice broke the spell; grandmama rose abruptly to her feet, which
caused Bertrand to tumble backwards off the cushion. By the time he had
picked himself up again, grandmama had gone.
Bertrand felt low and dispirited, above all cross with his mother for
interfering. He went out of the room without kissing her. At first he
thought of following grandmama into her room and forcing her to tell him
all that he wanted to know, but pride held him back. He would not be a
suppliant: he would not beg, there where in a very short time he would
command. There could be nothing dishonourable in the history of the de
Ventadours. They were too proud, too noble, for dishonour even to touch
their name. Instinctively Bertrand had wandered down to the great hall
where hung the portraits of those Ventadours who had been so rich and so
great in the past. Bertrand was now going out into the world in order to
rebuild those fortunes which an unjust fate had wrested from him. He
gazed on the portrait of lovely Rixende. She, too, had been rich and
brought a splendid dowry to her lord when she married him. He had proved
ungrateful and she had died of sorrow. Bertrand marvelled if in truth
his cousin Rixende was like her namesake. Anyway she was rich, and he
would love her to his dying day if she consented to be his wife.
Already he loved her because he had been told that she had hair glossy
and golden like the Rixende of the picture, and great mysterious eyes as
blue as the gentian; and that her lips smiled like those of Rixende had
done, whereupon he marvelled if they would be good to kiss. After which,
by an unexplainable train of thought, he fell to thinking of Nicolette.
She had sent him a message by Micheline yesterday that she would wait
for him all the afternoon, on their island beside the pool. It was now
past four o’clock. The shades of evening were fast gathering in, in the
valley below, and even up here on the heights the ciliated shadows of
carob and olive were beginning to lengthen. It would take an hour to run
as far as the pool; and then it would be almost time to come home again,
for of late Jaume Deydier had insisted that Nicolette must be home
before dark. It was foolish of Nicolette to be waiting for him so far
away. Why could she not be sensible and come across to the château to
say good-bye? The boy was fighting within himself, fighting a battle
wherein tenderness and vanity were on the one side, and a false sense of
pride and manliness on the other. In the end it was perhaps vanity that
won the fight. All day he had been treated as a child that was being
packed up and sent to school: all day he had been talked to, and
admonished, and preached at, first by grandmama, and then by Father
Siméon-Luce; he had been wept over by mother and by Micheline: now
Nicolette neither admonished nor wept. He would not allow her to do the
former and she was too sensible to attempt the latter. She would
probably stand quite still and listen while he told her of his plans for
the future, and all the fine things he would do when he was of age, and
rich, and had married his cousin Rixende.
Nicolette was sensible, she would soothe his ruffled self-esteem and
restore to him some of that confidence in himself of which he would
stand in sore need during the long and lonely voyage that lay before
him.
Hardly conscious of his own purpose, Bertrand sauntered down the
mountain-side. It was still hot on this late September afternoon, and
the boy instinctively sought, as he descended, the cool shadows that lay
across the terraced gradients. A pungent scent of rosemary and
eucalyptus was in the air, and from the undergrowth around came the
muffled sound of mysterious, little pattering feet, or call of tiny
beasts to their mates. Bertrand’s head ached, and his hands felt as if
they were on fire. A curious restlessness and dissatisfaction made him
feel out of tune with these woods which he loved more than he knew, with
the blood-red berries of the mountain ash that littered the ground, and
the low bushes of hazel-nut which autumn had painted a vivid crimson.
Now he was down in the valley and up again on the spur behind which
tossed and twirled the clear mountain stream.
The rough walk was doing him good: his body felt hot but his hands were
cooler and his temples ceased to throb. When he reached the water’s
edge, he sat down on a boulder and took off his boots and his stockings
and slung them over his shoulder, and walked up the bed of the stream
until the waters widened into that broad, silent pool which washed the
shores of his fairy island. Already from afar he had spied Nicolette;
she was watching for him on the grassy slope, clinging with one hand to
the big carob that overhung the pool. She had on a short kirtle of faded
blue linen, and a white apron and shift, the things she always wore when
she was Virginie and he was Paul on their fairy island. She had
obviously been paddling, for she had taken off her shoes and stockings,
and her feet and legs shone like rose-tinted metal in the cool shade of
the trees. Her head was bare and a soft breeze stirred the loose brown
curls about her head, but Bertrand could not see her face, for her head
was bent as if she were gazing intently into the pool. Way up beyond the
valley, the sinking sun had tinged the mountain peaks with gold, and had
already lit the big, big fire in the sky behind Luberon, but here on the
island everything was cool and grey and peaceful, with only the murmur
of the stream over the pebbles to break the great solemn silence of the
woods.
When Bertrand jumped upon the big boulder, the one from which he was
always wont to fish, Nicolette looked up and smiled. But she did not say
anything, not at first, and Bertrand stood by a little shamefaced and
quite unaccountably bashful.
“The fish have been shy all the afternoon,” were the first words that
Nicolette said.
“Did you try and fish?” Bertrand asked.
Nicolette pointed to a rod and empty basket which lay on the grass close
by.
“I borrowed those from Ameyric over at La Bastide,” she said. “I wanted
to try my hand at it.” She paused. Then she swallowed; swallowed hard
and resolutely as if there had been a very big lump in her throat. Then
she said quite simply:
“I shall have to do something on long afternoons when I come here——”
“But you are going away too,” the boy rejoined, quite angry with himself
because his voice was husky.
“Not till after the New Year. Then I am going to Avignon.”
“Avignon?”
“To school at the Ladies of the Visitation,” she explained, and added
quaintly: “I am very ignorant, you know, Tan-tan.”
He frowned and she thought that he was cross because she had called him
Tan-tan.
“By the time you come back,” she said meekly, “I shall be quite used to
calling you M. le Comte.”
“Don’t be stupid, Nicolette,” was all that Bertrand could think of
saying.
They were both silent after that, and as Nicolette turned to climb up
the gradient, Bertrand followed her, half reluctantly. He knew she was
going to the hut of Paul et Virginie: the place they were wont to call
their island home. It was just an old, a very old olive tree, with a
huge, hollow trunk, in which they, as children, could easily find
shelter, and in the spring the ground around it was gay with buttercups
and daisies; and bunches of vivid blue gentian and lavender and broom
nestled against the great grey boulders. Here Bertrand and Nicolette had
been in the habit of sitting when they pretended to be Paul et Virginie
cast off on a desert island, and here they would eat the food which
“Paul” had found at peril of his life, and which “Virginie” had cooked
with such marvellous ingenuity. They had been so happy there, so often.
The wood-pigeons would come and pick up the crumbs after they had
finished eating, and now and then, when they sat very, very still, a
hare would dart out from behind a great big boulder, and peep out at
them with large frightened eyes, his long ears sharply silhouetted
against the sun-kissed earth, and at the slightest motion from them, or
wilful clapping of their hands, it would dart away again, leaving
Bertrand morose and fretful because, though he was a big man, he was not
yet allowed to have a gun.
“When I am a man,” was the burden of his sighing, and Nicolette would
have much ado to bring the smile back into his eyes.
They had been so happy—so often. The flowers were their friends, the
wild pansy with its quizzical wee face, the daisy with the secrets,
which its petals plucked off one by one, revealed, the lavender which
had to be carried home in huge bunches for Margaï to put in muslin bags.
All but the gentian. Nicolette never liked the gentian, though its
petals were of such a lovely, heavenly blue. But whenever Bertrand spied
one he would pluck it, and stick it into his buttonhole: “The eyes of my
Rixende,” he would say, “will be bluer than this.” Fortunately there was
not much gentian growing on the island of Paul et Virginie.
They had been so happy here—so often, away from grandmama’s stern gaze
and Father Siméon-Luce’s admonitions, when they had just pretended and
pretended: pretended that the Lèze was the great open sea, on which
never a ship came in sight to take them away from their beloved island,
out into the great world which they had never known.
But to-day to Bertrand, who was going away on the morrow into that same
great and unknown world, the game of pretence appeared futile and
childish. He was a man now, and could no longer play. Somehow he felt
cross with Nicolette for having put on her “Virginie” dress, and he
pretended that his feet were cold, and proceeded to put on his stockings
and his boots.
“The big ship has come in sight, Bertrand,” the girl said. “We will
never see our island again.”
“That is nonsense, Nicolette,” Bertrand rejoined, seemingly deeply
occupied in the putting on of his boots. “We will often come here, very
often, when the trout are plentiful and I am home for the holidays.”
She shook her head.
“Margaï,” she said, “overheard Pérone talking to Jasmin the other day,
and Pérone said that Mme. la Comtesse did not wish you to come home for
at least two years.”
“Well! in two years’ time....” he argued, with a shrug of his shoulders.
She offered him some lovely buttered brioche, and said it was fish she
had dried by a new process on slabs of heated stone, and she also had
some milk, which she said she had found inside a coconut.
“The coconut trees are plentiful on the island,” she said, “and the milk
from the nuts is as sweet as if it were sugared.” But Bertrand would not
eat, he said he had already had coffee and cakes in grandmama’s room,
and Nicolette abstractedly started crumbling up the brioche, hoping that
the wood-pigeons would soon come for their meal. She was trying to
recapture the spirit of a past that was no more: the elusive spirit of
that happy world in which she had dwelt alone with Tan-tan. But strive
how she might, she felt that the outer gates of that world were being
closed against her for ever. Suddenly she realised that it was getting
dark, and that she felt a little cold. She squatted on the ground and
put on her shoes and stockings.
“We shall have to hurry,” she said, “father does not like me to be out
long after dark.”
Then she jumped to her feet and started climbing quickly up the
stone-built terraces, darting at break-neck speed round and about the
olive trees, and deliberately turning her back on the pool, and the
fairy island which she knew now that she would never, never see again.
Bertrand had some difficulty in following her. Though he felt rather
cross, he also felt vaguely remorseful. Somehow he wished now that he
had not come at all.
“Nicolette,” he called, “why, you have not said good-bye!”
And this he said because Nicolette had in truth scurried just like a
young hare, way off to the right, and was now running and leaping down
the gradients till she reached the fence of the mas which was her home.
Here she leaned against the gate. Bertrand, running after her as fast as
he could, could scarce distinguish her in the fast gathering gloom. He
could only vaguely see the gleam of her white shift and apron. She was
leaning against the gate, and a pale gleam of twilight outlined her arm
and hand and the silhouette of her curly head.
“Nicolette,” he called again, “don’t go in, I must kiss you good-bye.”
As usual she was obedient to his command, and waited, panting a little
after this madcap run through the woods, till he was near her.
He took her hand and kissed her on the temple.
“Good-bye, Nicolette,” he said cheerily, “don’t forget me.”
“Good-bye, Bertrand,” she murmured under her breath.
Then she turned quickly: and was through the gate and out of sight
before he could say another word. Ah well! girls were strange beings. So
unreliable. A man never knew, when she smiled, if she was going to frown
the very next minute.
As to that, Bertrand was glad that Nicolette had not cried, or made a
scene. He was a man now, and really hated the sentimental episodes to
which his dear mother and even Micheline indulged in so generously. Poor
little Nicolette, no doubt her life would be rather dull after this, as
Micheline was not really strong enough for the violent exercise in which
Nicolette revelled with all the ardour of her warm blood and healthy
young body. But no doubt she would like the convent at Avignon, and the
society of rich, elegant girls, for of a truth, as grandmama always
said, her manners had of late become rather rough, under the tutelage of
old Margaï—a mere servant—and of her father, who was no more than a
peasant. The way she ran away from him, Bertrand, just now, without
saying a proper “good-bye,” argued a great want of knowledge on her part
of the amenities of social life. And when he said to her: “Good-bye,
Nicolette, do not forget me!” she should have answered....
Ah, bah! What mattered? It was all over now, thank the Lord, the
good-byes and the weepings and the admonitions. The book of life lay
open at last before him. To-morrow he would shake the dust of old
Provence from his feet. To-morrow he would begin to read. Paris!
Rixende! Wealth! The great big world. Oh, God! how weary he was of
penury and of restraint!