OUR village was not far from the sea, and my mother often took me down
to the beach. It was a curving beach of fine sand, bright and warm, and
the rocks that shut it in were warm, too, brown and yellow; it was a
sunny, heartsome place as ever I saw. I remember one day,--many days,
and this one of them,--when the three of us went down to the beach,
Mother Marie and Petie Brand and I. The Lady, the violin, went too, of
course, and we had our music, and it left us heartened through and
through, and friends with all the world. Then we began to skip stones,
three children together. Petie and I were only learning, and Mother
Marie laughed at our stones, which would go flopping and tumbling a
little way, then sink with a splash.
"They are ducks!" she said. (She called it "docks," Melody; you cannot
think how soft her speech was.) "Poor leetle docks, that go flap, flap;
not yet zey have learned to swim, no! But here now, see a bird of ze
water, a sea-bird what you call." She turned her wrist and sent the flat
pebble flying; it skimmed along like a live thing, flipping the little
crests of the ripples, going miles, it seemed to Petie and me, till at
length we lost sight of it altogether.
"Where did it go?" I asked. "I didn't hear it splash."
"It went--to France!" said Mother Marie. "It make a voyage, it goes,
goes,--at last it arrives. '_Voila la France!_' it say. 'That I go
ashore, to ask of things for Marie, and for _petit Jacques_, and for
Petie too, good Petie, who bring the apples.'"
There were red apples in a basket, and I can see now the bright
whiteness of her teeth as she set them into one.
"What will the stone see?" I asked again; for I loved to make my mother
tell me of the things she remembered in France, the country she always
loved. She loved to tell, too; and a dreamy look would come into her
eyes at such times, as if she did not see us near at hand, but only
things far off and dim. We listened, Petie and I, as if for a fairy
tale.
"He come, zat leetle--non! _that lit_-tel stone." (Mother Marie could
often pronounce our English "th" quite well; it was only when she forgot
that she slipped back to the soft "z" which I liked much better.) "He
come to the shore! It is not as this shore, no! White is the sand, the
rocks black, black. All about are nets, very great, and boats. The men
are great and brown; and their beards--Holy Cric! their beards are a
bush for owls; and striped their shirt, jersey, what you call, and blue
trousers. Zey come in from sea, their sails are brown and red; the boats
are full wiz fish, that shine like silver; they are the herring, _petit
Jacques_, it is of those that we live a great deal. Down zen come ze
women to ze shore and zey--_they_--are dressed beautiful, ah! so
beautiful! A red petticoat,--sometimes a blue, but I love best the red,
striped wiz white, and over this the dress turned up, _a la
blanchisseuse_. A handkerchief round their neck, and gold earrings,--ah!
long ones, to touch their neck; and gold beads, most beautiful! and then
the cap! _P'tit Jacques_, thou hast not seen caps, because here they
have not the understanding. But! white, like snow in ze sun; the muslin
clear, you understand, and stiff that it cracks,--ah! of a beauty! and
standing out like wings here, and here--you do not listen! you make not
attention, bad children that you are! Go! I tell you no more!"
It was true, Melody, my dear, that Petie and I did not care so much
about the descriptions of dress as if we had been little girls; my
mother was never weary of telling about the caps and earrings; I think
she often longed for them, poor little Mother Marie! But now Petie and I
clung about her, and begged her to go on, and she never could keep her
vexation for two minutes.
"Tell how they go up the street!" said Petie.
"Play we went, too!" cried I. "Play the stone was a boat, Mere Marie."
(I said it as one word, Melody; it makes a pretty name, "Mere-Marie,"
when the pronunciation is good. To hear our people say "M'ree" or
"Marry," breaks the heart, as my mother used to say.)
She nodded, pleased enough to play,--for she was a child, as I have told
you, in many, many ways, though with a woman's heart and
understanding,--and clapped our hands softly together, as she held them
in hers.
"We, then, yes! we three, Mere-Marie, _p'tit Jacques_, and Petie, we go
up from the beach, up the street that goes tic tac, zic zac, here and
there, up the hill; very steep in zose parts. We come to one place, it
is steps--"
"Steps in the street?"
"Steps that make the street, but yes! and on them (white steps, clean!
ah! of a cleanness!), in the sun, sit the old women, and spin, and sing,
and tell stories. Ah! the fine steps. They, too, have caps, but they are
brown in the faces, and striped--"
"Striped, Mere-Marie? painted, do you mean?"
"She said the steps had caps!" whispered Petie, incredulous, but too
eager for the story to interrupt the teller.
"Painted? wat you mean of foolishness, _p'tit Jacques_? Ah! I was wrong!
not striped; wreenkled, you say? all up togezzer like a brown apple when
he is dry up,--like zis way!" and Mother Marie drew her pretty face all
together in a knot, and looked so comical that we went into fits of
laughter.
"So! zey sit, ze old women, and talk, talk, wiz ze heads together; but
one sit alone, away from those others, and she sing. Her voice go up,
thin, thin, like a little cold wind in ze boat-ropes.
"'Il etait trois mat'lots de Groix,
Il etait trois mat'lots de Groix,
Embarques sur le Saint Francois,
Tra la derira, la la la,
Tra la derira la laire!'[1]
"I make learn you that song, _petit Jacques_, one time! So we
come,--now, _mes enfants_, we come! and all the old women point the
nose, and say, 'Who is it comes there?' But that one old--but Mere
Jeanne, she cry out loud, loud. 'Marie! _petite Marie_, where hast thou
been so long, so long?' She opens the arms--I fall into zem, on my
knees; I cry--but hush, _p'tit Jacques_! I cry now only in ze story,
only--to--to show thee how it would be! I say, 'It is me, Marie, Mere
Jeanne! I come to show thee my little son, to take thy blessing. And my
little friend, too!'" She turned to pat Petie's head; she would not let
the motherless boy feel left out, even from a world in which he had no
part.
"My good friend Petie, whose mother is with the saints. Then Mere
Jeanne, she take all our hands, after she has her weep; she say 'Come!'
and we go up ze street, up, up, till we come to Mere Jeanne's house."
"Tell about the house!" I cried.
"Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mere-Marie, clapping her hands
together. "It is stone, painted white, clean, like new cheese; the roof
beautiful, straw, warm, thick,--ah! what roofs! I have tried to teach
thy father to make them, but no! Inside, it is dark and warm, and full
wiz good smells. Now it is the _pot-au-feu_, but not every day zis, for
Mere Jeanne is poor; but always somesing, fish to fry, or pancakes, or
apples. But zis time, Mere Jeanne make me a _fete_; she say, 'It is the
_Fete Marie_!'
"She make the fire bright, bright; and she bring big chestnuts, two
handfuls of zem, and set zem on ze shovel to roast; and zen she put ze
greedle, and she mixed ze batter in a great bowl--it is yellow, that
bowl, and the spoon, it is horn. She show it to me, she say, 'Wat leetle
child was eat wiz this spoon, Marie? hein?' and I--I kiss the spoon; I
say, '_'Tite Marie, Mere Jeanne! 'Tite Marie qui t'aime!_'[2] It is the
first words I could say of my life, _mes enfants_!
"Zen she laugh, and nod her head, and she stir, stir, stir till ze
bobbles come--"
"The way they do when you make griddle-cakes, Mere-Marie?"
"Ah! no! much, much, thousand time better, Mere Jeanne make zem! She
toss them--so! wiz ze spoon, and they shine like gold, and when they
come down--hop!--they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they like to fry for Mere
Jeanne, and for Marie, and _p'tit Jacques_, and good Petie. Then I bring
out the black table, and I know where the bread live, and the cheese,
and while the cakes fry, I go to milk the cow--ah! the pearl of cows,
children, white like her own cream, fat like a boiled chestnut, good
like an angel! She has not forgotten Marie, she rub her nose in my
heart, she sing to me. I take her wiz both my arms, I weep--ah! but it
is joy, _p'tit Jacques_! it is wiz joy I weep! Zen, again in ze house,
and round ze table, we all sit, and we eat, and eat, that we can eat no
more. And Mere Jeanne say:
"'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tell all, all; of thy father
Jacques, how he good, and great, and handsome as Saint Michael; and how
my house is fine, fine, and how Abiroc is good. And Mere Jeanne, she
make the great eyes; she cry, 'Ah! the good fortune! Ah, Marie, that
thou art fortunate, that thou art happy!'
"Then she tell thee, _p'tit Jacques_, how I was little, little, in a
blue frock, wiz the cap tie under my chin; and how I dance and sing in
the street, and how _Madame la Comtesse_ see me, and take me to ze
castle, and make teach me the violin, and give me Madame for my friend.
I have told thee all, many, many times. Then she tell, Mere Jeanne,--oh!
she is good, good, and all ze time she fill thee wiz chestnuts that I
cry out lest thou die,--she tell how one day she come home from market,
and I am gone. No Marie! She look, she run here and there, she cry,
''Tite Marie, where art thou?' No Marie come. She run to the neighbours,
she search, she tear her cap; they tell her, 'Demand of thy son's wife!
The strange ship sailed this morning; we heard child cry; what do we
know?'
"For the wife of Mere Jeanne's Jeannot, she was a devil, as I have told
thee, a devil with both the eyes evil; and none dare say what she had
done, for fear of their children and their cows to die. And then, Mere
Jeanne she tell how she run to Jeannot's house,--she fear nossing, Mere
Jeanne! the good God protect her always. She cry, 'Where is Marie? where
is my child?' And Jeannot's Manon, she laugh, she say, 'Cross the sea
after her, old witch! Who keeps thee?' Then--see, _p'tit Jacques_! see,
Petie! I have not seen this wiz my eyes, no! but in my heart I have
seen, I know! Then Mere Jeanne run at that woman, that devil; and she
pull off her cap and tread it wiz her foot; and she pull out her
hair,--never she had much, but since this day none!--and she scratch her
face and tear the clothes--ah! Mere Jeanne is mild like a cherub till
she is angry, but then-- And that devil scream, scream, but no one come,
no one care; they are all glad, they laugh to hear. Till Jeannot run in,
and catch his mother and hold her hands, and take her home to her house.
She tell me all this, Mere Jeanne, and it is true, and I know it in my
heart. But now she is dead, that witch, and the great devil has her, and
that is well." (I think my father would have lost his wits, Melody, if
he had heard the way my mother talked to me sometimes; but it was a
child's talk, my dear, and there was no harm. A child who had been
brought up among ignorant peasants; how should she know better, poor
little Mother Marie?)
"But now, see, _mes enfants_! We must come back across the sea, for ze
sun, he begin to go away down. So I tell zis, and Mere Jeanne she cry,
she take us wiz her arms, she cannot let us go. But I take Madame on my
arm, I go out in ze street, I begin to play wiz my hand. Then all come,
all run, all cry, 'Marie! Marie is here wiz her _violon_!' And I play,
play and sing, and the little children dance, dance, and _p'tit Jacques_
and Petie take them the hands and dance wiz--
"'Eh! gai, Coco,
Eh! gai, Coco,
Eh! venez voir la danse
Du petit marmot!
Eh! venez voir la danse
Du petit marmot!'
"Adieu, adieu, Mere Jeanne! adieu, la France! but you, _mes enfants_;
why do _you_ cry?"
FOOTNOTES:
[1]
There were three sailor-lads of Groix,
There were three sailor-lads of Groix,
They sailed in the Saint Francois,
Tra la derira, etc.
[2] Little Marie, Mother Jeanne! Little Marie who loves you.